"uttermost" poems
While we slumber and sleep,
The sun leaps up from the deep,--
Daylight born at the leap,--
Rapid, dominant, free,
Athirst to bathe in the uttermost sea.
While we linger at play--
If the year would stand at May!--
Winds are up and away,
Over land, over sea,
To their goal, wherever their goal may be.
It is time to arise,
To race for the promised prize;
The sun flies, the wind flies,
We are strong, we are free,
And home lies beyond the stars and the sea.
8.1k
You may say you don't
but you know me; of me
and my swelling quiet
and they may say
over and over
in a low rumble
not to write of love
I know, I know
I close my eyes
the sanguine lids
like a heart
throbbing
In ink it spills
brims over like tears withheld
and stains the stark white page
your whiskers at dusk
the fine lines in your lips
Your eyes drip like jewels
heavy and sparkling
This smudge of words
I would die in
if I could not write
what I cannot speak
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
I. Herself
To be a sweetness more desired than Spring;
A ****** beauty more acceptable
Than the wild rose-tree’s arch that crowns the fell;
To be an essence more environing
Than wine’s drained juice; a music ravishing
More than the passionate pulse of Philomel; -
To be all this ’neath one soft bosom’s swell
That is the flower of life:—how strange a thing!
How strange a thing to be what Man can know
But as a sacred secret! Heaven’s own screen
Hides her soul’s purest depth and loveliest glow;
Closely withheld, as all things most unseen,—
The wave-bowered pearl, the heart-shaped seal of green
That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow.
II. Her Love
She loves him; for her infinite soul is Love,
And he her lodestar. Passion in her is
A glass facing his fire, where the bright bliss
Is mirrored, and the heat returned. Yet move
That glass, a stranger’s amorous flame to prove,
And it shall turn, by instant contraries,
Ice to the moon; while her pure fire to his
For whom it burns, clings close i’ the heart’s alcove.
Lo! they are one. With wifely breast to breast
And circling arms, she welcomes all command
Of love,—her soul to answering ardours fann’d:
Yet as morn springs or twilight sinks to rest,
Ah! who shall say she deems not loveliest
The hour of sisterly sweet hand-in-hand?
III. Her Heaven
If to grow old in Heaven is to grow young,
(As the Seer saw and said,) then blest were he
With youth forevermore, whose heaven should be
True Woman, she whom these weak notes have sung.
Here and hereafter,—choir-strains of her tongue,—
Sky-spaces of her eyes,—sweet signs that flee
About her soul’s immediate sanctuary,—
Were Paradise all uttermost worlds among.
The sunrise blooms and withers on the hill
Like any hillflower; and the noblest troth
Dies here to dust. Yet shall Heaven’s promise clothe
Even yet those lovers who have cherished still
This test for love:—in every kiss sealed fast
To feel the first kiss and forebode the last.
5.7k
(For Harry Clifton)
I HAVE heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in
Until the town lie bearen flat.
All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.
On their own feet they came, or On shipboard,'
Camel-back; horse-back, ass-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus,
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall and are built again,
And those that build them again are gay.
Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli,
Over them flies a long-legged bird,
A symbol of longevity;
The third, doubtless a serving-man,
Carries a musical instmment.
Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty slope where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
3.4k
You came into my life
at an unexpected time
in the most unusual way
yet everything about you
seemed to fit with ease
like the way you smiled
with your teeth or
how you place your hand
against my cheek
or how with the uttermost perfection
you fit into the crease of my neck
with such grace and such love
and all I can ask if you'd like to
stay.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Hunters, where does Hope nest?
Not in the half-oped breast,
Nor the young rose,
Nor April sunrise—those
With a quick wing she brushes,
The wide world through,
Greets with the throat of thrushes,
Fades from as fast as dew.
But, would you spy her sleeping,
Cradled warm,
Look in the breast of weeping,
The tree stript by storm;
But, would you bind her fast,
Yours at last,
Bed-mate and lover,
Gain the last headland bare
That the cold tides cover,
There may you capture her, there,
Where the sea gives to the ground
Only the drift of the drowned.
