"blaspheme" poems
dahil wara katapusan an duon san mga mata
mabubuhay akong minamatay
san dating kaaway ko sa lawas na ini
sa lawas na ini naghambog an talawon
pinapagubtik an kaaluhan na nagpapamuda
muda na nagpupukaw saakon gurugab-i
kendi na nagpapahibi
mesias na naghahala-hala
magiging madalas an pagsid-ip niya sa bintana
para laen ko makita an liwanag
malaog siya sa kahon ko
laen para magkawat
kundi dagdagan an pagub-at
makasakat an pagbagsak
siya na ako
masurat tula.
~Written by Melton Balicano
(a bikol dialect)
since these eyes have been weighed down on unending
i shall live while being slain by an old foe in this body
this body where the craven had once boasted
surging chagrins that blaspheme
blasphemy that rouses this corpse in the dark
treats that shed tears
a messiah that taunts.
he shall constantly peep through the window
so that I see no light
he will break in my casket
not to thieve
but to burden further
the downfall shall rise
then he becomes me
penning a poem.
~a translation of Balicano's masterpiece
Glenn Sentes
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
I don't know what to think
when i'm staring in your eyes
more akin to speak
in blind lullabies.
than logistify
my heightened
surmise
in flight
to somewhere nice
if only for tonight
come with me this night
ignite
the cindered fires
of our desires
and incite
the throws of light
in **** obscurity
moaning through the sincerity
of our oddities
gleaming in the rarity
of our academy of lust
all or bust
entrust the accounting
of blaspheme
to the enemies
of poverty
and shove me
all the way down your throat
fill you
instill you
with the hope
of a million
grinning in **********
of the tangled mental merchants
of pretty lights and custom curtains
drawn at first light
dispersing
amongst cursing pedestrians
prior to ***********
of forceful ************
with an another human
lightened strikes the truant
in 9 months of fluent
agony
just imagining little Timmy
has me scavenging for a shimmy
to escape
its social ****
to a blind ape
still patting his head
don't be mislead
by ***** carriers
pack your own barriers
and prepare for the scarier
side of a mans mind
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
None but the cobbled Hackney will accept
Their Postcards sign this Doveling Bond, betwixt
So both decide a Limo; And dated Theft
Of many Soul-Chasers which do not Exist
From there both Virgins took a Scandal-Plate,
Wrapped in Hookahs only the Wise could see
Goodbye, First Perfume! Not from what will sate
The Photographed Script of what they should be
From this a Problem looms. In such Stone-Bowl
We become the very Thing we disgust
Hearts still cry out for the Thunder they stole
And baste their Image on the Throne they must.
Realise, just now, the Name of this Theme
From Enlightenment whose Founder they blaspheme.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
Wanderlust warlock blaspheme rapacity
Obsequious diligence pier pair appearance
Obstreperously vituperative vociferous tenacity
Consortium eclectic synectics concurrence
In extremis extremity cantilever capacity
Citadel clairvoyance pilaster conveyance
Inductive integration interpolative audacity
Derivative factor derivational appliance
Futurity fatidic’s laconic sagacity
Aseity veracity cacophony compliance
Accidence ambience aesthetics opacity
Acoustical articulation intonational occurrence
Apomixes anabolics histophysiological mendacity
Epistemological somatalogy syntactics refulgence
Refractive reflective semantics complicity
Hephestian dialectics Hegelian effulgence
Linguistic syntax synaptic intensity
totally tangential
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
God of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,
Charioteer
Of the patient year,
Where---where slept thine ire,
When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,
Thy laurel, thy glory,
The light of thy story,
Or was I a worm---too low crawling for death?
O Delphic Apollo!
The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,
The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;
The eagle's feathery mane
For wrath became stiffen'd---the sound
Of breeding thunder
Went drowsily under,
Muttering to be unbound.
O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?
Why touch thy soft lute
Till the thunder was mute,
Why was I not crush'd---such a pitiful germ?
O Delphic Apollo!
The Pleiades were up,
Watching the silent air;
The seeds and roots in Earth
Were swelling for summer fare;
The Ocean, its neighbour,
Was at his old labour,
When, who---who did dare
To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow,
And grin and look proudly,
And blaspheme so loudly,
And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?
