Poets seem sad to me
Because we feel more
And we hold on tight
And when we hurt, we write

Our tears fall on paper
In the form of words
Thoughts in scribbled ink
As our hearts begin to sink

Other people's pain fades
And drifts away with time
But a poet's hurt will stay
There on the tear stained page

I filled my bullet holes from the inside out
Concrete substitutions for flesh laid by a man of stone
So cold to the touch in the moonlight hours
I almost forget I was ever warm
Perforated to the core of my being
My initial rebuttal to the pain i felt was to harden myself
Teach myself to live with the cold
And look towards the solid shadows I then casted for inspiration to carry on
Fool myself into believing in the wholeness of a broken man
I lived as a creation of my own twisted and transformed imagination day in and day out
Dragging along the heavy weight a shield of hate brought with it
The problem being
Behind that shield I was protected fully from any outside source of grief
But I was trapped as well
A layer of thick rage and apathy deflecting any and all other emotion
A poison that constantly ate at what was left of me
Soon I became too weak to stand
The price you pay for being invincible against all other forces is that you can never stop yourself from dying on the inside
I had built a fortress to no avail
Because I had trapped the evil within myself
On my knees, my body rotting away
What was left of my flesh began to shrink back
The concrete was losing its grip the walls of skin that held them in retreating
The evil had won
Chunks of cement fell to the ground and crumbled
The agony indescribable
I was losing the last ounce of security I had left in this world
I was weak and the heaviness of the shield left when I could no longer hold it
I was defeated
I sat awaiting a death that in my mind was the only thing left assured to me
But it never came
Instead, I saw the sun rise over the horizon
I felt its warm rays on my disfigured flesh
And all around me was illuminated
In the light I saw how horrible what I had done to myself really was
At the price of living I had bought myself immortality
Nothing more than a cruel joke
Night never came again
And eventually I stood up
The light shone through my bullet holes as I did and the last of my disgust for the world was gone
I buried the shield and the crumbled stone deep in the darkness and never went back
Because no matter what may have been in my past, no matter how much blood I had shed, I knew that now I could live,

Truly

Art
What an extraordinary sort of immortality

A muse is nothing less than a cherished piece of living art which an artist attempts so desperately to immortalize.

if i could extinguish the rote of immortality
my sylvia plath obsession with death pursuing me
where whitest blood makes civil hands unclean
where a ghost stands at my feet
and i am the immortal entity

if most believe in life after their death
then why, oh why, am i so afraid of it
of immortality, of heaviest dream
the ghost is a human, and i lazarus

She fell in to the hands of darkness and wept
the world all of a sudden  ceased to exist,
she hoped, "If only a drop of moonlight
fell on the cheerful courtyard of the time past,
and show me  the happy scenes of yore,
children yelling aloud and playing around,
as if nothing will ever happen to break my peace"

Alone beyond mind, she soared in to a stillness, it was deep,
then light, so soft and fizzy surrounded her
gathered her in hands like her dear mother,
she felt light, pain vanished, didn't know
how much time passed,  felt like all burdens were  lifted.

Light was wisdom timeless, it told her, time has light feet,
from illusion it comes and returns to it's fold
all things good and bad in to fathomlessness dissolve.
"Forget the bleakness of the dark waters my dear,
you are the beaming white lotus, floating eternally above it."