Yet, if she slips you, once found,
Push to her uttermost lair
In the low house of despair.
There will she watch by your head,
Sing to you till you be dead,
Then, with your child in her breast,
In another heart build a new nest.
2.6k
Bluebell Lucy danced in fantastic flames, taught by shamanic figures
when the winter nights grew tiresome
and lonely boys ran passionately in village streets
She stood on ancient structures and sang her song with uttermost vigor
even after mild paranoia sets in, she stands statuesque
breathing harmonic, listening intently to the cloud's chatter
Her cobalt lashes flickered adroitly when she scanned the sky atop her locks
and let the coming rains wash through that azure mane
until the kiss of eternal gratitude arrived from a stray bird
On cobble stone paving, her heels were worn and dampened, she nimbly strides
how beautiful it is to see a spirit so free
and the obstinate world yields to her alone
Loosely, Lucy with a cerulean aura, gathers the injured and feral in alabaster arms
she is yagé and the world hallucinates because of her
a subtle enlightenment she gives to onlookers and thieves
Camu Camu sprouting from the wells she digs with bare hands in midnight moonlight
her compatriots, the beasts of lost tribes, look onwards
and she wails a verse on hemerocallis singular sensation
The flower that she is, a wild one that grows sporadically to enhance the beauty of existence
and everybody incomprehensible in thoughts when she speaks
because she is love when love had died so many suns ago
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
XII
Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men’s eyes and prove the inner cost,—
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,—
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
2.6k
It is a vastness of cerulean,
A pool of blue which surrounds clouds that are strewn together.
Tumbling, accumulating, towering formations of remarkable depth and awesome beauty.
Billows which blanket and envelop a sphere of life, turning the almost infinite and indefinite blue to grey,
Massed with the heaviness of forthcoming precipitation.
As time turns, and the big blue planet rotates, sunlight is reflected and refracted by particles unseen—painting swelling clouds with pale yellows that bleed into succulent pinks, deep reds, royal indigo, and then
The flowering violet of conceived night.
The sky portrays a huge entity, a formation of solidity and stability.
It does not contain, nor withhold from the terraces and crevices of the Earth’s surface.
It is as close to infinity as the basic human mind can grasp,
The uttermost extension of one’s realm of existence.
To look up at the stars is an annihilation of Ego,
A humbling reminder of one’s relevance,
Of one’s fragmentation of being,
Of one’s essential insignificance in the immortal turning of the deep and everlasting vibration of the Cosmos.
Stars, barely conceivable at times,
Act as portals to the past spilled carelessly across an inky nighttime sky.
These subtle flecks, minute glimmers of incredible explosions, are billions of light-years away
Across the fabric of space and time.
The sky is an incredible portal to those things outside of mortal grasp,
A manifestation of all that is unknown, yet shared by every state of consciousness.
A familiarity and a comforting reminder of eternity that will exist far beyond the human experience. With its undulating formations, precipitation, protection, and sheer exposure,
It is a paradoxical beauty.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
Great Michelangelo, with age grown bleak
And uttermost labours, having once o’ersaid
All grievous memories on his long life shed,
This worst regret to one true heart could speak:—
That when, with sorrowing love and reverence meek,
He stooped o’er sweet Colonna’s dying bed,
His Muse and dominant Lady, spirit-wed,
Her hand he kissed, but not her brow or cheek.
O Buonarruoti,—good at Art’s fire-wheels
To urge her chariot!—even thus the Soul,
Touching at length some sorely-chastened goal,
Earns oftenest but a little: her appeals
Were deep and mute,—lowly her claim. Let be:
What holds for her Death’s garner? And for thee?