O Delphic Apollo!
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Strumming the untuned strings, he stares drunkenly into the setting sun of yesteryears songs, sung of lost dreams and the birthed ambitions of the dark, dark days to be.
Happily, he tears up in the fortunate tragedies, of the reclamation in his dreams, as he seethes out the damnation of his steeds, galloping gallantly through his being.
All seeing, in the finite fleeting when he sings, of strummed dreams to the rhythms of heart beats lost, embossed on the epitaphs of kings.
Sad songs of dreams once had.
Be glad for that, which does not **** you, only to bestow upon you, the gratitude of the weirding ways, in passionate display for us all to play nice.
Shake these dice and jump aboard this bus of wandering poetry, from the porches of poets singing to the sun.
From the morning Moet, to the afternoon beer run.
we sing of dreams
of better things
we blaspheme
and spin the scenes
of our murdered dreams
and just clean the guilt away
I am so awesome as to be devoid of fault.
I am a god that cracks the asphalt.
I am the angel signing the clause, of deserved harm.
I am the indentured servant sounding the alarm, with the charm of a Trojan horse, forced to adhere to the most righteous path.
The first
The last
Laugh of inevitability
Honing in on the ability to capture the longevity of dream warriors, in the lock of predators, in the employ of a senator, from the center of the heart, to impart on you the fear from thieves caught in the plight of those fraught with the graces of an exterminator, exterminating the pro-creators of your world. Soldiers unraveled in the lavished gavels of real criminals drowning in their own subliminal theories of the self imposed heresies of intention.
Free will
A fragile blessing
I cracked, all so long ago, as i gently bestow my belligerence upon your innocence and **** it all away.
I'm the ******* son
Strumming for the only one.
Once.
Before the lore of the storm.
Born of the swoon of a gun.
More than one.
Once.
As the day faded into night, his strumming turned plucking, as he slightly eased from reprise to silence, in the whisper of nights words, easing him into the blur, of sleep.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not ******
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
2.8k
405
It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness—
I’m so accustomed to my Fate—
Perhaps the Other—Peace—
Would interrupt the Dark—
And crowd the little Room—
Too scant—by Cubits—to contain
The Sacrament—of Him—
I am not used to Hope—
It might intrude upon—
Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place—
Ordained to Suffering—
It might be easier
To fail—with Land in Sight—
Than gain—My Blue Peninsula—
To perish—of Delight—
2.7k
Melodious moonlight thy clear liquid spreads
painting all in lavender hue
and moistening lips wait for the kiss of your words, muse
You sing through her parted lips your cryptic hymns and poetry,
words wound together in strange nightly meter
that twist together and shift like tree limbs tangled
and petals cast down the stream
To bathe in the rippling water
and wait for clarity to wash away the rough edges of the mind
let the stones become smooth
and mind like bowstrings, taughtened.
But the crowds protest in collective indignation
all members chained together by common trepidation
lest altars crack under the weight of strange words
and the diety's light grows dim
they sharpen what was dull and loose arrows in laughing mirth
into bodies' crooked minds uninhibited and feet unshackled
The ones in the crowd yell with groans and laughter
but they groan also with the pain of what is constant death and birth... they are resigned to their tradition's lies
and perish ten thousand times.
Nascent generations yell out in incredulity until voices become hoarse and skin turns gray, resign themselves to murmur their insolence in dreams as they whither slowly away.
But the one who, in nighttime, sings
and bestowed by muse's mind, from human lips part
words and strange poems spoken blaspheme
will live but once and one day rest
by the shifting branches and on grass by trickling stream
and not by chain's clanking arrest.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
Oh love! that stronger art than Wine,
Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine,
Wont to be priz'd above all Wealth,
Disease that has more Joys than Health;
Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain,
And of Tyranny complain,
We are all better'd by thy Reign.
What Reason never can bestow,
We to this useful Passion owe:
Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease,
And learns a Clown the Art to please:
Humbles the Vain, kindles the Cold,
Makes Misers free, and Cowards bold;
And teaches airy Fops to think.
