Thank you, my dear, its one of my favorites as well.
Maybe it's a condition, ever think of that? No, no you didn't. You never thought, "oh maybe he's sensitive about his invisible eyes." Maybe it's a skin condition.
Simply put, these are my expression.
These words are like blood, teeth, and sweat that I have chewed, choked, and lived on for centuries; finally I am spitting them out at the people that punched me in the face and caused this. It is in asunder the state of my expression. I have tamed my desires with the open casket my life is becoming. My enemies cannot remain so long as transgressions are claret and my bane is wrath. Life itself is not cruel enough to make it impossible for anyone to attain happiness; however, the things within it make up for this fact by being simply hard on everyone. Justice becomes villainous; truth becomes tyranny; wisdom becomes a self righteous journey down the throats of the innocent.
I will make them eat their words, as they have made me eat mine. It takes a long tongue to lie; I will make them swallow it. If you were I, you would hate yourself.
My body becomes a sewn together collective of tortured soul’s and personalities. Limbs of the soul stripped bare to the bone. Bones scarred with the names of the damned in burnt black marrow. Eye’s become crystallized; stationary, hard like diamonds, and black like ash. Tears solidify and become heated flowing streams of sorrow on a cracked porcelain expression.
The Free
The dying
We stand taller than we seem
We seem stronger than our theme
Seeming
Wonderful to one another
Walking to the end of our roads
Building our own fate
To hold the weight of the world
To bare the pain we can’t conceive
On a dying planet
No way out
A plane with no dimensions
Reality that can’t be measured
Death not worth living for
Life not worth ending
No peace
No pace
Like clockwork
We march to the drum beat of falling
We ride ourselves through hell
We make our own demise
Factory produced wrath
Enacting out a theatrical farce to innocence
Painting the earth red with bullets
Burning the earth coal black with flame
Bleaching our hands white with acts
Washing our hands until they bleed
Rinse and repeat
We blame our foundations
Lie to our streets
Accuse the industry
Exertion becomes the scapegoat
In the end it is we
It’s always the end that realizes and teaches
Give not to receive
Live only to perceive
Perception of death
Inception of intentions
Minds blinded by eyes
We are free
Be free
We, in dying, have only life to live for
What to die for, we must find in life
This is a just a collection of brooding thoughts. The first is poetry, the rest is just dribble that came from the same place.
Waste
It is nothing more than you are
Your conscience is divine
It creates the world you live in
Within it you are confined
When you're the only one left to hate
When you're at the bottom of your own list
You'll turn your back on what’s ahead
And dwindle upon all you've missed
When you have no more fingers left
When you have been left in shame
You'll wander back to the path you left
And realize you are who's to blame.
You're loneliness is no one’s fault
You cannot confess your crime
Your pain belongs to no one else
It's time to serve your time
As the captain of your own soul
As the captor of your own spirit
You are the one to blame for this
And that is why you fear it
If you’re going to waste your time
Waste it on someone worthy
Don't waste what is mine
It really isn’t worth your time.
Only because you don't know;
And what you don't know you’re afraid of;
And you can't be brave if you’re not afraid.
I've got my issues, their name is you.
As you watch the world fall apart
I'll be waiting here with an open heart
Embracing the apocalypse
Embracing all when it becomes dark.
And I’ll be standing alone in the dark
Pretending not to see the waste of what fell apart.
nothing
because friendship has a fucking price tag that can be repaid with money
when debt isn't counted for despite its lack of return
cause people and time don't have value because there is no currency to match
so when someone says "you owe me" the only way to repay them is with something of value
because tangible is a form of currency universal to what is friendship
and friends mean about as much as money does
and people aren't worth shit
I wish crazy were a place
I would leave, then I could be sure that I've left
thats the crazy thing about crazy
at least
mine
i don't know if I've left
i wish there was something to hold onto
but like all things, reality keeps changing
and as reality changes, so does crazy
its like madness just bends in the other direction
and they keep getting further and further apart
my head is a circle, it follows the same track
different thoughts just keep getting on and riding it to different destinations
You're only missed when your gone.
I am tearing myself apart and every time I look at my blood stained fingers the faces of everyone significantly involved in my life appears on my finger tips.
Maybe it's a condition, ever think of that? No, no you didn't. You never thought, "oh maybe he's sensitive about his invisible eyes." Maybe it's a skin condition.
I think Simply Put is strong, but it almost feels like it's not reaching it's potential. Don't get me wrong, I like it as is, but I think it could be even better. Pretty evocative, though.
