Tag Archives: sadness

My Role in the World


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.

Silent Emeralds


Cerulean turned grey
souls of old, but washed away.
And innocence lost to the day
wrought destiny
and fate.

And child again
as emerald trickles in
spent in black and in grey,
wise of old, washed away.

But masked with a smile
small and futile–
but at least for awhile,
emerald appears grey;

until confidence washed away.

Alright, alright. Last post of the day. I’ve been in a bit of a writing mood lately. I think my writer’s block is finally starting to let up, thankfully.

This one’s slightly more vague than the others; it refers to the green-eyed monster in everyone. I’m not going to lie, I’m a jealous person. But I’m really good at hiding it. However, consequently, envy eats away at me much more than it would others, simply because I am quiet and subtle about it. I don’t speak anything of my jealousy, to anyone, and, like anger, it tends to build up.

But, because envy is not only unflattering on everyone, it is also a sin, I would rather bottle it up and express it in poetry than express it in words to those I love too much to alienate with it.

Sins of the Youth


It had fallen to disrepair.

No amount of plywood or glue
could mask the evil of its use.
No paint could cover the putrid stench
of the blood left cold, a thirst left quenched.
No body, nor mind, nor fool tender at heart
could spend yet a moment without a play in the part.
No secrets left whispered, no vows left unbound,
it had fallen to disrepair, and not a one made a sound.

The sin of the world, closed up behind doors,
secrets of the youth spun on webs like before
with spiders as keepers and snakes as their guards.
Sins of the youth, secrets of the scarred.

It had fallen to disrepair.
And as sins escaped,
no one was left to care.

A Siren Song


She stray along shorelines,
took perch upon stones.
Felt the warmth of the sun
bear down on her soul.
Stole strings of a harp song,
plucked chords of heart and home.
Spent evenings with men
and each morning alone.

Destroyed mentioned love songs,
created bad dreams.
Nightmares and sorrow
that came of the sea.
Drowned in the tears
wept by fish of the bay,
the men fall to blunder
and drifting away.

She captured forbidden
and vows beyond scare.
All but forgiven,
and lost beyond care.
Heartless beyond words
and guiltless beyond loss.
Had given her whole heart
for a treacherous cost.

And so tortured and beaten
by heart and by theft,
and swollen with sorrow
of her love lost bereft.
To compensate for her forgotten,
a wail like the wind,
and lured into darkness,
the legs of many men.

And drowned in the shallow
of waters inches high,
caught by the gaze
of a siren’s blind eye.
Captured by the song
that so entranced them,
and now and forever,
she will thieve them again.



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.

And So it Became


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.

A Sigh of Lamentation


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.

The Boy in the Box


He is innocent.

And the people wear black
with masks of mourn on their faces.
They pander and amble
and speak of prettier places.
And prettier times,
the days he was alive
as if they have any idea
about the boy with rain-splattered eyes.

Locked in a prison,
black, and laced with red rose,
the darkest void I imagine
but how can I know?
The people in black
are hugging me and crying.
Their tears are unwanted,
in pity, they’re lying.

This place is a facade,
a charade masked in black.
The boy in the box
would give it all back.
They got everything wrong,
from the dress to the seats.
They don’t even realize
who he was to me.

His brother approaches,
and holds me in his arms.
Whispers condolence,
and then he is gone.

I am seated with this crowd
of fake mourners and the like;
actors and actresses
trying on a new life.
The priest at the podium
says a few words,
turns his gaze on me,
and gives me the stage.

I stand, I approach,
though hesitant still.
I don’t have the words,
and I never will.

How will I say
who this boy was to me?
How can I describe
in sentences they can see?
He is no one to them,
just another name.
Another face in the crowd
who left short of his days.

A headstone in the park,
where I insisted it be.
How do I tell them
who this boy was to me?

I turn my gaze to the wall
in the back of the room.
He is standing there, curious,
one of the few.
No one else cares,
I realize then.
No one else wants to hear
about my dearest friend.

I will tell them anyway.

I look again to him,
I beg him to stay.
I beg him to give me
the words I should say.
I beg him to hold me
the way he used to.
I beg him to forgive me
for all the things that I do.

But he is curious,
and I shall receive no help.

I turn to the crowd,
and murmur a thought.
“I love roses,” I say
with a helplessness I forgot.
A sound of confusion
passes by each actor’s lips.
They turn to each other
and ask to each, “What is this?”