When full brute Appetite is fed,
And choakd the Glutton lies and dead;
Thou new Spirits dost dispense,
And fine'st the gross Delights of Sense.
Virtue's unconquerable Aid
That against Nature can persuade;
And makes a roving Mind retire
Within the Bounds of just Desire.
Chearer of Age, Youth's kind Unrest,
And half the Heaven of the blest!
2.4k
God gives his mercies to be spent;
Your hoard will do your soul no good.
Gold is a blessing only lent,
Repaid by giving others food.
The world's esteem is but a bribe,
To buy their peace you sell your own;
The slave of a vainglorious tribe,
Who hate you while they make you known.
The joy that vain amusements give,
Oh! sad conclusion that it brings!
The honey of a crowded hive,
Defended by a thousand stings.
'Tis thus the world rewards the fools
That live upon her treacherous smiles:
She leads them blindfold by her rules,
And ruins all whom she beguiles.
God knows the thousands who go down
From pleasure into endless woe;
And with a long despairing groan
Blaspheme the Maker as they go.
Oh fearful thought! be timely wise;
Delight but in a Saviour's charms,
And God shall take you to the skies,
Embraced in everlasting arms.
2.1k
Oh love! that stronger art than Wine,
Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine,
Wont to be priz'd above all Wealth,
Disease that has more Joys than Health;
Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain,
And of Tyranny complain,
We are all better'd by thy Reign.
What Reason never can bestow,
We to this useful Passion owe:
Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease,
And learns a Clown the Art to please:
Humbles the Vain, kindles the Cold,
Makes Misers free, and Cowards bold;
And teaches airy Fops to think.
When full brute Appetite is fed,
And choakd the Glutton lies and dead;
Thou new Spirits dost dispense,
And fine'st the gross Delights of Sense.
Virtue's unconquerable Aid
That against Nature can persuade;
And makes a roving Mind retire
Within the Bounds of just Desire.
Chearer of Age, Youth's kind Unrest,
And half the Heaven of the blest!
2.1k
Dear Gawd......I wanna be Pope..
I never ride backwards
on train or bus,
I never profane,
blaspheme or cuss,
I'm limpid,
riven of diaphanous stuff
never been given,
to a female ****
I'm penitent, contrite –
shriven of sin,
compliant, reliant,
I'm bendy n thin.
not quite castrato,
gives good vibrato
to choirboys mullato
with bellybutton fluff.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
on the high pass the last land
the grassland we'd drag our sheep
to briefly graze between the valleys of
colca, and puno.
focused in motion, heads low
wrapped round in many layers when we'd sleep.
in dens, in dark, in distrust of stars
and worn old men of mists each night,
that toothlessly bite,
at broken brown stone, gums
hopeless, hungry, salivating and desperately white.
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
but rocks dreaming cold rock dreams.
remembering when babel fell...
fists first ****** from young rubble, to find
that hands are hands and hands can climb.
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
but the livestock we'd drag
and keep alive, tireless
because towers are brought low
but hills only grow
and there are coats to stay the snow.
but to pass through this place we
knowing tempt death, incur
the wrath of Abraham blaspheme
the Word and the Way and
the rich air and pastures,
from which rocks are raised
to keep us from the heights for which we lust.
in old history, obvious.
forgot. spoke only in folk songs.
ritualized in rote laws.
but in secret, memorialized.
as solitary, at the highest point
each passerby takes pause...
stares down at the earth from the sky,
kneels, in the dust, picks up
three, four, not more, small brown rocks
to place at maras in defiance and triumph.
superstitiously stacking little stones.
as if to say,
"here lord.
here is something you can knock down.
here is something you can bring low."
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Don’t say, “Allahu Akbar!”
Because the facts are
That while God is Great
He’s not a God of hate
And if you can’t relate
You have a second rate
Ideology can’t you see
It’s clearly blaspheme
Don’t say, “Allahu Akbar!”
While you blow up a car
To maim and ****
As if it’s God’s will
You won’t reach paradise
Because it isn’t nice
To harm humanity
Read Qu’ran like me
Don’t say, “Allahu Akbar!”
