Tag Archives: passion

My Role in the World

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If all the world is a stage:

Then I must be a bard.
Whispering sweet echoes
of words that never meant anything,
a fictional story from deceitful lips.
A promised tale of a forbidden kiss,
a song of glass shattered in cold white loss.
The quiet cooled, the coin my cost.
The whole world an audience
with clapping hands
or perhaps with scorn
for they don’t understand.
And scowls profaning cheeks
with soft pink blush,
shouting obscenities
that make me flush.

Then I must be an actress
with a painted face.
A smile, and tears
that I cannot erase.
A gown of gold, a crown of silver
in my hair,
and audience below me
without a care.
With other thoughts in mind
than who I really am.
Only eyes for the girl
that I must pretend.
And eyes for the man
that I do not love,
but the character I play
is written to must.

Then I must sing
with a sheltered voice.
Tempered too sharp,
feet without poise.
Words that mean less
than they do to me.
Because my audience
is too blind to see.
Heart on heart, I stand,
pouring out my soul;
if all the world’s a stage
then I must have no role.

The Girl Who Held up Atlas

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He held up the whole world on sun-kissed shoulders.
Seeing nothing, hearing nothing.
Feeling nothing but the small ones
crawling like ants under his fingertips and flesh.

That he might protect them from what was to come.

That the ocean might still someday, on tideless waters.
That time might resume again, cold, and unaltered.
That children might sleep well at night with a home that loves them.
That no war might ever plague our world again.

He wished, and hoped, and prayed,
so that he might put the Earth away.

She had fought enough of this Hell-bound life.
She had come to terms with her reality
though, a rebel, she dare not accept
the constraints of her barren society.

She would not accept her world.

She held her arms out like a bird,
felt the breeze kiss her cheeks and lips.
Closed her eyes and took a breath
and fought not when her balance slipped.

She stepped off the side of the Earth
into the abyss.

And stars, like glittering monuments
and statues that watched quite adamant,
and scolded her for her selfishness
and burned and fell to banishment.

And the sun, the smallest, or one of them,
greeted her with warmth again.

His eyes caught the little one, as she grew,
taller still, until tall enough for two,
and taller and larger, grown from a seed,
until so tall that she could compete.

She looked so awestruck.

What was there here that she did not see
on Earth below, where she was meant to be?
How had she come to manage this change,
how could she be exactly the same?

Were all little ones like her?

She turned at the sound of his hastened breath,
gazed at him with her eyes bereft.
Felt nothing but sorrowful remorse,
for pity might wound the man, of course.

Pity was for fools.

He stiffened as she stumbled near
on infant legs that had brought her here.
In clumsy void she took clumsy steps
until there was no more space between them left.

She was silent.
And he was silent.

She placed a hand upon his face.
The lines of his age, she saw and traced.
The bridge of his nose, his cheeks, and lips.
And there she placed a single kiss.

His cheeks flashed red and a vibrant pink,
he might like this Little One, he began to think.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, soft.
He was out of place, his blue eyes were lost.
He was drowning without water, suffocating without air,
in misery from exhaustion, and the lack of someone there.

He could use someone there.

She wrapped her arms around his waist,
hugged him close, and expected to wait.
Spent less than a moment before returned,
the scars on his arms were fierce and burned.

He held her.

And the world did not fall, it continued to spin.
And the Earth remained in its orbit, day and night once again.
And it saddened him to know that it would move on without hin,
but he had found life beyond Little Ones and their sin.

Beyond heart, beyond Hell, beyond protection and loss.
He found his life without toll, without cost.

In the Little One whom he leaned on, not so little as before.
Changed, and she loved him, and she seemed now so much more.
Beyond stars and their eyes, beyond worlds that still spin,
Atlas had recovered his life again.

And she began hers.

She took his weight gladly, held him so tight
that he might not leave her, and she could keep him for life.
That she might be his Savior, when no one else was.
That he might be her Atlas, the only one.

That he might no longer bear the weight of the world.
That he might abandon his post and love her.

That she could be his Savior, for now and forever.
That she could hold him up, if he’d ever let her.

I did have a completely different version of this that I had planned on posting, but I decided against it. I thought it would need a rewrite before available for public (or internet) eyes. (If you want to see the original, comment something to that effect and I might post it beneath)

We all have that one friend who thinks he can save everyone. He (or she, I’m using he for now, because Atlas is supposed to be male) cannot stand the sight of others’ sorrow and would give up his life in a moment to help someone. These are the truly good people in the world. The ones that keep the world at peace. But what happens when Atlas grows tired? When he gets hurt? Injured? Heartbroken? He plasters a big fake smile on his face. His is the master of disguise, and would not, under any circumstances, allow anyone to see the truth. But he can’t just be that way forever. People who are close need to help him, whether he wants it or not. Because sooner or later, Atlas needs someone to protect him. And maybe you could be that person.

