Tag Archives: truth

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.

Silent Emeralds

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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.

All That Remains

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Been to a Hell
with fiery depths.
Been to the ocean
and almost
drowned myself.
Fell through the hollow
of a lone peasant’s hall.
Captured by posterity
and lost nearly it all.

Forgot where I’d come from,
lost where I’d been.
Followed the road
I’d been back again.
Looked to the west
when the dawn rose behind me,
waited for a cause
and someone new to guide me.

Broke too many rules,
hurt too many hearts.
Waited too long
and tore too many apart.
Lost sight of the truth,
found someone to blame.
And yet, still somehow
only the scars left remain.

Yesterday marked the end of my house arrest. I was finally able to go out in public and be around people, something I haven’t been able to do in weeks because of my transplant surgery. I never knew staying in the house would be so challenging for me, but after a few days, you start to get stir-crazy. For the last couple of years, I’ve spent the summers home alone, but I was allowed to go out with friends pretty much whenever I wanted. This summer, I wasn’t even allowed to do that.

While in reality this is supposed to symbolize the end of my battle with end-stage renal failure, I suppose it could fit many different situations at any given time. So in that light, it’s not about illness. It’s about any hardship that anyone should have to suffer, large and small. Everything.

 

Sins of the Youth

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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

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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.

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.

The Grass Will Grow

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A shovel deep in stone,
hits bottom
then keeps going.
Tossed aside
the gravel and dirt,
delving deeper into the earth.

Placed in a box
with a tight-locked lid,
demons of another bid.
Forgotten.

Or–to be forgotten.

Passerby look me in the eyes,
and cocks his head to one side.
“Burying the past,”
I tell him.

He understands.

And in a few months,
grass will grow
to cover this new-leased

grave.

Okay, okay, last post of the day. I can’t help it, if I have inspiration, it has to go somewhere, and it just doesn’t seem right to lock it away in a notebook where I will be the only one to see it until I die. Poetry is meant to be seen, to be read, to be heard.

Simple explanation, the narrator is trying to get rid of her past. And in reality, this does work. If you have a particularly bad memory and an object from that moment, if you bury it, it really does give the impression of being more free. Just a thought.

The Master in the Sky

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Her head holds high
on fish-line taut
with eyes that do not see.

Her arms to each side
never moving, not a motion;
everything is out of reach.

Her feet tread water,
splash clumsily in
but she cannot swim back to the shore.

Once, she was free
without puppet strings, or dark masters;
once, but forever nevermore.

As a kid, there is very little that is worse than being told no. As a teenager, I feel that the urge for independence is even greater. I cannot speak for the adult population, but I can speak from experience. I am a stubborn person. Tell me no, and I’ll do it. Tell me I can’t, and I’ll find a way. I have a bad habit of rebellion, to the point of lying, and cheating, and screaming, and fighting to get what I want. I guess I’m a little more than spoiled.

But what happens when you can’t get what you want? When all your life, you have been guided by the will of others. No control over any situation in your life. As I’ve already said in a previous post, I am petrified of losing control, so the idea of having my life planned out for me by someone else infuriates me.

And so, as an ode to all of the evil puppet masters of the world, and a song of sorrow to all of the puppets, I wrote this. At about two in the morning. While half asleep.

Smile

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Smile.

Because you are so much more.

You are
the air that I breathe, the breath that kept me alive.
You are
the silence in the crowd, the sole voice in my mind.
You are
the hope in lost causes, the reasons to tread on.
You are
the memories in my thoughts every moment you’re gone.

You are so much more to the world.

You are
the only one who still cares for everyone else.
You are
the only one in the world who doesn’t live for himself.
You are
a light in the void, beyond a reason or doubt.
You are
everything to anyone who still sees you now.

But please.
Remain my everything instead?

Smile.

Because I love you.

The Slave of Dusk

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Broken shackles and links of chain
clatter on concrete walls.
Her feet slide one in place of the other
as she passes other, long-empty stalls.

She is free.
They say.

Her steps echo boundless to ceilings and floor,
and ricochet off iron bars.
She steps out of her prison to a placid night
pockmarked with long-gone stars.

She had hoped
to see the sun.