Who you think you are
God doesn’t sanctions you
To do the things you do
You think it’s heaven sent
To **** the innocent
And do it in a Name
That you clearly defame
Don’t say, “Allahu Akbar!”
When you know you are
Just an insane jihadi
Down with al Baghdadi
Who’s merely a snake
So give me a break
Because he’s a viper
Worthy of a ******
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
me, you and Hennessy.
me, you this Hennessy.
three different people, one night...
this one night...
I swear this is about to turn into a piece about how we three came together with these trees, lit..
you, me ..this Hennessy talking to me baby and I've been thinking about you.
right now I'm about to let this henny talk , see I've been watching you tonight.. this night, stargazing ....you me, falling for the moon..the stars.. baby this is where we are, me in between your legs, thighs rubbing on my neck , warmth on my ears.. This is me, you and where we're meant to be...together us three..
me you this Hennessy lets get acquainted, the henny speaks to me and I to you, you could call henny the wing because once Richard got that whiff he's never been able to say no to nights with you. Richard got a whiff, his fix, the aroma.. my god, blaspheme i apologise , speaking in tongue, my tongue in your ear, mouth, neck, ******* naval back to your ******* Richard lost track of time he has got to dip but still he stands at attention...minutes gone by forgetting the whiff he once caught, slowly going down, tying his shoes looking up to you on one knee, that whiff, your ***** he has to dip but watching you drip ? the henny, the devil on his shoulder whispered to him " devour her, eat at her soul, speak in tongues , spell her name with your tongue, make her see stars because under the stars, that's where it all began.. us stargazing , stars gazing , you dazing... daisies. day in day out you , me and this Hennessy ...pure bliss.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
I am as I am,
my thoughts are nebulous and coherent,
I am the reluctant believer,
I am the optimistic skeptic,
I prepare for the worst,
and pray for the best,
I am a product of my environment,
but I also hope that I am more.
I scoff at those who say that they know,
be it the singularity that is deity,
or the absence of divinity,
his finite and plural nature,
or the limitations of the father,
as such I am a heretic,
and so I blaspheme,
relishing the jealousy of knowledge.
As I stare into the eyes of the unknown,
a canvas casting light on the firmament,
I realize that the futility of thought is artifice,
the cords wrapped tight around my sleeves,
exist only in what I live,
and what I choose to accept.
I accept.
And with this thought in mind,
I reject the null,
for I cannot accept the reality that I am given,
for a world without end has no meaning if not for progress,
if gain is finite and the continuity infinite,
there is no point,
the blade of Christianity is dull,
and so too the endless strains of antagonists,
horribly over-educated and overwrought.
I reject.
What separates God from man?
Maybe it is the ability to arrange matter,
it might simply be an issue of innate power,
but it might also be the sustainability of material,
the ability to see,
for we may as well be blind,
or perhaps it is simply a matter of punctuation.
I accept, but so too do I reject,
and gladly will I play the fool,
if it will place the odds in my favor.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
Eventually
We all become believers
You will see
We all hit the gutters
And deceive
What we know
Into what we need
Feeding
On the hope
To cope
With the NO
Of every plea
Foiling
The gaping holes
While fruitlessly
Feathering dreams
Of ceasing
To be
Anywhere but there
Anywhere but here
Afraid and aware
Lying barren
On a hair
To everywhere
But where we want to be
Your everything
Believed in our belief
In our grieving
Of a meme
Obsolete and teething on a ***
Seething in seeing it
Unseamed
And undone
Unto nothing
Disconnected dots
Unlit
Breathing out
And away
From meaning
Slightly clinging
To the things
Believed
To Matter
Scattered over
The tattered matters
In meteor
Metaphors
Seeding
The other chapters
But not until after
Factoring in
The tractor beams
Of nothing
Just waiting
On the bottom
Of the gut
Crawling up
The throat lumps
And stuffing our luck
With all the succulent stuff
We are made of
Until eruptions
Of higher functions
Save us
From the ****
When enough
Is enough
And we just stop
Giving a ....