1.9k
*You remind me of the earth,
like deep burnt umber woodlands
mid downpours' fresh aroma
& spring's foliage lushly reborn,
twinkling explosive pinpoints
grazing beyond dark ether,
sparkles dappling 'pon depths
of eternal seascapes's nature,
amidst breath of relentless airy winds
gusting above her majesty's hazes
beyond purple mountain's apex
and streams of meadows' wildflowers in
deftly painted horizons after moonbows,
vivid consciousness' uttermost reminisce
of all things recollected in the long ago
essence of your memories' presence*
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Before this ardent Prank you consider
Concern your Senses on how they'll react
If, with Plomb expressed, breach this Barker
To demote his Heresy into Fact
Of course, seldom would we fancy such scene
And kiss Companion we will christen Hope
Which, by your Rights thereof, absorb such Mean
Then ferry those Weights as a New Year's Dope
It is a Being. Sentient as he
Whose Cuteness reimbursed his Nature make
Which, invest his uttermost Respect be
Will his Innocence and Comfort bespake.
Humour cures. In this Shaky World indeed
To sew its Scars; Promote Contempt at speed.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
in the uttermost respect
you're alive
and breathing
so congratulations
but that does no justice
for your ignorance
you completely obliterate my existence
in your head
acting like I deserve no space
for my legs
you are not the captain
of this god awful titanic
if we had to choose
you'd be voted last
on all ballads
oh
how rude of me being mean and such
but it does no harm
for all of the hearts you've crushed
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
"I've been told that to fix the problem, you must first find its root... But you can't fix something that's not broken. I am not broken, just slightly damaged. My mind is like a thousand year old oak tree, and my facade as fragile as porcelain. My emotions act as a wrecking ball and when the night hits I'm nothing but a decaying mask. I fear pain, so I don't welcome love. I turn it away; a ruthless rejection, and send it back to where it came from. It haunts me, and in the night my own demons become insomnia. To fix the problem, I must first find its root."
Or perhaps I mustn't focus on finding the root, I think the real issue might be that I am conscious that there are monsters in my head and my insomnia is result to the ongoing battle I have with myself and those monsters. Weather to love them or hate them, I do not know. They save me and protect me, yet they seclude me from the rush of risk and beauty of bewilderment. When I lay in my bed my body feels great fatigue but my mind and my eyes are wide awake; ready to run circles around the world if they could. I no longer think that the solution would be to find a root or a specific turning point, but to end the battle of contradiction with the monsters that have taken over my thoughts and stolen my sleep. So do I love them because they protect me and have made me a smarter person? Or Do I hate them because they are the bricks that make up the walls I have built and they are the guards holding the riffles at the top of the walls shooting every single beautiful daring soul in their attempt to reach the real me? I will hate them. Yes the souls that have hurt me right after gaining my trust are the reason to my hurt and the nutrition to the growth of my monsters, but the very own monsters themselves are the ones responsible for my inability to recover from the inevitable hurt. They have Inprisoned me in this constant dark and uttermost thick desolation. It is because of how overpowered I am by them that I fail every single time in my attempt to breath. They are suffocating me and burying me in a state so dark I fear the incapacity to get myself out. It is a journey of endless work, the wounds i have will eventually heal, but there will always be scars. It's like an addiction, even after being clean and sober the want of the drug will always be as great as it was the first time. So the fragility of my scars is so great it is completely capable to revert me back into the dark whole if i get hurt or scared again. i need to realize and accept that these things are inevitable and not close myself but open myself even more for the next person. The final solution will be to accept that the mosters?they are their, acknowledge them, deal with them, and never let them take over and do what they want with me. Then and only then will I be able to sleep.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
Here, at the end of all things,
beyond, the grasp of hope
we have reached, and here it shall end
though all now is lost, I'm glad
that you lie with me, and lend
courage, at the fall of evil, but of us also
A fool's hope was what brought us here
over desolation and the edge of fear
where the realms are of the dead
the stars are strange and the clouds black
yet a new sun rises in times ahead
as we lie here, at the end of all things
A fallen friend, a broken dream
a mighty wood, a gurgling stream
sunder us from that far off home
a memory of another life, that was lost somewhere,
on the road that led ever onwards, but did not fail
as it passed through war and mighty horde
a promise grew, but no oath was laid
many mighty deeds, were trivial made
for what was to be won, was beyond all
fear, concealed in some remote corner
of a soul festering with gloom
in the search for the steps of doom
finding which,we now broken lie
at the end of all things
Over the sea the gulls cry
making the heart restless, for it cannot hope
to find healing,in the land of its torment and
over the sea the gulls fly, ever westward
therein alone lies deliverance, the grey shores are calling
where the dawn is silver, they are ever singing
of the end of evil, and in welcome
to those of us, staring at the door
the Undying Lands lie before, unseen by the mortal eye
revered in all the Elder lore
There the eagles bid us to go, into the uttermost west
Where though we may be whole again, we cannot forget,
we who were there, but were not slain
at the end of all things
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
A body lies broken
On the freeway ramp curb.