The Free I think is my favorite poem of yours so far. Pacing, rhyming, content, everything just works.
And Waste takes a while to get going, but the mood becomes almost all-encompassing by the end. The fragmented nature near the end only adds to the effect, I feel.
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.
Thank you. I appreciate the compliments. I think simply put just needs stronger imagery about halfway through the beginning.
Maybe it's a condition, ever think of that? No, no you didn't. You never thought, "oh maybe he's sensitive about his invisible eyes." Maybe it's a skin condition.
And I dropped. I could hear the silent squeal of adrenaline coursing through me; the blood was pumping so hard I could feel the pulse of my heart in my eyes. All senses became mud. The only things I could detect were bodies.
There were three in the room with me. I could tell that two were looking at me.
The pit in my stomach lurched forward before I did, but I quickly followed.
I felt the trembling vibrations of four gun shot’s go off, two from each of the two men looking at me. I moved faster than their fingers to the trigger and their arms to the ready. All the bullets missed. On my way to the first target, the man on the far right, I kicked a small rock forward with me. My right hand made contact with my targets diaphragm, the force of which pierced his rib cage like a knife to wood. My left hand traveled quickly to meet my targets kidney, meanwhile four gunshots breezed past the left of my face from my targets gun, and two more were strayed behind me as the man to the far left tried to catch up with my movements.
He failed by several feet.
My right hand, retracted, struck forward and my palm made full contact with my targets nose and mouth, shattering his nose, forcing the bone behind the cartilage to shatter and project into the back of his head, and also breaking both of his upper front teeth loose, causing them to shoot to the back of his throat. The force split his upper jaw.
I swiftly jabbed his throat with my left hand while spinning and shifting my targets body, with my right hand, into place to take the bullets coming from the man on the far left.
Three more rounds entered my targets body; one pierced through and grazed my right shoulder, passing over top my collarbone. I fell to my right knee, letting my first targets body rest on my shoulder and picked up the rock I had originally kicked, and flung it at my opponents hand. The force of the stone threw his trajectory off as three more rounds we’re fired into the body on my shoulder, which I flung into my opponent as he fired his final round, the bullet piercing the body and straying into my gut as I leaped into it to counter the force and keep myself on my feet.
I continued my leap into my opponent, the body slamming against him and falling to the floor, but him still standing, and my leap meeting his standing, my hands quickly wrung around his neck. He struggled and punched at me with his right hand, I countered with my left, grabbing his arm and twisting it until it snapped out of place in his shoulder.
With the limp arm in my left hand, his throat in my right, his left arm grabbing at me in either pain or in futile resilience, I was unsure which, I placed my right leg behind his left, pulled forward on his right arm, pushed forward against his throat, and kicked backwards with my right leg, bringing him to the ground.
He grabbed at my throat with his free arm and I shoved his left arm into his own mouth, slipped a knife out from his vest and pinned his right arm to the ground. I grabbed his limp left arm, now shoved into his mouth, with both hands, and forced it as deep into his mouth and throat as my strength could muster. Then I returned to my mind.
I didn’t understand what was going on, but I had a .45 calibur slug in my stomach, a dead man laying to the left of me, a dying man choking on his own hand between my legs, and a whimpering individual in one corner of the room.
I stood for a moment, admiring what was around me. I checked the blood on my hands, not being able to decipher whose it was. I looked at the whimpering person in the corner and asked, “Did I do this?”
More whimpers.
I picked up the gun from my first victim, unbeknownst to me it was my victim at all, and shot the whimpering person in the head. It didn’t die. Its head slammed against the ground and it let out a loud cry, but it recoiled and continued whimpering.
I did not know how to react, so I fired again. Same occurrence. I dropped the gun and sat against the wall opposite the whimpering person. A radio from one of the enigmatic deaths was lying next to me. I picked it up and pushed the speak button, “I don’t know what just happened, or for that matter who I am or what’s going on, but I quit.”
I dropped the radio on the floor.
The whimpering one was looking at me. Terror…
Maybe it's a condition, ever think of that? No, no you didn't. You never thought, "oh maybe he's sensitive about his invisible eyes." Maybe it's a skin condition.
That was rather interesting. The whole fight scene reminds me a bit of the end of V for Vendetta when he takes on all those guys and gets shot.
The twist at the end was effective, however, I think the way the first part is written actually detracts from it. If you could somehow find a way to tell it so it seems more dissociated, making the "I came back to my mind" part even more of stand-out line. I don't know, though... I'm not entirely sure, maybe it's good the way it is.
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.
I agree with you. He recalls the details a little strongly for being maddeningly out of his mind.
Maybe it's a condition, ever think of that? No, no you didn't. You never thought, "oh maybe he's sensitive about his invisible eyes." Maybe it's a skin condition.
Hey Arsis. Had a look at your first three poems, not sure what to make of them myself but that's nothing unusual for me when I see poems that seems to have that sort of stream of consciousness style (not sure what else I would call it but that is what it feels like when I read it).
I find myself paying more attention to the diction of your poetry, rather than what it might actually be saying. That migth be because it does seem to shift a little on occasion, going from some simplistic statements to what feels like a more 'poetic' syntax.
My favourite of the three is also "Blood Red Sky," for the internal shift from 'sun' to 'son.'
Thank you. That poem was originally just going to be expression, the shift was added not after I wrote it, but really following the image. Thank you, I thought it was clever. I've written a few poems today based on inspirations that have taken place in my virtual existence. Some fairly epic warfare is occurring throughout my online universe, not of all of it is necessarily a game. Mind you, all of these that I've written today were written less than an hour ago, so be nice to them. The third one was written with extreme scrutiny. I like it the most.
Kraken
(about the online piracy debacle and the ACTA trying to be passed)
For valor, for honor;
on dying days, what better to live for than the glory of battle;
we seek not yet peace, for peace is not yet;
not yet under skies of crimson shall the dead bones rest;
for even in the wake of war, there is foot to be gained;
before our oppressors, we follow in the footsteps of death, in freedom and in deed;
this war, be it an enemy or ourselves, is upon us;
our choices are made, our rights are charged;
be it by our enemies or by ourselves;
apathy is our foe;
against him, we fight!
The Star's
(about a politically incited war in a video game that occurred today that involved several hundred million ships and at least 300 players)
Hark fellow warriors of the stars
The universe heralds your victory
The echoes of time ring in your favor
The winds of space guide the masts of your armada's into the honor of battle
Fate sings of the glory of our planetary salvation.
The grand gods of old praise the names of your commanders
And the angels cry of pride upon your path
Let all be witness to the splendor that is our will
As this day is hence forth known as the day we overcame weakness
And set forth upon bravery's journey towards intergalactic dominance
Hail hail, abandon your charge, plight is upon thee, coward!!!
Scythe
(inspired by Suze's writings and from my own fascination with the characteristics of angels)
Death, thy abode is besieged;
Mine enemy occupy as its inhabitants;
They defile and desecrate;
Their dissension need brought privy to thy will.
Bend us to your scythe;
Make like our will to its dutiful blade;
On your fury we bury;
By your honor, their graves we dig.
By the name of atonement, we seek your judgment;
We bastions of justice request thy grace;
This day reign what reaps what’s sown;
So that, upon them, we victor, stand testament.
We bare the white rose upon the crimson tide;
We ride to tare asunder servants of arrogance;
In the name of war under black flag;
Peace is wrought.
Abandon hope, all ye who are faithful;
Death writhes in our blades;
Your abandon pleases cower and despair;
Your burdens greet with open malice.
All ye devils of plight;
All ye servants of madness;
We charge to your throat the scythe you usurp;
Our fervor tears from it your life.
Be damned;
Oh spoiled abandonment;
Woe to your plight;
No mercy, just pity.
My Hell
(this is an old poem I wrote in Sudan that I spent a great deal of time over. Much of the imagery is metaphorical, it's a favorite of mine simply for it's sentimental value, not necessarily it's writing. It is here, if for no other reason, than that)
We are thirsty for sand,
Drinking of the Earth.
Beating heads with roses,
Aching minds with thorns.
Sweat brought to boil,
On skin turned to coal.
Blood made to sludge,
Mouthed by pain.
Barbed wire blankets,
Toxic tears.
Screams of fear,
Saying “bring the pain”.
Bullets for food,
Food for thought,
Famine is a good thing.
To know the land I stand on now,
Was once marked in blood,
Drags tears I thought were buried deep within,
To the surface of the grave I call a soul.
How shallow my tears
How shallow my grave.
Maybe it's a condition, ever think of that? No, no you didn't. You never thought, "oh maybe he's sensitive about his invisible eyes." Maybe it's a skin condition.
#33
Posted 01-26-201204:20 PM
Trisphee
