If this poem ended up in an anthology,
that would be cool–
Then people would have to read this in school
The Sun is so hot
against my protected skin,
the heat is intense and I burn
from the overwhelming waves–
This, I am not made for.

I find the Sun beautiful
and on nicer days
I enjoy her gentile heat,
but the climate of today
had the Sun turn me red.

I curse the Sun
I reject the heat,
but if the sun was to leave,
then the darkness
would make me too cold.
The harbinger of death lives above my bed
holding the rumors of those once said
though every night I hear the screams
ones so sharp they pierce my dreams
I feel the comfort in her glowing eyes
and gripping my soul every time she flies
as soon as I lay my head to rest
she rids my room of unwanted guests
when the shadows invade the ending day
the harbinger of death shall find its prey
The storm has caught us in its eye
stranded in the sullen seas
as the tears of heaven fall from the sky
echoes grow from our last goodbyes
we all clench tightly dried leaves
holding on to the memories of our land
as they crumble into the breeze
we feel our breath begin to freeze
no more songs for this broken band
no more strength in their weak hands
our hearts now sink below the waves
leaving behind a hollow shell
fading visions turn to haze
surrender to darkness within these caves
there is no more tale in which to tell
forever lost in this darkness in which we fell
Silent guitar on the wall
voice of passion and stories of the heart.
You are the tool of my youth,
the path to the hearts
of loves once passed

You know my hands better than I,
every motion, my grace, my limits.
You feel the beating of my heart
and the pain of my growth.

But now the notes have faded and the songs forgotten,
all memories replaced by others.
The sounds have subsided to only
tinkering of frustration.

Leading to you to become
The silent guitar on the wall
His story is boring and long,
full of contradictors, who played
little to no purpose

The ending, oh that ending
predictable, and again, had
little to no purpose

I am… I am… A failure
He said

Never saw him again
but that tall tale he told
stays with me
no matter how bad
Do I care if someone reads this?
Just a few words that I put together one night.
A blog wrapped in a medium of stone age art.
I spend my life building these structures,
semi representation of my underlying self
replicating a random style, theme, and form.

All this time of study on how to find rhyme,
interlocked with philosophical quandaries
and a self-reflection of my psychological state.
Winding out long hidden feelings, sending it all out,
like yelling out the window to see who actually turns.

Though, do I shout loud enough,
or do I prefer whispering to myself?
I wonder if I care if nobody reads this.
We come into life, and leave it alone for a reason,
our whole being is to trapped behind our outward gaze.
Madness is external, so is our precious vanity.
Nobody cares, and everybody is a nobody,
So who does?

If my eyes are the last to see these words,
I ask what that means to me.
I put this out to be read,
but if it’s not
do I care?
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