A man once stood there
Asking for help
With his cardboard cutout
Plea for societal mercy.
Then a car sped too fast,
Swerving to make the green light
It was never going to catch
In this dimension or any other.
Just a moment was all it took.
Did you know he was a soldier
Who was haunted at night
By the enclosed confines of his house
Because it too closely resembled
The urban landscape he fought in,
Faced death in, lost friends in,
Got caught in until the web of his mind
Couldn't ever forget it
Especially when he tried to sleep at night?
Did you know he came back
And tried to fit in to the community
He had been born and raised in
But found that the stares and glances
Of wonder and horror laced
With misunderstanding and pity
He didn't need but couldn't escape
Were too much for him to bear
Because though he could
Look the enemy in the eye
It hurt too much to see
His own father couldn't meet his,
And a community takes its cues
On how to treat its people
From those closest to them,
So, soon no one would look him in the eye?
Did you know all that when you passed
Where he stood every day on the curb
Asking for your pity and spare change,
Having become the uttermost disgrace
In his own eyes,
Because don't you know
He used to be somebody?
Did you know that today,
When you made a split second
Choice to speed up the turn,
He'll be buried in the National Cemetery
With an honor guard
And a three rifle volley salute,
But the chairs will be empty
And no one will speak kind words for him,
Because he's already been forgotten?
How else could you run over him,
And drive off with not a glance back??
My conclusion: you're a ******
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
life and its glitters, the boredoms that seek to write
the inspirations of death with its healing joys
and life with its uttermost sorrows
i, a fractured sky, disinclined to move,
divorced from shadow and voice
unwoken by the mild pull of the earth
an old romance of ears and eyes, yellow and round,
heavens-hopes the goals of a lifetime
waiting innocently for the rain.
i waited and the shadows of the earth
grew long until they were armies
sleeping near the bleached rocks
believing they were the blanketing dark,
breathing beside autumn’s haikus of
slumber the sharp fall of love, the
intense tide of low grass and high wall.
dreams rushing like princely streams
a beginning of clouds, clouds of black air
sweeping clear, like valleys of the wild
a wilderness so tender it could speak,
where the mighty waves froze the shore-line
with the hints of winter's first kiss
and the magics of the stars cried into fire,
not knowing the flower-beds or the laughter
or the crazy tears of a humble man.
love poured sapphires from its streams
glass-houses of light, where the oceany
air believed in vertical caves, monstrous
caverns of hopes and dreams, marble
statues with broken jaws, unearthly
branches that rose like strange trees
combing the wind into tangles of tide,
hollow night, with its breathing and
mights, its desires, its poetry of mind.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC
She stood
In the middle of a storm
The ocean floor slipped from
Beneath her feet
The waves let out a howl of anguish
She stood there
Imperatively
Helplessly begging for clemency
The water touched the rocks
And moved away
Tides were high
Moon was involved in a surreptitious affair
The passerby ignored her
With uttermost ingenuity
He knew
she was the bone of contention
Of the evil
She was an illusion
She spun the web and caught her prey
He knew the tales of the people
Who had
developed an infatuation with her
Together she commemorated the
Death of all those imbecile beings
Every minute
Gravity pulled towards her
A different kind of person
A different soul
Every minute destructed itself
Whatever was left
was summoned to her with a grin.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
A product of an given environment.
