"wraught" poems
in a cluster
of trees
beneath fingers
of sunlight
a forgotten
cemetery
lies decrepit
beside an old
back road
named after
an indian tribe
most people
are afraid
of being
forgotten
but i wish
to be buried
in the
forgotten
cemetery
surrounded by
crooked stakes
of rusted
wraught iron
engulfed by ivy
and i wish
to let the
earth
consume me
oncemore
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
Forever will I feel this
I can't be afraid forever
This chain that holds my mind shut
To the life I wished to live
My muscles tight like bands so taut
My head, it aches
My stomach wraught
Outside I smile
I laugh as well
The world is good
I laugh as well
Inside I cry
They'll never see
I hide from them a part of me
It's always there, it slowly lingers
I feel it from my toes to fingers
It's in my chest, it's in my hair
I breathe my anxiety in from the air
I breathe it in, I breathe it out
A- is for the air so cold
N- nagging, always nagging
X- extreme fear, always there
I- intense rushes of tears and woe
E- even my best friends don't know
T- teeth clenched in a forced smile
Y- yelling inside, for a long while
I can't **** this monster inside of me
He's always there, quickly shifting
But, I can make him shrink so small
I hardly notice him at all
Muscles loose, free to dance
Breathe in air, so fresh and crisp
Hate the world? No, not me
Love myself? Absolutely
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
When my head rests and settles
my thoughts free-flow
like steam from an overflowing copper kettle.
My chest sinks and swells
My cold, clammy hands clasp together
and nestle between my knees
to secure me from shivering beneath my sheets.
The dead December freeze batters my body
and so I dream.
Unable to abort the birth of an undying nightmare...
I begin to dream of shining on my own,
glistening all alone,
being covered in a quilt of Guilded gold.
I wish so much
to see a crease
or an escape to ease my troubled peace.
A way to cease this sitting
and **** this never ending quitting.
Kidding,
I'm not what I used to be. I'm something that I'm not.
I could knit a tight fit glove
for me and my humanity
to wed inside of.
I could pray that we never get pulled apart
even if sickness should be my suffering
and my witness.
Forgive me,
if I would rather stay sick
for the sake of my sanity.
I know what lies outside.
Ebonies of the sky
ebb at the glow
of the
twilight field of light
seeking sowing.
Forever showing
never knowing
how cold lonliness
is without a hand for holding.
If you had a hand to hold
would you?
Could you and your grasp
shake my shameless doubt
that our past has cast a stone
at the glass foundation of our future and
alas, our present cannot last?
Can your words
convince me that this is how it should be
and rid me of what I ought not to be
wraught with?
Or is this fraudulent truth an excuse
to let loose all of the fear we hold dear
as we hang dangling from a noose
as the world watches and people stare
as if they had nothing to lose.
I know I hope too hard
turning hope into current.
The positive charge barres
negative scars from burning,
but yet, my flesh is left
brittle and charred.
Maybe it makes no difference
or any sense at all.
It doesn't matter nonetheless, for I am desperate.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
I am surrounded by voices-
my loved ones, my demons,
my own rational thoughts.
They swell and ebb like the tide,
A perfect chaos which drives me on,
drives me forward or drives me mad,
echoing in the chasms of my mind
like the voices in the dark night.
The things I know to be true,
to be real and honest and fair,
my anchors, my ports in the storm,
the stubborn rope which ties me
to a mortal coil I've so often tried to escape.
They are undermined by that call,
that desire, the siren song which
drags me back to the blackness,
which promises that numbess is better,
less painful, less terrifying than living.
All my life I've heard the call,
denied its lure or thrown myself,
desperate and thoughtless,
into its depths.
I ignored the destruction I wraught
in its name, the quiet lipped,
cold eyed terror of those around me,
the frantic trembling of my own soul.
The slow death of the drowned.
Sirens do not starve or bleed or die,
gasping for air and choking down screams,
cold water closes over their heads,
freezes their bones and invades their lungs.
I am no siren. I am warm blood
and flesh annd love and passion.
I will not dampen my fire for fear
of what it may release any longer.
I will not drift, forgotten, along the sea bed.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
Broken wing.
For one\ to fly \with bro\ken wing-
The strug/gle and/ the stol/en fight--
The sound \ of fear \ in tone \ they sing-
The dead/ of dawn/ and sil/lent light--
Of all /the right/ and word/ they spill-
Of shat/tered speak/ and lone/ly thought--
The dead/ly breath/ and rust/ed wraught--
All dust/ to dust/ and blood/ to boil-
Break bread/ and tile/ defy/ the toil-
All work/ is use/less in/ the end--
The words/ are those/ to not / contend--
Broken busted battered brain/
Dusty deadly destructive drain/
Mashed mattered molding mane/
Replenished ruined royal reign/
Defying complicity in notion,
Rapture from the droning motion,
Blasphemy in daily dream,
Politics of moonlight gleam,
Corruption in the tortured tone,
Crawling fear with broken bone...
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC