Staring for quite some time
At this blank white page,
Just like dark clouds
Roaring thunder, bursting rain
My emotions flew
In the form of rage
Once the words left my mind
It was not hard to find
My reason to write
Was definitely not you
I wrote for those few
Who have felt the pain
Same as me
Who have everything to loose
But nothing to gain
Same as me
Who share there feelings,emotions
By wrapping them in these mere words
Their feeling is what gives them worth...
Poem inspired by floor mosaic in National Gallery in London
I'm happy to be a bird
fed by my Mistress, Polyhymnia,
Muse of sacred poetry and songs.
She makes my life worthwhile,
and I make her days silentless.
I don't need anything else,
I don't desire any other fate,
but being in her presence, every day.
She will never forget about me,
she will never leave me hungry,
she will always be sitting there
with an open, stretched out hand
on which sweet seeds are placed,
waiting for me to hear my chime -
a song about perfect sense.
Words would overwhelm me when it came to thoughts about you
My fingertips will ache for release just to get a few lines out about you
I feared the words that would pour out of me and the confessions I would confess to a page would have me amazed
How was is possible for me to be so obsessed?
But you're no longer it
No longer the man I pour out my fears to onto a page.
Stomp my feet in a childish rage for
Face red and blue because I couldn't have you
Run well deep into myself to avoid loving you
Staring at your name to will you to text me, acknowledge me
You were no man but a boy
I was blind
Too drugged up on hopeful bullshit to realize the ME wasn't wanted but my outer shell
It took me a while to realize it
So stuck on stupid
I'm no longer a fool
I've learned a valuable lesson
But thank you for the experience
I would never repeat it
You're no longer my muse
There is a devil inside of me.
An aspect so far removed from self,
It is so inconcievable, so impossible, and so unlike anything I could imagine.
Such selves sit in a sea of silent symphony,
Until the mania power trips into madness.
Then the screaming starts, the sad souls of infinite self, wailing their woes into every action and inaction.
But this wrongness, it has no tongue, no words of daggers. Just the mind numbing imposition of its own existence.
While it is in no particular way, its own creative, there are those of empathetic tones who transcribe its violent song into death hymns.
I sit a passenger, on a dangerous train, headed faster to hell, and I'm the devil inside.
Young and nothing to lose,
she is a monochromic innocence
and delicate to show her inner self.
Blooms and garden of thorns
for you, i am a mirage in storm
the reflections you see through mirror
the silver light glowing through your face.
I am a bright side
the light you have ever seen
after an infinite darkness.
I am a song you heard
in your dream
for you, i am a perfect distraction
in state of clarity.
For you, she could go worse
like an angel at her fall
hunted by fearless shadow
for you, she could be your muse.
They call out to the muse,
For a life source,
Of which all that has unravelled
Can be made sense of again.
To be wrapped neatly,
only to be unwrapped again.
Asking her consent,
To find the answers
Which, in time
Unveil themselves to be the questions,
That continue to live on the tip of your tongue.
She looks up,
Eyes draped in thick lashes,
As if to hide,
As if to reveal,
As if to locate the source.
“There are no answers here,”
Says the Muse.
and her voice echoes through the four seasons
And you wake up
New years day.
Every bit as Wonderful
As I remember you to be.
(As I made you up inside My head)
But the Source —
(The Life Source)
Runs dry into the new year.
They call out to the Muse—
Who is she?
Who are they?
don’t put too much pressure
on her hands, you might make
them look like something
you wouldn’t want to hold
don’t make her edges look
sharp, she knows how much
you love the right curves on
your women, and make sure that
her eyes will be the most beautiful
pair you will ever see so she
can be sure that she has you for
herself because she still believes in great
stories, is it so sad to imagine a
tale of how a boy walks in the
room, sees a girl, and knows to
himself that he just has to know this girl
his memory of her will sketch her into
immortality in his head and it
will last until his heart can no
longer protest for freedom and
she will be the patient girl who
has waited her whole life to be
complete, and once she is, only
then will she run away with him
My wondrous muse
My wonderful world
You seem distant this time
I scribble in vain
But you do not appear
I feel lost to you
Or perhaps you are to me?
I am pacified with dribble
Distracted by nonsense
I rush to your side
You are gone when I arrive
In this fleeting time
I grapple to find a space
Just one poetic verse
I feel it should be said
I feel it should be done
I feel until I am numb
The words escape again
As despair becomes my companion
Together we march in monotony
I can only be in one place at a time
Still I get caught up in a dream