Here I am! Elevated to a sordid state of mind;
And about my surroundings I claim no clue;
I just awoke from a kindred nightmare, true;
That I had had of late, ah! And I was blind;
Perhaps there ain’t a lovely creature around;
To t’is fate I hath been forcefully bound.
Here I was! As deranged as I may be now;
That I hath loved and vowed on the down low;
As much as I used to do, and again today;
The finished worlds spoke to me like yesterday;
And the dead, descending in smoke on me;
Seem even more real than yon living tree.
And so, far from the bulging little lilac;
All hath been too demanding and tough;
That all hath been terse under the sunlight;
I pretty much am frightened not by the night;
But I, seeking not the morning of the hand;
I only find my love in words, and paint;
And being far, behind in the know;
I wish I could understand today and tomorrow;
That they shan’t stare at me with rugged fright;
That I can still share their gift for the light;
But so, they cannot see my calm and anger;
I hath grown out of them, forever.
To those whom I once loved, and now still do;
To those whom I hath found in my chest, anew;
To those in whom I once engrossed my faith;
To those that hath hurt me, of late;
To those, to whom Midnight is wrong poetry;
To those, to whom my love remains yet for me.
To those, to whom love bears another form;
To those, to whom Lavender is barely a poem;
To those, who threads not enough love to love me;
To those, to whom my herd is not yet born;
To those, to whom such singing is not what I see;
To those, to whom my applause is but my own.
To those, to whom darkness is not fair;
To those, to whom joys ought not to be shared;
To those, to whom May is May, and hark!
To those, to whom tears are in the park;
To those, to whom depression is laughter;
To those, to whom laughter is bland anger!
To those, to whom tears are a strand of love;
To those, to whom scars are not enough;
To those, to whom coarseness is strength;
To those, to whom care is not in length;
To those, to whom loving is not to be gently;
To those, to whom wrong is fate, and hate is me!
For such sadness is gloom, and gloom is joy;
To me that joy has flown, and misery borne still,
And misery that carries happiness to feel;
Misery that itself remains an elegant coy;
And there is no place on earth for us to roam;
No glance at our rights, no words for our poems!
For such sorrow is true, and sick am I;
I am a stranded fool to the simmering sky;
That even the Sun shall render me wrong;
I am not to enchant its unwavering songs;
And so all my poems be a string of hate;
None has cursed me, but strained me of late.
For such tears are faint, and weak am I;
I am a disillusion to the enlightened lie;
A disgust to the retraced steps and roads;
I am a disturbed one to the minds of both;
I am diseased, a sick to the brain and cold;
I am a heartless litter, a stained cloth.
For such illness, and tortured am I;
They shan’t know me, even my lies;
That in the graveyard that we could stay
Holding hands at the passing of awkward days;
I am too delighted at the bribed night;
I am alone, a solitaire under daylight.
For such disgrace, and hateful lesions;
For such talent is but an illusion;
That in the tomb that only they surrender;
Asking that the slyness shan’t last forever;
That they shall ask us to forgive, and hear
What they all now seek, and have here.
For such hallucinations, and thoughts;
For such merits, and feelings, are locked;
That I can see not the soil gray today;
Tramped on by their noisy feet, and say;
That even such a modest fate they deny;
That all that exist are a lie.
And who shall be me, who shall see?
I live in a poem, and die in paint;
That they shall seek not the quiet of me;
I smell like grass myself, and turpentine;
I shall grow and die both in the shadows;
And cease on the halo of tomorrows.
And who shall seek me, who shall care?
These months hath been depressed and unfair;
Ere such days, there were lonely winds;
The most severed hauling I’d ever seen;
And with them were sane, pitiful torments;
Sending me off into sad, consumed moments;
And who shall be with me, who shall comfort;
I hath been warded off by my cruel Lord;
‘Hind the shades, I can only hear weeping screams;
Yet not so beauteous as the raging beams;
And who shall hide within my slumber’s visions;
For I hath no pleasure, nor divine provisions;
And who shall be by my side, who shall sleep;
For these dreams hath no notions to keep;
And whose disdained wisdom shall fight to stay;
Whilst they hath words no more, not to say;
And who shall sleep amongst they frayed wise;
None to live under them, nor be their disguise;
And who shall be my darling, be my gloom;
I hath no more wit left, not to meet;
Nor discomfort, nor to see my light poem;
I am not entertained by their sullen bits;
For such laughs are tears, and insincere;
For such songs are bitter, none that I hear;
And who shall be my heart, be my truth;
Who shall be grief to play my Eolian lute;
I hath seen none else among this seared grass;
And my winters shall go, and for fires to last;
They made me leave my heart in the sick past;
They hath made me and my chest apart;
And who shall be my tree, be my kind;
My poem is in good and evil and their lines;
For no dearer has sought me, by mean peril;
They’ve wished to run me into an Evil;
Ah! But whose love can be, to love me;
I am a literal madness no soul would be;
And who shall be my tree, be my lover;
Perhaps this sadness shall last forever;
And such joys shall sleep in demerits;
And the weathered daydreams, shan’t meet;
Perhaps I am meant to be my sweetheart—
Nor my darling, a thousand worlds apart.