Trust me, it’s well worth the effort.

Solitude

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Among all the pretty faces,
peach-pink cheeks and smokey eyes.
Long, long lashes, and pen-drawn lips,
and gowns the color of the skies;
in hues of orange, yellow, red, and grey,
white, and black, and cerulean,
and all others of the stars, sun, and moon,
and every other that there has been.

Among all the pretty faces,
in a crowd packed tight of panderers,
I have never felt so perfectly alone;
not that it ever mattered.

Among the multitude of swollen sorrow,
wreathed with lies built of smoke and deceit,
along walkways, long worn by travel and run;
no one should notice me.
In a crowd of thousands of people
each with a different world,
no one should look down upon an invalid,
who poses as a girl.

Among the multitude of swollen sorrow,
each a purpose greater than mine,
each a stranger in very right
with no strings left to intertwine.

Among the throngs of faux brown fur and thread,
with eyes as black as night,
looking on with constant ambivalence
to the once deploring fight.
Watching without feeling,
hoping without care.
Inanimate stuffed animals
who don’t know that I am there.

Among the throngs of faux brown fur and thread
and memories of what is gone.
Here in my room, thinking of you,
I’ve never felt more alone.

I hate loneliness. I really do. I suppose we all do, but I honestly have it as a huge phobia. Strangely enough, I don’t mind being on my own. There is a difference between being “alone” and being “on your own.” I feel the most lonely when I’m in a crowd of people. When there are hundreds around me, but none that I can call my friends. When I’m just on my own in the house, or whatever the case may be, I can walk around singing at the top of my lungs and doing pretty much whatever I want.

But in public, you are supposed to pretend. In public, one must be mature, and act responsibly. Or rather, I am forced to pretend. Perhaps there are those out there who enjoy being mature and lady-like. I just don’t happen to be one of them.

Just Another Chapter

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Just another mark of ink
upon a blank white page.
Stained in an eerie permanence
that I might not erase my mistakes.
Soiled with the arrogance
of another author’s place,
pulling at the strings in my life
without regard or taste.

Fingers tapping softly
with the sure-footed step
of the padded wolf,
the cunning of a fox,
the silence of a cricket,
crying out for reprieve.
How can I call this
relief?

Grasping at memories that flee my mind,
reaching for friends I’ve long left behind.
Foreseeing a future too far out of sight,
replaying a past that I still cannot fight.

Just another chapter in my book,
just another lesson
that I never took.
Just another mention
of a name that meant the world
in between words
that described how he walked away.

Just another chapter in my life.

Just another memory taken by tide.
Just another person stopped in time
with a hope that dissolved with any fate
and a life that returned when I misconstrued the same,
only this time, the boy to blame
who managed to heal my heart again,
loved me with all of his.

Just another chapter in the book.

And yet, I stop my author dead in her frightened tracks.
I steal her pen and snap the thing in half.
I tell her that I’m never going back.
That I’ll never return to that Hell-hole of a past.
That her finishing words to that chapter were her last.

This is my novel now.

And I’m rewriting the ending.

In the end, the character falls in love.
In the end she meets the man who steals her heart.
In the end, she is happy, with all of her soul,
in the end, she is whole, like the start.

Sometimes I feel like I’m not the one writing out my life. As if, someone in some cosmic universe was writing my story for me. And, please do excuse my language, for a time, she was doing a damn shitty job. My author must have been sadistic and angry at me for some incomprehensible reason. And yet, here I am, happy. I’m sick of everything else dictating the way I live my life. These are my days, my chapters, to rewrite as I please. I can’t change the past. But I can decide the future, and I can decide to live the way I want to.

And So it Became

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And so she wished for true love.

The man in black regarded her curiously,
mentioning something of human imprudence.
Waved a hand in the the air and so it became
that her life in her love should commence.

And so she wished she was happy.

The man in black gave her his word
promised her a life of riches and gold.
Waved a hand in the air and so it became
that she live her life set as was told.

And so she wished for forever.

The man in black told her it was so,
gave her eternity locked in a bottle.
Waved a hand in the air, and so it became
that she had returned to poverty again,
her love had left with her heart in his hand,
her soul had been stolen,
and tossed to different lands.

And so she had forever.
Alone in her thoughts,
that she might live another year,
was a fear that left her distraught.

And so she wished for death.

The man in black agreed.
He waved his hand and so it became
that there was no more left of her greed.

