Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Sep 2015 MsAmendable
Mike Essig
You amble around
the battlefield
on the inevitable
morning after
and you see
the usual bodies,
but you also see
hands, heads, arms,
legs, boots and
unrecognizable
lumps of flesh
and you know
at twenty
you will never
believe in
god or order
again.

   ~mce
In empty pages and stark contrast the storm chased away the weak now alone I stand.
The hero a pawn truth cast aside for others cause .
We embrace solutions where  no problems exist.

May the colors run red from forgotten cause and history be erased for the sake of all that must be forever mundane.

I wish only to drag you to the depths and leave you to linger where nothing but a child's logic can remain
In spider webs we threw are thoughts now tangled the words left to wither in passing days.

May we dance in empty halls to illuminate the shadows and create the ghosts for others to place there hopes of what never shall be again.

To silence the voice is but closing the chapter  to spite the clear view .
Nothing stands a statue for the promise of tomorrows decay and the ******* will parade there ignorance as the simple minded spread a plague to which we are losing this battle.

I write for no one to read and all to judge.
Where's the laughter now the jester  is asked in ruins of a kingdom now simply reduced to ruble.

I remember what you will never taste and you may judge but waters tasted pure beats the stolen verses and burrowed lines of a time I no longer care to understand.


And Time passed me as it will pass you just the same .

May the silence remind you of that which never was to be.

We all will know this place someday.
---

soft
black swirls
finger touched
round
the edges

your face
indistinct in this
... my heart's
portrait
of features
obscured
by

memory

my
fingers
dark tipped
smear the
newsprint

perhaps
one day the
charcoal
will be
so heated
and compressed
by loving
rememberance
the planes
of your bones
become
facets
of
a

diamond


soulsurvivor
(C) 8/31/2015
perhaps only a visual artist
who's worked with the medium
can fully understand this

and then again maybe not
~~~<♡>~~~

a rose, they say, will have a thorn
which can't destroy nor ****
it only serves to give its bloom
a scent that's sweeter still
when the tender growing thing
is planted in the dust
no water for it's thirsty roots
only drying crust
it will be a cactus
full of prickly spines
but cacti have their flowers
their fruit can make rich wine
we all have our emotions
we all can feel pain
but when it makes us better
then only love remains
when we are hurt and wounded
on my very oath
we can still be grateful
such stoic trust brings

GROWTH


soulsurvivor
(C) 9/3/2015
I'm hurting right now
But I will not be bitter
I will be better
God will never give me
more than I can handle
When her pencil flows
there is a light in her eyes where I have only seen sadness
Through her high and lows
she creates masterpiece after masterpiece from the badness
And in my darkness she glows
but her breathing comes to breathless
she believed the beast was there
until that glow
broke down to helpless
WHAT IS LEFT?

When hopes have taken flight
When love is ever out of sight
What is left?

When the singer ceases to sing
When music no longer does ring
What is left?

When the night is a bad dream
When the moon and stars no longer gleam
What is left?

When the garden holds no flowers
When tears flow like autumn showers
What is left?

When the sea murmurs as in pain
When the birds sing not again
What is left?

When the fields are but weeds
When the forlorn heart bleeds
What is left?

When you walk away
That cold winter day
What is left?

When I am old and weary
I shall tell my story
Nothing is left.
--
 Sep 2015 MsAmendable
Mike Essig
by Federico Garcia Lorca*

The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.
Next page