A democracy being ran by tyrants
A offer of change..
Jesus Christ is hiring
Spiritually jobless cause the worlds firing..
Only thing worst is death and that fire pit..
But my Lord is a fireman..
With living water..
For you that fire could be a mist..
But know that hell is not a myth..
Know that heaven is at hand come on take sip..
Matter of fact take a gulp.
My Christ the sacrifice his blood
Overflows like a flood...
Talking oceans beyond a gulf..
Move mountains he can swift a coast..
Strength of the uttermost..
My stewardable host..
Came down to earth yes he left his post..
Just to have his flesh left on a post..
A passion that no other being could
fathom ..
the True definition of compassion..
He took on all our sin Nothing was rationed ...
His beard striped off..
His bones exposed..
His feet n hands left with holes..
Extreme bleeding..
Yes beaten to his skeletal system no x-ray was needed..
Not one fracture..
He took it all for us our true Master.
Damaged beyond human appearance..
How can u not be down in allegiance
With the Christ of this World
The only being to embody all that is right in this World..
Yet we hold on to darkness like he not the light to this World..
He died for us Yes he fought the good fight for this World..
We are to be his bride
Yes the church but Look at us yet he still won't pick another girl..
We cheat on him..
Our selfish desires
We beat on him..
Oh how we conspire..
To destroy the truth..
Yet we need to cling to it like Ruth..
Did to Naomi..
And react better when rebuke by a pony..
Stop dancing around the truth like its going to result in a Tony ..
Award..
Too many people are phoney
Randomly comprised like what resides in bologna
I am down with Christ .. Geronimo
See the signs of his coming its almost time to go...
..
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
This burning nightmare never fades,
But with each step I take
A little part is pulled away,
Like a paper sheet being torn into pieces,
And a small part of an image that resides behind that paper is revealed.
Behind the burning paper world,
There is another
Made of beauty and light.
I stop so I can take in this new place
and I look around in wonder,
Oblivious to the remaining pieces of paper
Still burning behind me.
As I close my eyes and breathe in the soft,
Smoke-free air,
The heat grows again and to my uttermost dismay,
I open my eyes to the light filled world being set on fire
By those burning shreds that lay behind me.
The screaming earth shakes my bones
And deafens me with the vibrations of its pitiful death.
Heat courses through my body as the fire reaches me
And pain flourishes over my skin,
The fire that is causing it dancing with deadly beauty beneath me.
As I fall to my knees in agony,
I see the residents of this once beautiful world
Screaming in pain as they burn.
My vision blurs,
I don't know whether from tears or smoke,
And everything goes black.
Shooting up in bed,
I touch my hand to my cheek,
Which is soaked with tears.
With the echoes of their screams still ringing in my ears,
I lay my head back onto my tear stained pillow
And shut my eyes in another futile attempt
To enter a better world.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
Everyday i walk down these halls Theres laughing
Theres talking
And everyone's rushing.
But today was different.
The halls were bleak
And it seemed as though nobody was beside me or in front of me
No laughing
No talking
Just whispers
And even with my head bowed
I can feel their stares
Not normal stares either
They’re stares of uttermost disgust and disgrace
As i walked forward the whispers get louder
My stomach drops
My eyes burn
And everything become blurry
The first tear rolls down my face and
I taste the salt as it hits the top of my lip
My nose fills with snot
I sniff it in
Trying to hide and evidence of my weakness
But they know
And to them
Its satisfaction.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
071116 #8:28PM
No matter how fine my aggregates are,
I still feel incomplete.
I'm not that strong,
And alone, I'm easy to break.
You could feel my cracks and leave me to banishment,
But You showed me the other face of strength.
Never did I know that there were three hollows within me,
Until I experienced those cracks
that made me lose my own strength.