Greed is a truly awful sin. To want for more than you need to survive is frowned upon in most society. And yet, it is hard for some to stop the want, the feigned need, for materialistic objects, or for things that are unattainable.

As the Beatles said, “All you need is love.” It could have stopped there. Happiness relies on the love of another. And so it is, and will always be.

My Romeo

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Might I refresh your memory, my love?
That you might one day see the truth beneath.
For longing lives in passion long dreamt of
and titles may veil the veracity bequeathed.
In death, in life, Romeo, my fool,
caught the edge of poison on blundered lips.
and for Juliet, the same fate so cruel
that she left him with his one final kiss.
But longing live on, as such in their hearts
for I request the pyre beneath the ash.
A future well desired, but without start
and our past so repproachably rehashed.
Do not become my Romeo my sweet,
For I can’t allow you to die for me.

This is my first attempt at a sonnet since about eighth grade. I figured, since I’m going Shakespearean, it’s the perfect chance to write the poem I’ve been tossing around in my mind the past couple of days. It was mostly just experimentation. I have worked with free verse so much, I rarely ever try any poetry forms. I think it’s about time I start challenging myself a little bit.

A Sigh of Lamentation

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Upon a night of autumn cool
I took heed of curious song.
As soft as breeze through treetops,
yet it did not last too long.
And as tumescent as a sunset
clad with a blanket of orange clouds.
Choking on a swelling throat;
as I listened, it grew loud.

I stepped outside into a tempest,
or the remnants of where the tempest had been.
Trees fallen over, shingles torn and scattered
and found myself uneasy again.
A dead calm in the silence,
the air stagnant and stale.
A taste of bitter tedium,
threatening and bare.

A simple oak in the yard,
where dozens of others once stood.
But worn, torn, and tortured now,
the ground littered with splintered wood.
And beneath the great oak,
where the song was derived
lay a hag of a woman
with madness etched in her eyes.

Her hair fell as string,
loose and silver long strands.
Her chest heaved as she moaned
as if she could not understand.
Her eyes grew wild as I neared,
she reared on hands and her knees,
backed away from me quickly
as if the frightening one here was me.

She shrieked a long howl,
with her eyes closing so tight.
I put my hands out
and asked if she was alright.
She drew away from my touch
and hissed as I spoke.
Screamed yet again
but her rabid voice broke.

She looked at her hands,
her gnarled fingers with fear.
She shivered and shook
and asked, “why am I here?”
Her hands clasped together
as she turned back to me,
inching backwards with care
and heaving breaths silently.

I asked her what was wrong,
if she needed my help.
She stared for a moment
then leaped back with a yelp.
Fell to the ground
with a thud in the grass.
Cried mournfully
with a voice shattering glass.

I kneeled down beside her
and held out my hand.
She stared once again
with eyes that did not comprehend.
“Gone,” she said softly.
“All gone in a blink.”
I hesitated a moment,
wondering what to think.

What to make of this woman
with tangled silver hair.
What to make of this hag
who had just appeared there.
“Stop!” she screamed, frightened.
“Please, haunt me no more!”
Now I was frightened
quite more than before.

She sighed softly, crying,
tears streaking grey cheeks.
Made a whimpering sound
that made her seem so small and so weak.
She stood, like a ghost,
pale white as the snow.
“I shall tell you the truth,
and then I shall go.”

“You will lose who you love,
keep him close, keep him safe.”
I stared blankly at the woman
and watched her evaporate.
Into the stale air,
cells scattered and disappeared,
and soon it had seemed
that she had never been here.

Two months to the day,
my love died of no cause.
My banshee spent nights
singing lamenting songs.
Out my window, under oak,
she wept sorrowful tears.
Spent with my love beside her
for the following years.

I fled my dark ghosts,
into phantom lands of city,
believing that my love and my hag
would not follow me.
But the howls spent the nights
lamenting dusk after dusk,
until the night I left too
long after my life left rust.

And in death, I joined hands,
with the woman and the man.
Became a part of the veil,
and could finally understand.

I’ve always been very interested in old folklore, especially the tale of the Irish Banshee. Now granted, I lead the story somewhat askew in this. Normally a banshee will only appear when a family member is to die, but this is another trial chapter that I never finished and decided to turn into a poem instead.

To go ahead and clarify, no one I love has died lately. To tell the truth, I’ve never had anyone truly close to me die. My great-grandmother died when I was six, but I scarcely remember her. I just love the folklore of the banshee. It’s one of those stories I’ve been told and reading about ever since I was little, and it’s been ingrained in me. Personally, I’m hoping the show Supernatural does and episode on it. They’ve been everywhere from Heaven to Hell and back (several times) and they can’t find a banshee? Come on.