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You want to **** me?
Here's the knife

Or
Just say,
I don't care about you

**And I'll handle it for you
Break my heart again, I'll be a goner
I miss you more than I would like to admit.
The golden streets in my dreams
Show me the path to redemption
Silences the screams
Hides the shame
And rips everything that I've ever known
At the broken heart seams
Ropes and strings, pulled and tied
Nooses and knots, the reason you lied
More likely than not
The causes of why I've cried
Giving in and giving out promises
That only last until I died
Yesterday
And there was no sighs
No questions of why
The path to the ghost of my soul
Disappeared with the blood
That endlessly flowed
But I didn't know
I couldn't see
The transparency of my misery
There for everyone else to see
Everyone could have guessed
I'm sure they all knew
Life flew past my pain
Skipping over the doubts and regrets
Of all the things I didn't do
It's amazing how death can finally
Get you through
And life is something
You never really knew
 Jun 2015 Ashley Rodden
Pax
The day I stop dreaming
     is when I started my progress…

I never really understood to why, oh why
do we have to start a living?

In the city of progress, I became the mindless puppet
Of what we call ‘the clichés of society’
FOR NOW - I’m totally blind in all five senses
    to where my love should be place in…

From a specific today, I am robbed for my silence
Totally alone never wanted nor even needed
Conceivably A misplaced person in a ‘crazy world’
- or it is just me who thinks this way.

Sometimes I would think no one would ever really captured
                          - ‘the essence of my heart’
Or probably it was just me, who never did take noticed.
Guessing I am too
  - Perverse to feel anything within the walls of my five senses.

Despite everything else, I understood how Society lives by.
The imaginable ways it burdens and pleasure in
–> Giving –> Receiving –> Showing –> US
                                                         how life works with their walls.

I could never blame how our world becomes a harsh place,
Yet I could took the blame on US
   or our humanity is too faulty consecutively.
Too many Securities from any Insecurities.
Walls upon Wall of their Owning Glory,
      Almost nothing is free.

So I stand chained from cultural responsibilities,
for we were made to think this way.

Ashamed of what I discovered
So I hide in the covers of my pen
To write, just write,
A Written voice for the fallen..

A friend told me “I think life ends when a man stops from breathing and also when he stops from dreaming. What will keep us moving if we no longer have holds to aspirations, to hope...”

Then my friend, Kalypso answered a big part of it in her review on what I am talking about in this piece, she said: “being a dreamer for so long, having to pull my head and heart out of the clouds and start the mundane process every day, over and over again, would bring me into this realm of thinking. Wondering why we do ...what we do? What is the purpose of working just to pay bills and survive, but barely live? Feeling like I disappeared in the process of becoming an adult and taking on responsibilities. Having no time to explore the world. To ponder the mysteries of life...or capture the beauty of everything around us. How the monotony takes away your creativity and individualism, blends you into society, almost making you invisible.”

Then Rachelle’s questions arise saying: “Do we grumble? Do fall into a deeper pit of despair or do we try to figure out how to transform our reality such that the world is exciting and challenging again?”

With all those thoughts arises from my poem, I came to understand that despite I stop dreaming big, I still hold on to the little hope and a hint faith I have on myself that someday, in some way a dream could rise again from the burned pages of my bucket list.

I am thankful that I have find/found friends in my writings.
So I appreciate everyone who reads me, greatly....

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/willyampax/1336541/
 Jun 2015 Ashley Rodden
Traveler
Doom is my companion, he breathes me
Death is beyond my grasp, it taunts me
My love has gone missing without a trace
My spirit lost in an in-between place

Such is my pain, have I lost this game
Pictures fade, faces without names
Reality an infection growing in my brain
**** sweltering heat, I wish it would rain

This bed I have made on broken glass
Where nightmares linger, sweet dreams pass
This dread unending, this ache that dwells
I am but a ghost of a man in my own hell...
Traveler Tim
I think back to when I wrote this,
I was in a prison cell
with no idea of when I would ever be free again.

re to 03-17
 Jun 2015 Ashley Rodden
Traveler
Unreasonable
The notion
That a mindset
Is above it all

Uncomfortable
The erosion
Of our outdated
Unchallenged laws

We worship gods indeed
Simple is the beast
Eating mouse
Hidden behind
Green trees

In a forest
Of kingdoms
Of gods
**** sapiens rule
With iron fist and rods

Oh generation
Of emasculation
Go, go into the light
Embrace a world
Of satisfaction  
Hidden in plain sight...
 Jun 2015 Ashley Rodden
Pax

I’m strong enough not to let you see me fall apart
So I hide my cries between my sighs.

I’m strong enough to stand alone against the cold landscape
So I hide my sadness between fake faces.

I crave, I starve, I wonder
And get lost in the process.
Then end up getting back to where I started.

How far will I stay strong?
How far will I carry along this dying song?
When will I ever belong?
......

..
.

I always talk on how poetry is an embark journey of mine. But more often I came back with recurring questions. I can say “I’m strong enough” but for how long, how far long will I go, or how much more I can take… big sighs…
 Jun 2015 Ashley Rodden
Traveler
Word sketcher
In waiting rooms
And stalls
Incomplete thoughts
Writings unresolved

Bits and pieces
In boxes
He hoards
Parts and pieces
Of his very core

Inspired thoughts
That found no rhyme
Lovers lost
Between scribbles
And lines

Perhaps someday
He'll write his book
With incomplete sentences
That have no hooks

Or passionate themes
Of romantic dreams
That run amok
When the telephone rings

And so another lost thought
Of the sketchers get boxed...
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