"comtemplation" poems
burning sticks
a simple cycle,
back and forth i go
with the pitchfork
re-building the center
watching fire is timeless
the hours stretched as dali's clock
only the bright blaze
requires attention -
my comtemplation
in the shimmer
of heat's rising
i see a ghost
a figment of imagination
vanishing quickly
optical illusion of you
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 12:06 PM UTC
We've all survived
The explosions and the bullets
We've tread through numerous death grounds
Without a scratch or even a bruise
With our boots muddied and our faces wrinkled
We know the truth is that no one makes it out alive
Through the trenches and disease and moaning and screaming
The scars inevitably ingrained in our conscious
Beneath the surface as it is scratched to nothing
Wearing away and down until we say something
Or keep it inside as most of it stays hidden
There is no way for us to speak the total truth
We're given our own guns and bullets and bombs
But the choice to inflict that pain that's always on our minds
That choice is our choice for we can choose to just stand there
Taking the hits and bleeding out and waiting for it to end
But things are never easy and sometimes a choice isn't a choice
Sometimes things just pan out and we're in the middle before we know it
To lock and load and then take aim and close one eye
Setting our sights on whatever it is that catches our attention
Whether it be for good or for bad
Driven by sin or by the need to enlighten a certain someone
To make the most of a situation or to drown in the terrors
We stand, just the same, with that choice and that wall between comtemplation and action
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC