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2d · 26
the jukebox
Ronnie 2d
there are times when
all you can feel is nothing
no rhyme or reason
no rhythm
no melody

not a single note in sight
no colour to be heard
no breeze to savour
although the aftertaste
is bittersweet

so you try them on
feeling after feeling
discarded on the floor
in a pile of ***** laundry
the broken records

and then they spin
out of control
there's no order
and no queue
the tapes won't rewind

the sink is still broken
your words still sting
the jukebox remains silent
Mar 24 · 61
an elegy
Ronnie Mar 24
She was a stray airplane in the sea of stars
An imposturous glimmer of hope
With no true end or destination
Destined to float among the lights, alone

Or so she thought as she wrote it down
Sealing the edge with the sad remains
Of wasted birthday candles
The final goodbye to the golden days

Prodigy at first, prodigal at last
A soul lost on the way to find a meaning
Searching for the faintest sign of a beginning
With her writ of passage left behind

The death of the author means
A rebirth for all things familiar
The return to a garden of thought
And the flowers in full bloom.
Attempt at an elegy. I was told to stay away from the abstract, but I couldn't help myself.
Mar 24 · 140
the uprising
Ronnie Mar 24
Over Silesian mountains
Somewhere beyond black seas
There is a forgotten dream
Conjuring visions of peace

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go

Many lives faced the dream
More of them fade to black
But in the eyes of the eagle
There is no turning back

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go

Their hearts are worn on sleeves
Determination so earnest
Merely calm before the storm
Quiet before the Tempest

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go
Inside the city walls
The static is meant to frighten
Those who await the call
In the echoes of the siren

Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
To the land that you adore
Go your own way, go now, go
You are meant to lead, not follow
Walk on, fly by, sail ashore
Go your own way, go now, go

There are many roads to follow
Some of them are painted red
Yet as long as we march on
No one can declare us dead.
Attempt at a Polish-style folk ballad for poetry class.
Mar 24 · 90
the centuries
Ronnie Mar 24
I am still here
yet I am not who I once was.
I have shed
my human skin
I was reborn
into something true
something pure in essence
if only abused, disregarded
for so long
it almost killed me.

I am free at last.
It was not a prison
for she has not reformed me
but changed me nonetheless.
I was captured
on my own accord
I took the risk
just as I once took the lives of
kings and queens
businessmen and millionaires
Into my hands.
I led them all to ruin.

Human beings are
ungrateful by nature
always wanting something else
something more
something greater

There was once a time
that made that dream a reality
a simpler existence
for others like me
humanity called us
and we called back into the void
we had many names

but we were never guardians
for they relished the taste of power
more than safety or justice
and called upon us for our strength
turning quarrels into battles
and battles into wars

the blame was ours
there was no question
or any answer, either.
Abandoned. No longer
a beginning
or an end
neverending existence
and suffering.
There was no point
staying true to our spirit.
It was crushed
by the one meant to be
most merciful.

We were not meant to exist
without a reason
or greater purpose.
It was beyond us
so we took it upon ourselves
to find one.
Living alongside the humankind
took its toll at last. We rose
from the wreckage
and the ashes
to take the world as our own.
This is why I am who I am
as I remember now
claiming my sense of purpose
taking for myself
what I could not have in my
own right.
Tired of treachery and deceit
I craved the taste of innocence.
A sweetness only a child could possess.
She had all I wanted
a blank future
a clean slate
the world at her feet
and so much more
so in turn
I possessed her.

We came together as one
and when we did
she had no language
no words
to persuade me.
It was something else
something pure entirely
no vile thought
or ill intent
so repulsive to my state of being
yet so wonderful

it was what I wanted
what I craved
and I revelled in the high.
I must have lost myself
between the lines.
She hated every second
but I was blinded
too blind to notice
and there I was
manipulative, controlling
but somehow spiralling
out of control.
I lost everything I knew
and to this day
I do not understand

why do I feel an echo of a flutter
somewhere within me
seeing the two hands together
his thoughtful eyes
or the softness of his lips
those are her wants
her primal needs
but now I crave them too.
My entire existence is trembling
and I hate it so immensely
since it reminds me of
being human

and the one thing
I could never understand
is their will to go on
to carry the most convoluted
conversations with themselves
on the off chance that
they will get their answer
a true call from the void. After all,
do they not deserve it?
are their lives not a gift
designed to fulfil a greater purpose?

Perhaps so
but I do fear the humankind
as the knowledge would surely break them.
If they were certain that there is no meaning
they would become us
shapeless demons
ghosts of their former selves.

