To stir from my complacency
With the words as my compulsion,
Poems feel like a eulogy
Of my not-dead-yet emotion.
I write to be a memory
For either fondness or for ill,
With words of perpetuity
So that no reader’s heart is still.
The solemn thoughts trapped in my head,
My fingers type to let them out,
So my embarrassment is read
By strangers I know not about.
Writing with ego’s delusion
That when I die my words survive,
But my ironic conclusion
Is that I write to stay alive.
Blogging at www.insightshurt.com
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There was nothing
before the War
There will be nothing
after the War
Except and until
there is another War
Accept the fact
All of our lives
there has been war
Cold Tepid Hot War
When there is no war
then there is nothing
There is no peace
Only a time for
for the next
and the next
and another war
So then we seek
the banal nothingness
That we may restore
our ability to wage war
One day, I swear, you will regret this
She said in a contemptuous snarl,
Gnawing at my ego with a ******* zeal,
Clawing at my love-drunk smile.
One day, I smiled, drink in hand,
At the feral beast whom ravaged my smile,
For now its tame, and strives to play,
In the garden with my wife and child.
I do not regret a thing.
In the solace of his pillow,
In the darkness of the pillows case,
Seeps the dew of all -- and everything --
He'd sooner left unsaid.
He lays the damp side on it's back --
Baptised, and cleansed in stormy tears;
He finds the strength to raise his head,
And pretend theirs nothing else to fear.
But a storm is brewing up ahead...
— The End —