The luminescent moon is veiled
by wisps of audacious cloud.
Heaven, which seemed so close once upon a time,
seems so far away to her now.

The angels bear her
no light.

Phantom hounds from Hell stalk behind,
padding on well-worn paws.
Nipping at her ankles, catching her broken chains,
tearing her leg-flesh raw.

They will
never go.

Ghosts of nameless faces follow,
seemingly her entourage.
But guards, instead, and inescapable
and as elusive as her will’s mirage.

They are taking her
despite the truth.

To the edge of abyss, and so far down,
into a void unknown.
None return, and none survive
the execution of such renown.

She is
innocent.

A crowd has gathered, with gapes of awe,
and laughter to appease.
And her captor in his golden crown,
a royal, ostentatious beast.

He will not
yield.

He has given them a show,
but the best is yet to come.
The crowd yearns for blood, for death, and flesh
and glistening, visible bone.

She will not
cry.

Her eyes scan the crowd, pick out those she knew,
who turn away in shame.
“Good,” she thinks. “Feel regret for this,
mourn for your eternal blame.”

She hates these
people the most.

And then, she finds him, still a boy,
more youthful now than before.
His eyes are wide, tears stain his cheeks
and his soul fights a hidden war.

She is
reassured.

“Any last words?” the proud king asks,
a glee behind his smirk.
She shakes her head and takes her place,
stifling her fear and mirth.

She is
assured.

Isn’t she?

Her eyes find him, her only love,
stepping forward in the crowd.
Closer to where she now kneels,
closer, closer now.

No.
Not him.

She is assured.

The phantom dogs stop barking,
ghosts stifle their phantasmal howls.
The sword is raised, the edge poised down,
the wind through spirits growls.

Not him.
Please not him.

“You die for your crime, in accordance to law,”
the king says with smile.
Ashes curl in crevices of his black crown,
and his teeth rot grey and vile.

She has made
no crime.

But in this court?
She will lie.

For him.

The boy steps forward, pushes past ghosts,
kicks at the hounds that snarl.
“Innocent!” he declares of her,
“With me you have your quarrel!”

Stop.
Stop now.

The ghost king laughs. The ghost king heaves.
He coughs up soot and ash.
“This girl is sent to death for you,
and yet you still rehash the past?”

She loves
him.

But she doesn’t
want this.

“She is sentenced for her crime,” the ghost king says.
“She will die as is set by the law.”
She watches the boy as he draws closer still,
the words catching in his throat and his jaw.

He is
scared.

“Take my life, if you must,” she says standing up,
her arms spread in front of the boy.
“Take everything I own, my heart and my soul,
but don’t take the boy that I love.”

Don’t take
him.

The sword raised and poised, so close to her heart
lusting after her blood and her pain,
but if she can save him, if his life might be spared,
she will take whatever may come her way.

She cannot
survive without him.

She closes her eyes, and feels herself spill,
hot tears streaming tracks down her cheeks.
She feels herself fall to the ground with a thud,
and she feels the cool sting of the breeze.

It is cold.
She is cold.

She feels his hands fumble, closing fingers over wounds
as he tries to stop the blood in its tracks.
She feels herself weaken, but stronger somehow.
She feels herself seep through the cracks.

She loves
him.

She feels her bitter sorrow washing away
with what feels like the rain from the sky.
She feels the surprise in her audience before her,
she feels the weight of all the ghost eyes.

She is
fading.

She feels the chains on her wrists and ankles
turn to ash and then wither away.
She hears the boy’s screams, distant and mournful,
as he begs desperately that she stay.

But she
has faded.

And she loves him.

So it’s okay.

Alright, alright. I know this is exceedingly long. I began with the thought to have about four stanzas. I thought I could get the story out in that amount of time, but apparently not. And there’s not really a huge moral to the story short of self-sacrifice. This was again, just another one of my strange dreams. Strangely enough, I was one of the ghost people, looking on as a girl who looked suspiciously like me was sentenced to death for a crime that the love of her life committed. Because she loved him, she (of course) took the penalty to protect him (isn’t that what you do for someone you love), but he wouldn’t allow it without a fight.

I really should see someone about these dreams…