I clear my throat softly,
raising my voice.
“I love roses,” I repeat.
regaining my poise.
“He loved roses as well,
loved them because of me.
I cannot make speeches,
I don’t know how to be.”

But all the same, all I tell them,
the don’t deserve to know.
I must tell them, however,
the boy must go on.

I tell them of his sadness,
of his deepening scare.
Of his wonderful smile,
his calculating stare.
“I loved him,” I say softly.
“And I always will.”
I gaze back at him.
“Despite everything, I love him even still.”

“But I am the reason he’s gone.”

The boy’s gaze changes,
with words I can’t decipher.
I step down from the post
and watch them call me a liar.
The actors hold me so tight,
they say it isn’t my fault.
“These things just happen,”
they say. “That’s all.”

They all tell me it’s not my fault,
but sometimes it is.

I killed the boy with the rain-splattered eyes.

This was based on the trial chapter of a book I never really finished. I ended up gaining more interest in a different story that I was working on, so this chapter is the only one I had. Since I had nowhere else to put it, I decided to just retell the story in a poem and post it here.



There were rains that fell upon a heavy ocean,
and the tides that came and washed away the shore.
In the blinding moment of my desperation,
I allowed the one I asked to ask for more.

The clouds above me burst and shed tears of their sorrow,
begging God above to pretend he didn’t see.
And when sorrow became hopelessness, and disheartened what became my bliss,
I was left to roam alone with only me.

As if it mattered that the world revolved around her
as if I’d bow to every need she asked me to.
The days grew longer and I felt myself slipping down
beneath regret and swollen pits of broken rue.

In the morning when the sun rose to beseech me,
I felt no warmth beneath the grey silver linings there.
I knew no heart would see why I have chosen these paths,
I knew she’d never let it go, never forgive me.

But she asked me to choose her over my heart’s love,
“friends are first” she said in words not many still.
“If a friend,” I said, “You’d be happy that I love him,
you could be a friend, but I know that you never will.”

And dawn became the day, and day fell to dusk
when shadows stalked me along road I’d never tread.
Before the night, I never knew the truth of lonesome
and even then I felt a happiness instead.

When the rain washed away with tides never ending,
I felt a call I’d never felt in all my days.
The words that spoke to me said she would never see it,
the words told me that she had been left astray.

Maybe she loved in the ways I can’t imagine,
but I know that she never saw the way I do.
A moment changed everything when he told me his story,
because he never told the other the whole truth.

So I must let her go, even though it may hurt me.
It would be best for all others still involved.
I wonder sometimes if this could have ended better,
but I know that my heart stays well resolved.

In the tides that fall, the moon that crashes onward,
I let my soul live on for many other days.
Maybe I’m the one who let this fall to pieces,
perhaps it’s me, and I’m the one to blame.

Yet more musings from late-night escapades. It’s the story of my former best friend and the slow, inevitable decay of our friendship. The story pretty much speaks for itself. The narrator doesn’t come across with as much remorse as I may feel towards the situation, but I wrote it in a more angry state of mind than anything else.

The Only One You Thought to Save


A glance over the edge,
Shards of shattered below her
And bodies above her,
And all around her.
Her feet lose balance,
Her arms stretch
A bird without wings to the eye
A desire to catch up with the sky
But she falls.

Saved by the noose you tied
Around her pale white throat.
She lives.
She struggles and fights the bindings
And thrashes until she slows
And falls
And is gone
But never forgets.

I trek through a forest
Of hanging girls on your ropes
Blood staining white shirts
Above their hearts
And my hand covers my own
With fingers that just grace
The blood from mine.

Heartbroken too
But the only one you thought
To save.

A bit depressing, I realize, but it’s not as bad as it seems. It doesn’t have anything to do with a murderer pushing girls out of trees so that they can hang. It’s a metaphor describing the relationship between a boy who is caught in a web of girls who would do anything for his love, and the only girl he has any eyes for. The narrator has vowed for years that she would never falter, that she would never fall in love with him. However, some promises are impossible to keep, and she falls for him despite herself. Luckily for her, he loves her as well.

And before you ask, yes, I do relate to the narrator. Write what you know, the say.

This is mostly just an experiment with a poem without rhyme, to see how well I like it. What do you think?

And to the boy whom this poem is about: please stop blaming yourself. You’ve hurt yourself enough as it is. I love you with everything I am, and you don’t deserve to hate yourself.