And let go
Blow after blow
Until we know
Who is in control
Of what is real
And what is
Made up
From atoms to the eave
Of our dreams
We must glean
What we need to
To get us through
These words
Of hurt
Out from lurking
In the work
Of our enemies
Forever tempting me
To blaspheme
In the wake
Of your passing
The endeavoring
Ever lasting
In careful mapping
Of the synapses
Collapsing
Into relief
Though brief
Locked in eternity
Oh the possibilities
My everything
And my humility
Locked in a single thought
In anxiety
Gone quietly
My hands before me
Steady
Always ready
Blanket me
In blank
Make me
Or break me
Take me
To forever
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
It's official: age is no longer a restriction.
I have the anguish and the whole world in front of me.
I used to look outside my windows with admiration,
but now that I have to leave the house I flinch.
Free birds fly for survival,
but for me flying is a choice
and now my mind alternates between
willing to leave and willing to stay.
Sometimes I blaspheme against my dreams
and I regret having unlearned to be satisfied with a little
but the truth is that
Napoleon is a demon that lives inside me
and always wants more and
I can't achieve the world if I just
behold it through the windows of my room.
I must leave.
Free birds fly for survival and I envy them
because for them there is no other option.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
fear of the unknown and a desire to fly away.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
frustration and ambition.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
comparing their own way of flying with others and
wanting to make another bird's way of flying their own,
even though it's wrong
because every bird flies the way it needs to fly
and the comparison is unnecessary.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
the cry of giving up and anything else.
They are birds and only this they can be.
But what I am I need to find out.
How should I know what I'll be,
I who don't know what I am?
Indeed, we are condemned to be free.
It's official: age is no longer a restriction.
I have the anguish and the whole world in front of me.
It's time to leave the house.
It's time to fly away.
It's time to go.
Goodbye childhood,
goodbye adolescence.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 3:44 PM UTC
Let the mystery dance,
At the top of your breast!
Whereas the angels roar,
And the cross leans on your soul!
Let the moon awake,
On you head!
Whereas your eyes glow,
And your skin shapes your sword!
Even the slightest needle would
Go across your fingers,
And write a prophecy,
On the walls of your bedroom,
In which no disciple will blaspheme,
To the storm;
May Temptation be your servant when,
Every day becomes red;
May your tears be your salvation when,
Every song gets,
Your priesthood's grace,
For a caress cannot be revealed,
If it does not cleanse,
The wind's dirt!
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
near the surface,
just beneath the sounds of our feet
among the bones, are arrowheads
maybe a spent cartridge from the bluecoats
who brought a strange thunder,
disturbing the a cappella birdsong,
deeper
hidden in eons of darkness, unperturbed,
until now, by the shallow, scratching efforts
of the creatures above,
a black organic soup, remnants of plants
and animals who once breathed
like we, we who now voraciously drill
through the tired but tenacious skin
to reach a rich marrow, one we resurrect
to blaspheme in our mobile ovens
and scatter ashes
on a deaf and dying rock
Post Script:
The earth never forgets.
Whatever we do to ****** it is recorded, often in ways undecipherable to man, but etched permanently somehow, somewhere.
Does the earth seek revenge?
Or is it retribution, or a reckoning?
Anything that has the power to recall every act in infinite detail and in perpetuity has the potential to respond.
Maybe a propensity to respond?
Is the earth an angry god?
I do not know, but
the earth never forgets.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
i
all in all
when it comes
down
at the end of
two parts
a smile
or a frown
a brick wall
a white line
ends own
a choice
a refusal
a moments
consideration
smell
silence
the birds
all taken wide
and around
up down
soft stones
i know you
no sound now
have a break
take her nice
and easy
somehow begin
do not sigh..
ii
you take a deep
i want to high
do you recall
o the rail bread
the sanctum
the sunshine
the water crashing
and that small calm
said why
what did you do
no..
yes
i will not say
you will
no i will not
why should i
you say
no you
it is taboo
you
no,you
god
the devil
me
we
they
ah yes they
say
what do they
say
blaspheme
pray
do
don´ t
it
at
that
what
you know
ah,yes
infer
no,call it
me
yes
not they
no
you
no
where is the fun
gone
where
don´ t say
conspiracy
oh ****
here we go
pirates
china plates
when did the rot set
in..
kite
tasty
with a key
and zap
i might have been
happier before the
four stroke
i´ m not sure
it is hard to be
certain
but still we are just
a blooming accumilation
of what has been
and some of that
is not too pretty
if you know what
we mean
but of course
who does
words
are now
and will be
for ever
superfluous
silence wins
that is a common
platitude
lewd
****
yes
can be interpreted
as no
best say perhaps
i think that
is lunch..
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC
Time spent on the current day,
Forgotten in future sway.
Lost in the moment.
For a moment and for time.
Escape is futile
The passage of time
Does not exist,
As our bodies perceive it.
Nothing short of death
Can stop its passage.
Escape is dangerous
I marvel at the idea,
Of stopping, staying,
Not having to... anything.
Not having to anything at all.
Not having to sustain or endure.
Not having to follow
The seemingly fate decided path
That is the cycle
Of the moving matter
That takes up the space
That I occupy.
That anyone occupies.
Escape is paradoxically pointless.
As everything and anything is,
Life is pointless.
As nothing but moving matter,
My only biological function
Is to further the survival of my species,
To enable more endurers of my kind
To enter, "existence".
As my mass slows,
All thought and memories
I have are lost.
To what have I accomplished?
Nothing of value,
Nothing unique,
Nothing of importance.
Whether or not I let pass
Another endurer into this place,
All I have done,
Is been part of the cycle.
Surely I would like
To leave a mark.
To better the world
Because of my influence.
However, to what more have I accomplished
Than changing the statue environment
Of those who endure.
To leave a legacy, is to extend a memory.
Nothing is permanent.
All is part of a cycle.
Nothing is of true importance.
Escape is unimportant.
Escape is inevitable,
The body cannot last forever.
The unavoidable moment will occur
In which the mind,
Due to its physical state,
Will cease to function.
Will quickly cease to exist.
Breaking down into the cycle.
No demand
Nor desire
Can stem the flow
Of time's passage,
Escape is as wasteful
As its counterpart.
To escape.
Meaning to end, stop,
Cease, die,
Or to not be,
Is a waste
Of what could and will be.
Those moments of joy
And sadness that will be lost.
The sadness spreads
Through other's mourning.
Caused by a selfish action
That wastes the time of others.
An act that steals their happiness
Without using it for one's self.
To continue is to
Pursue the earthly pleasures.
To hope that one may
Skirt the void
And it's moral dilemma.
To live is to
Selfishly seek a change
In one's state.
Be it happy or sad,
Slight or grand.
To avoid the void is to
Blaspheme. To consider one's self
Able to avoid the clutches of death.
Immortality.
For we are all immortal
Until we are not.
When we are not,
It doesn't matter what we were
Or would have become.
Once one ceases to be,
One cannot wish to be or reflect.
Do I have a death wish?
No, as it is morally repugnant.
That enough is suitable reason
To stay in the world that is
Everything other than nothing.
To avoid passing into nothingness.
In hard times we wish to stop.
To seek the relief of
Not having the stresses of life.
However, upon death,
No relief is gained,
No stress is lost,
No happiness or acceptance found.
For one simply is not.
Simply, one does not be.
Does not exist.
Being nothing seems
No better than anything.
For at least being something
Is comprehendible.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
My cohort is shattered, the regiment reels,
from the lead of the merciless foe.
I'm wearing the blue, Fredericksburg,62'.
I''m a conscript from County Tyrone.
Saint Mary's Heights is a most fearful sight:
****** acres of men who won't fight again,
Our wounded are dying alone.
The devout say a prayer, others blaspheme and swear.
I just wish I was back in Tyrone.
Up on that hill wearing Butternut grey
are Irish like me from back home.
Sure they gave out a cheer when Meagher first appeared,
with our banner of green, on his Roan.
What mortal flesh can, we did in the end
Some died just in sight of the wall.
In the cold dark of night we survivors take flight;
Rappahannock, protect us I pray.
I'll never forget the screams of that night
or the butcher's bill we had to pay.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC