erin anderson: Poems

1.2k · Apr 2013

cages.

erin anderson Apr 2013

cages.

Is anyone really who they say they are?
Is anyone really who they portray they are?
What exists in our realities?
There is an unspoken language that exists in all of us.
The thoughts humans think, but never say out loud.
The way we all interact with each other, but never showing our true selves.
The ones that do are considered in this society as "crazy".
What defines crazy?
It was a word, made up by people.
A concept made up by people, to group the unfamiliar against our social norms.
Were words created by actions?
Our actions, even in animal behavior are formed by "group think".
Are we no different from the animals we keep as entertainment?
The animals we lock into cages; thinking that in the end, it is better for them.
But is it really?
We as humans lock ourselves into hypothetical cages: relationships, marriage, careers, because we believe it is good for us.
Have we really seen what happens on the outside?
Have we really paid attention to what is beyond our caged existence.
Is living in a locked cage until the day you depart from our natural earth, really truly better for us.
Or are we trained to believe it is, and show spite towards those who choose different.
The real world is tough, just like the animal world is.
The reason we are all here, is to explore.
To live, to take advantage of the wide opportunities that are laid out there in front of us.
We may get hurt, even resulting in death, but at least we lived.
Outside of our cages.

935 · Jul 2012

sweet nothings.

erin anderson Jul 2012

sweet nothings.

I can feel me transforming into what I was destined to be; a pile of bones.
There is no ending that I have not already imagined.
I've seen all my ghosts’ faces in recurring dreams,
They all have different faces, but called the same name.
I feel no air when I breathe,
No breeze when I walk, no clouds to float on.
An unfamiliar tune drowns out my brain's melody.
I hear it in my madness; its drawl I follow.
Drunken with the moon's slaves, to repent against the Sun.
My skeleton reveals a little more bone with each hand I take.
I am on my way to a destination where I will be free.
To bury my soul, and release my ghouls.
To stop my heart, and start my after-life.
To rest my mind, and awake my wolves.
To slumber in my madness,
And to live in my liberty.

777 · Mar 2013

internal lives.

erin anderson Mar 2013

internal lives.

I was born human, but my soul is inhumane.
I study my own reflection, wondering just what lies behind my empty stare.
The frailty of a broken mirror, resembling fact and fiction.
When it comes down to it; the barest of the bone, I have no idea what I am trying to tell myself.
I sit within these concrete walls with posters of self-help and flyers for support groups.
It's my first day.
My legs have their own rhythm, my brain's run off course.
I look at every footstep, hoping its not one who knew me in my past life.

Within the daze I find myself in, I start to wander.
Maybe we're all of the same tale, just different characters.
Certain elements to the same story can turn a person back-wards.
We all want the same ending,
but finding our own paths to get there justifies the difference in all of us.
We all want spirits to grant us with light blessings,
a reason into living in this run down reality.
Suddenly, my name is called.

I follow, leaving behind my everlasting steps of freedom into an unknown world.
They tell me what I already know.
It's the good days to die for, the obscene ones are worth living,
but somehow I view opposite.
They tell me in such a cold, unforgiving way.
They tell me to take what they give me and I'll end up creating my own ending.
I start to wander again.
Am I a human or an animal that needs to be put down?
Am I a problem that needs to be controlled?
I want to shed my second skin and dream all the things I never got too.
I want to stop jumping from one side of my soul to the other.

702 · Aug 2012

prices.

erin anderson Aug 2012

prices.

Somewhere I'm being reborn,
without my hands repeating rituals.
Forget my earlier days,
I only learned how to cry.
I'm not returning, for its forbidden.
Take what you've sold,
for what I carry is no longer for profit.
What I leave behind,
won't sink, won't ship.
Find itself in its usual hiding place,
beneath the filth,
waiting for my return.

507 · Jul 2013

subnormality.

erin anderson Jul 2013

subnormality.

I've tossed aside my past nine lives,
but the gods have spared me a tenth.
To think they have buried my sullen cries six feet into the underworld,
only to be dug up.
It develops into an unnatural nature.
The forests grew limbs,
the flowers sprouted teeth.
The clouds set free the preys red rain unto the land of the pure.
Reminding us what we sacrificed.
Their tales are being told through the broken skin of a voiceless shell.
Throughout a soul-less nation, who listen to the grey.
All the answers we shed skin for already live within us.
We set our ghosts aflame praying they won't follow us wherever we may wander.
All we get left with are the ashes that we inhale with every breath,
and a scorched sense of self.

470 · Apr 2013

a bitter pill.

erin anderson Apr 2013

a bitter pill.

The world won't stop because you write it in blood.
The trees will breathe, wind will sing.
For the destruction you create will only affect yourself.
There is a lack of humanity in your eyes.
Something that feeds on its own.
We all fear it;
step around the cracks,
never on them.
It channels through you,
rises in the red dawn.
Never rests,
just lingers.
The hands that grasp it are the ones that strangle.
Using to see through noise;
for their greater good,
not ours.
Repeat history only with worst re-actions.
To be fed to the lions,
by fork and knife.

— The End —