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Willoughby Lucas Mar 2012
[1] Introduction

Originality a creation of the self
Yet asking for fiction
Unable to conjure from a thin presence
But gifted from life gathered.

[2] When, Why, and How?

When the tears from this today
Mimic the rain of my tomorrow,
How do I know where
To escape?

When we are lost in our selves
And tempered by the faults of others,
How do we grow
To understand?

When logic is renounced
And feeling is felt,
How do we remind ourselves
To refrain?

Moments that unfold
Will educate the soul,
Inspiring our answers on How
To Live?

[3] Plot, Setting, Mood

Our overlapping ideas,
The overlapping events,
And unfortunately overlapping people,
Become my overlapping emotions.

I’m the paradox,
You’re my paradox,
And actually we’re the contradiction,
Inspiring my few uninspiring words
I am reading and writing to you  


The pain you are
The pain you caused
And the pain I feel
Produce these overlapping paradoxical poems.


[4] Betraying Body

Walk with fake footprints,
See with unfocused eyes,
Touch but cannot feel,
There is simply nothing to taste,
And smelling only the lost scent;
Living desensitized the body feels unlit with purpose.

We are lost
Directionally challenged
Falling, tripping….now bruised.
We live damaged,
Our tears cleansing our deepest cuts
Internally bleeding,
The blood forcing color to our eyes
Beginning to live with the hue obtained.

Hemorrhaging at the heart
Cardiac arrest
We’d welcome death, the ungiven gift
They choose life, the given curse
Disregarding our last rights
Providing us with a life we do not wish to live.

It rains, we flood
Wishing to drown
And yet being denied
Our legs tread the threatening tide
Progressing to our new state of barely alive.  

Time willingly unkind:
Intentionally slow,
Trudging through, perhaps looking to an end
Watching the rise and fall of numbers
Their cyclic hands pass
Strangling the minds of many
Those still living: live lonesome, accompanied by the inevitable tock of time.


[5] Semicolon

Bridging my gaps,
Sewing my wounds ,
And preparing for the relapse in pain.

Writing through my wordless speech
I begin to reinterpret my language
Advising myself to remember my illiteracy.

Repeating my self
Becoming redundant
Incapable of innovation...
I look again through the pages of my unspoken mind.



[6] The Repetition of my Pain

Headache, life threatening?
Heartburn, possible survival?
Common cold, originality?
Pregnancy, new life?
Who defines pain?
Are you sick?
Are we all?

I’m sick
I’m hungry
I’m cold
I’m tired
I am heart broken.
Am I sick?
Aren’t I always?

He’s fine
He’s happy
He’s lying
He’s pretending
He will never say.
Is he sick?
Was he ever not?

We were fine.
We were happy.
Were we lying?
Who was pretending?
We will never love again.
Were we sick?
When were we not?


[7] Falling Action

Redirecting my momentum and changing the gears,
I found HIS path
I’ve regained consciousness,
Been lifted out of the soapless  bathwater
And cleaned by the warmth of  a fire.

Although burnt and previously bruised
The bandaids were enough,
The aspirin filled a void,
And my head had stopped hurting.

Self sought,
Self seen,
Self claimed,
And now reconciled with self;
Clarity retrieved and new quest begun.
Willoughby Lucas Mar 2012
The Duration of our Association Writes a Song  
Meant to be Heard by the Artists above and below us,
The housewives before and after us,
And the Creator that has always wanted to get to know us.

Our Chorus has built a Bridge from foundation to second Verse
Your Vocal cords burst, mine always in strain
So I revert to a way I can seem less cursed  
Painting you here with me in this  forsaken Refrain.  

I'll write you here
I'll Envision your Tune and Draw your Hymn
I'll Create an existence for you with me
And "we" will never cease to be.

You'll be here and I'll be ruining my Voice for you
You'll be there but you'll need to Hear
You'll have to Listen but there's a continuation to their destruction
And we will never let "us" come to a Conclusion.  

The Orchestra thriving in the Tone of louder
Feeding from the veracious Harmony
We seem to constantly inspire,
The Voice of circumstance
Plucks the Strings of our Instruments,  
Amity Sculpting a heart worth honorable mention
  Pumping Lyrics through the circulation of this dedication.

I'll Write you here and You'll Sing me there
And together we will fathom the concept of "near."

— The End —