We are not bound by
the same mentality. I will
carry on living
reap the souls of those
standing in my way
one by one by one
until there is nothing left

still, I am afraid
to claim another life
and to become one of them
once again
I am afraid
since I now know too well
their struggles, fears
the ticking clock.
Can I ever become one of them
and not become human?
The twin poem to the hours and the second monologue I wrote for my poetry class.
Mar 24 · 108
the hours
Ronnie Mar 24
Every waking hour
and every living moment
suspended in reality
is the truest nightmare

for I am now awake
and the dream is not over
the ceiling is a flash of white
the outside world a breathless scream
there is no truth to it
yet it comes back to haunt me
in a house that is not my home

in the days and years
with every sun and moon
I have done everything
faced the dark side
burned every bridge
there is no rhyme or reason
a simple melody
the littlest things to numb the pain
and so it persists still
gone but not forgotten
twisted in its nature
a personal purgatory of sorts
a hand clenched ever so tightly
around my throat
or perhaps it is only
a faceless demon
crawling in my skin
stalling my every move
a devil on my shoulder
and ironically so
it feels right

for I am not the hero of this story
never have been
the life as I know it
has never been kind
in the desire to take
what could never be mine
an ordinary life
an easy way out
so instead I took lives for myself
for money
for prestige
for infamy
and I deserve every nightmare
as there is no way out at all
I cannot take it back
or start all over
it is too late
I’ve come too far now

I say so to myself
a chaotic mantra
echoing within these empty walls
so why am I trembling?
I have no fear
and I have no faith
I have faced death
but I will not go anywhere

how could I believe in
the faintest sight of Heaven
if life put me through ****?
The merciful one cannot exist
for my only companions
are the demons from the past

and yet
there is fight left in me
I will not bury myself
in the guilt and shame
this bedstead is not
my tombstone
or my legacy
I am still alive
I will step out into the world
and dip my toes in the sunshine
I will not give up
not ever
not now.
The first monologue I wrote for my poetry class.
Feb 26 · 88
in session
Ronnie Feb 26
Welcome back.
It has been a while
since you last came
I'll take that as a
good omen
so to speak

is there something
bothering you, perhaps
something on your mind

you can let it out
this is a safe space
or at the very least
as safe as you feel
your own mind can be

it sounds as if
you are finding it
somewhat difficult
to adapt to this
and it's actually
really painful

and it is
it's getting harder
to reach you now
as in the end
we are one
and the same
but I understand
better than anyone
feeling unwanted
the rejection
and the pain

I feel it too
as I hide
away, from you
from everyone
and everything
until you are gone

but not anymore
you don't control me
or so I will go on
telling myself
until it comes true
it has been too long
since I have let you loose
but I will not hold on
and for the first time
I am setting you free
for holding onto it all
only nurtures you
and drains me so
your time is done
so, please
stand up and leave
don't forget to take
your depressive episodes
and relapses with you
on your way out
make sure
you do not look back
as you are not welcome
here any longer.
This is somewhat of a personal conversation
between myself
and my own shadow.
I cannot choose who I am or the things I am going through
but I can choose to speak.
Feb 24 · 84
eight minutes ago
Ronnie Feb 24
It's suffocating.
The sheer concept
of time passing by
feels almost like
a soul to squeeze
caged within my chest.
The silence resonating
within the aether
is deafening.
It tastes like defeat.
I can feel it
just on the tip of my tongue
ready to spill.
My lips are sealed
yet my soul is bare
writhing in agony
the constant question of
is the line busy
will you call out
into the hollow void
the warmth of your voice
entering the right atrium
echoing impatiently
until the oceans sigh
and I breathe in again
reaching new depths.
I feel it in my fingertips
a phantom memory
resurfacing as I trace
images and symbols
something so strange
yet so familiar
a gleam of light
in my line of vision.
There is no answer
you have gone
eight minutes ago
That feeling you experience
when you see your message has been read
without a response.
Feb 22 · 102
half empty
Ronnie Feb 22
Today was a day.
Nothing more or less
just a touch of gin
poured over unbroken ice
a hint of vermouth
neither shaken or stirred
and a simple olive
for life did not think
I was ready for
a lemon twist

it seems to be true
that in a glass like this
the day is half empty.
Feb 22 · 209
trigger warning
Ronnie Feb 22
Never ask a poet what they think
about the things that matter.
They will not give a definite answer
for their hearts tend to ache
somewhat too severely
and even then some things
are better left unsaid
in a black and white world
where any shade of grey is a crime
somewhere over the rainbow
in a place where it is the safest
to not be there at all
or else you are certainly the one to blame
even if the lace is buried deep within
your overwhelming guilt and shame
hidden under all the what ifs and pleats
and somewhere deeper yet
there is the quietest of voices
too afraid to speak of the bruises
left on the inside of her thighs
and within her heart
the voice of reason that tells you
please don’t walk down that alley
keep your friends close
and the keys in your hand closer
keep your head up high
and your hopes down low
or whatever else makes sense
in this dog eat dog world
where everything you will ever know
will be shredded and recycled
oh, if only
to be crushed into a pulp
and spoon-fed to another generation
diluted with careful consideration
into a day-in day-out nine to five
not even a cog in the machine
a ***** at best
and you will be *******
tightened up more and more
until you can’t hold it together
and whatever it takes
falls apart into pieces
broken glass on the asphalt
a hole in the wall
that sinking feeling
where a soul should be
but the angels don’t visit anymore
or answer our prayers
the line is always busy
there is always something else
something more important
a bullet in the bible
escalating into emergency
but who is out there for the unarmed boy
dying on the sidewalk
misjudged for the colour of his skin
who is out there to stop the hand of a father
suspended in mid-air
with the children cowering at his feet
who is out there for the American dream
turning into a global nightmare
who can tell the pending future
staring down the barrel of the gun
wondering which side you should be on
and what of that which you call freedom
only to trade it for martyrdom
what of candour and justice
and their antonymous nature
what of the artists and the poets
and everyone else that took a shot
but didn’t even come close
living in a daydream
playing from the same broken record
telling us that there is meaning
and there is worth in the things we do
except that from time to time
the needle would skip
distorting the vision
and at times like these
it’s the easiest to look away
for every scratch on the surface of reality
encourages you simply to
pull the trigger

I will not, I refuse
to let this get the best of me.
The pen is a blade. I slit my wrist
and pour my heart out onto the page
instead. This is a sacrifice
I am willing to make.
I will tear myself apart
on my own terms.
If I cannot do it myself,
who else will?
My most recent poem for my university class, inspired by the likes of Baraka and Ginsberg. Prompt given to us was "protest poetry".
Feb 22 · 104
a new beginning
Ronnie Feb 22
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth

or so I was told at the humble age
of seven years old. I did not ask
and I did not question.
I saw that it was good. Or did I?
It was only the beginning
but what of the rising action
what of the darkness growing
over the surface of the deep?
I was yet to learn for sure
the conflicting nature of faith
or the meaning behind every rosary bead.
Thrown in at the deep end
I stared into the void. A vault
between the waters, or perhaps
an endless sky covered in stars
a ceiling in my bedroom
yet another thing I did not question.
Thus no answer came.
How was I to know the darkness
if not for the light of day?
I waited days and years
until the night came again
and for the first time in forever
I asked myself why
do I truly seek forgiveness
or salvation? Could I be
reborn into a creature
of fire and vengeance
or a winged bird blessed
with the gift of flight
and a lack of conscience?
Perhaps I could have been
state of the art
a true reflection
instead of this serpentine twist
somewhere deep within me
grinding, nesting
in the manner of a deadly disease
clouding my vision
and numbing my senses
taking away any certainty.
The very nature of existence
is to learn its meaning
is to doubt the ideal masters
and their conjured ideas of freedom
infinitive and infinite.
I do not have the answers
but I ask the questions. I am
in control of my own fate
I rise above the darkness
I am the master of the seas
the shepherdess of my own herds
I see all that I make of my life
and I see it is good.

Thus the heavens and the earth are completed in all their vast array.
Another poem I wrote for a class. This one had a straightforward prompt, "faith".
Feb 22 · 338
in memory
Ronnie Feb 22
It’s autumn, and I’m five years old.
The trees are tall. I look up
I can’t see the sky
We walk on. Under my feet
Mud, gravel, sand?
I’m not so sure.

It doesn’t matter
My tiny hands wield a mighty sword
I run, the fallen bridge trembling
The world at my feet, at last.
A stick, a log, the past.

It’s summer now, and I’m thirteen.
We walk upstream. The trees
Are silent, and so am I.
There is no destination
Yet there is an end. I don’t know it yet
But this is goodbye.

It’s winter. I’m nineteen
And a thousand miles away.
The memories are blurry, confusing

But I don’t want to go back
Not to the falling leaves of autumn
Or the scorching heat of summer.
That place is frozen now
In memory.
One of the poems I wrote for a class at university. The prompt we were given was "describe the first place from your childhood that comes to mind".
Feb 22 · 83
edge of tonight
Ronnie Feb 22
I thought you were gone
Closer than the most distant star yet
Further than any constellation
Lost in space, floating
Somewhere along the bedstead.

But then
I realised that it was not disinterest
Because even though loving you was a frozen lake
Melted awake with every touch of your fingertips
To you, loving me was the sight of sea
In which just being side by side was as natural as breathing
Or the waves gently washing ashore.

I will be your calm before the storm
The quiet moment before the waves come crashing down
Tearing apart our illusions of the peace
And the sunshine on ice.

— The End —