The hard rock was shuttered,
And many times, I felt so useless.
But there You are and picked me up,
You carried me and reshaped me into a new me.
With tools, I had never known,
You accompanied me to reach my uttermost potential
And yes, I have known my purpose.
You filled my holes with who You are
As a three-in-one God
And now, I have acknowledged how vital it is
To allow your reinforcement
In order that I could stand still.
You're not just testing my resistance and foundation
But stretching me to the fullness of Your expertise.
You can unused me and break me if You wanted to
But You had Your goodness and grace extended
In order that I may live.
I know, I would be hurt
But I know I was found by You,
And I was made by You --
I was made for You
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 6:24 AM UTC
I said goodbye
she helplessly cried
full of me
for the first time
Teardrops of
the other
by the other
Not to impress
or annoy
the canvas
of the truth of I
remained untouched
but
this uttermost cry was
maybe a cheek warming
Silent expression just
in the conscious presence
of both
embraced by both
Goodbye to this roof that welcomed
our dreams…
Goodbye to this roof that
accommodated our flows
cries
highs
ties
pies
spies
allies skies
I s
Eyes
Aiaiai s ….
All of her dramatized stories
that agonize
are
to be capsized
to emphasize -
harmonize -
energize
so that
I s
are re centralized
re authorized
along the curly hum
For the game!
like the newborn tree
growing inside of me now
of
Me ?
me again?!?
but
I need not much of these anymore
and such are all things
that gave breath to us :
the in/sentient
courageously left behind
for a cry that bore generations
and such is her’s now
A means
that helped me grow
towards this no thing thing
and You
You ?
But you…
…?
An immortalized posture of a shoulder shrug!
Nothing more
and nothing less
You - as love apart
but still with me
by each one of my shoulder shrugs
like the nameless sage of shoulder shrugs
In the western ‘who cares’ style….
We are so good at that!
So …
so ?
Be proud just!
to be commemorated as such
I will Never
pick a wildflower again
to place in my beloved vase
I did it only twice
Shamefully
Watching the truth die
Instantaneously
and no we do not like duality
But there will NOT be a third time
for such sad action
You have my word on that
I walk now alone
content with a song
of a bird welcoming
my accord
Carrying your light
in my heart
Plainness is my courage
I know you now
Your love rains
beads of truth
shaping words
of peace
that I read
incessantly
as us
knowing my duty
I go
go now
Taking nothing
Needing nothing
Leaving all
Things and
Insightful of
no things
I am you
With you
Listening
Just
to these
final
immaculate
droplets
of hers
before she willingly dies
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 10:35 AM UTC
The sound of the blistering gunshots pound in my ringing ears,
Bringing on a headache of a thousand wounds,
Impenetrable by the outside force,
The sight of the innocent fallen colors from the opinions of others brought to a vicious reality and physicality that would slaughter the purest of souls,
Bringing fear that is everlasting and never forgotten in my mind that shall remain forever damaged,
The feeling and sense of the souls that hammer my barely beating heart,
My breath burning slower like a fire dying out,
I try and scream but all that would come was a faint and distant shout,
The uttermost terrifying taste of the foul air,
So bad that the puke climbing up to my throat shall retreat before execution,
I mutter to myself This is not fair"
The most agony and torment any individual may be so unfortunate as to experience,
The smell of the rage and the misery filling my nostrils as I try to keep striving for what I have arrived here for,
Before I stand once again I notice the blood on my dirtied and culpable hands,
I fall to the ground so lost that I have forgotten to feel the unforgiving wound in my chest,
The guilt stabbed harder than any bullet ever could and ever would,
And as I took my final breath I vowed to myself,
To never fight over opinion and shame ever again,
Or I shall die once and for all.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 6:05 AM UTC
shall i make you immortal
turn you into a poem
a mournful sonnet
a worshiping ode
should i press your figure
between the pages
or to form you as a masterpiece
this beautiful creek of thought
to make you a poem
is to remember you
and to remember you
is the uttermost fear.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC