"unbattered" poems
I belong in the
dark rain
I reign in the deep fire
I belong in the joy and the pain
the love with no name
my weakness refrain
I lie
I conquer my desire
I reign in the echoes of my shame
I sleep in tomorrow's loving arms
I search for the beast to be tamed
but of all I seek
passion has branded me true
The toil of the earth paid my price
but I'm alive in the emptiness of cost
I'm in love
with devotion
a mistress whose price is unending
and gladly paid
I die to be her passenger
I die because death is my coin
but I'm disposed in the youth
of my innocence
where it yet knew the devil
It dances now,
steps wrought with despair
but every step leads me closer
to the peace beyond
I
never
belonged
in the ocean of the ordinary,
my wings can fly galaxies with a beat
evade calamity with a whisper
champion defeat with a bow
and embrace the inevitable with grace
and we awake...
In the hour of reckoning
light will shed upon the abyss
and we will learn
I never belonged with your enemies
because mine clothed me with armor
before the storm
I remained unbattered
unfazed by power's ultimate purchase
I lingered dead,
yet undying
my victory transposed into immortality
Thus, with enemies such
who needs a friend like you
not for whom I belong
not for a morsel of truth.
Mar 5, 2022
Mar 5, 2022 at 8:36 PM UTC
I've never known a poet left unbattered by life's cruel jokes.
But isn't that what life is?
One big, cosmic joke.
Someone's laughing at our expense.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
I think I'm my worst psychiatrist.
While a good psychiatrist would diagnose the problem,
I create excuses for why the problem is there.
And then I create excuses for the excuses.
And then I create excuses for the excuses that originally excused the excuse.
And then I confuse myself with my own logic resulting in more anger, more confusion, and you guessed it, more excuses.
And ironically, this entire poem is just a big excuse.
I don't want to face my problems,
Knowing that they are nothing to worry about.
I'd rather cower at the "power" they hold,
Than try my hand at solving them.
But my hands are smooth, unbattered extensions of the very essence of me.
According to every person and history ever,
I have it perfectly.
And my hands aren't used to venturing within my inner workings,
Searching through the slimy and greasy machinery for the root of the problem.
No, my collar is white and my slacks are clean from top to bottom.
From time to time as the sun no longer shines,
My hands become restless.
They yearn to take a look within, just a quick little check in.
And nevertheless, I confess, I allow my hands
Entrance.
As always, I wince at the pain. It shocks me through my core. My eyes cease seeing, I begin to question my being, while my face is dripping in tears.
My surgery continues on
for seemingly years.
There's no novocaine or amnesia to numb the fiery emotions that release from my body.
Instead I'm forced to endure the awkward combination of these combatting feelings.
Then I finally rip from my innards the tight grasp of my hands.
They breach the surface covered in dark, black blood.
I don't feel much better afterwards, no I really don't.
I just create one final excuse.
That helps me wither away into sleep.
I know myself as much anyone else
But I don't want to admit,
Just as much as anyone else,
That I need help.
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC