The glistening palm trees cast a Cimmerian shade, stretching far across. Odd was how the dark wavering imprint was perceivable in the tenebrosity of the night. The moon, smothered by the viscous clouds, was unable to fulfill its illuminating role. The wind sang for the nightingales perched on the trees an entrancing sorrowful hymn, a disconsolate requiem, meant solely to succor. All in vain. Such are the innerworkings of a soul tainted by grief and vehement rage. He would ask for forgiveness, but only if he knew how, and even if he did, who would he ask. Once the soul has been blotted, it hardly ever finds its way back to its purity. The same wretched purity that inculcated the need for self-imposed harm. 'Tis true men will desire oblivion rather than not desire at all. He knew all this since the earliest drop of ichor was divulged on his account. Then it streamed, like a river with the steadiest of currents. His hands were, for the first time, sanctified as they soaked the blood. If only he knew how to foster the fire, leaving the trees incinerated, while forsaking the land of all shadow except that of the nightingales fleeing.
Should you not find me... Defining life by seconds Etching memories on my hands Should you not find me... Rehearsing methods in the dressing room Defining life, I assume Gin and tonic Misprint logic Should you not find me... Beautifully catastrophic
Young child, Remember the promise, The contract signed from your very first heartbeat.
Your first breath of life was not easy And it never will be.
Young child, You did not open your eyes To live the rest of your life Dreaming; Your very first speech Was you screaming - Young child, You came to us Squealing Asking: "What are these feelings I'm feeling?"
And I told you This is pain, You are alive, And your promise is Struggle and heartbreak With the occasional smile, Young Child, Your promise is death For a while.
i was born i lay in a cot my heart beat rang i sang and i sang i gave my voice away as i matured naively i was lured into adulthood without a hood naked, i stood out of breath no stability looked for divinity but nothing concrete looked back empty and bleak but my eyebrows were on fleek submission to an ideal i ride but i never lay still i dreamt but dreaming is to **** **** reality **** your own insanity **** your own vanity no baby please keep yo "sanity"
The truth is There’s always dishes to do a floor to mop up a phone call to make food to cook fences to paint people to see about a dog, about a cat
About a life you never own up to because of all the little hurdles all the small achievements you rake in your confined Zen garden neatly piling skipping stones as if boulders don’t exist outside as if there’s no mountains that require scaling as if the big issues Who you are? Why you are? When will you be? are not looming over in the distance casting shadow in the twilight of your days
The truth is all these notches on your belt are the sum effort of your laying lows the trophies for your standing stills the “what if”s you stifle into the pillow because you know the odds never scale with the effort
Truth is minimal struggle dictates the average but you decide on the endeavor blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the barrens
13th installment in this series of poems inspired by physics (for details, read the first one in the series here: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3122578). Shared this with a struggling friend recently, let him know we all struggle.
For more information: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boltzmann_distribution