I wake to the sound of gunfire.
In my mind, the battle rages on;
Bombs exploding all around,
Destroying any unmarred scrap of life I had.
Alas, O dark and bloody day,
When my family is reduced to ashes
That still scream my name
When I close my eyes.
Lord, protect me this day,
As I drown in memories
Of happy days long past,
Amidst the rubble
Of a life I once had.

It has been a long time, friends.
After an involuntary 6-month hiatus, I have returned. It seems I was facing writer’s block of epic proportions, and simply could not push any sort of art out of my frantic beating of the keyboard. Finally, I have made some sort of accomplishment, comprised mostly of complete sentences. So I shall consider this a step in the right direction—That is, the direction of once again writing regularly. In the meantime, I ask you to leave your comments on this poem itself. Much appreciated. Adieu.

(p.s. That means “bye.”)

Lie To Me

Lie to me, emotions
Tell me nothing’s wrong,
I defy you.
It seems every good moment
Is a clever ploy to keep me alive;
Just a temporary release
From the bitter world within me.
"Don’t be sad,
I grew out of that years ago"
They all seem to imply.
Pardon the expression, fellows,
But spare me your bullshit.
If real thoughts are beneath you,
Then you can pound me into the ground,
For all it’s worth.
You won’t have me denying this.
This ecstasy in pain.
It must be all I’ve got, now.

This is a week or two old, I believe. At the request by kaisha for *something,* I figured I'd post it. Just another generic poem about pain in general. And a little confusing in points, apparently.

"Pardon the expression, fellows, but spare me your bullshit" refers to the people who tell me to just be happy, not you guys.

My Truth

Near a year ago I saw
Your face across a crowded room.
You looked at me,
And seemed to think
So much more than you could say.
And you had me.
And so we were
For weeks on end
Each waiting for
An opening
In which to find
The perfect time
To leave another hint.
I finally broke,
And talked to you.
You said ‘okay.’

I always knew you would.

And here we are;
It’s been a year.
We kept on talking
And we pretend there’s more
But who can tell
When all we’ve got
Is what we’d like to be?
And am I the only one to see
That wishing only works for so long?
We call it love.
It’s just a silly teenage fantasy.
We like to pretend it’s fate,
But we both know our time is near.
I would love to love you
But my soul aches for freedom.
Honesty is all I’ve got.
Love is certainly a fickle friend.

And the truth is out.

Waste Of Time

This is such a waste of time.
I know there’s a point to it all,
somewhere,
Buried,
But it’s eluding me now.
It’s days like that get me going.
Get me hating everything.
Just leave me alone.
I don’t want to be happy.
Just leave me alone.
There’s no way I’ll ever get it right, is there?
I try,
And after a while I start getting somewhere,
But it all just falls over at the worst moment.
And here I am again.
Spilling my soul to strangers,
Selling myself to my poetry.
And it all starts again.

I wrote this on Tuesday, referring to a mood I was on on the previous Friday. Thus, I can remember hardly any of the actual description. So, figure it out. Poems are better that way anyway.

Why

Talking is something I’ll never master.
Too many things to consider,
And it never comes out right anyway.
It’s doubtful that you’ll even be understood,
And no-one will every be able to fix you.
So my pen is my therapy.
I can do no more than to spill my heart out onto the page,
Then hang it proudly for the world to see,
In one last feeble attempt at gratification.
Sometimes I get praise;
More often, all I get for my trouble
Is bewilderment at a world I created,
A world truly mine,
That no-one but I can see into.
That’s not what matters, anyway.
The point is that someone,
Something, somewhere,
Knows me now.
Be it God, strangers,
Or the simple paper unlucky enough
To be the receptor of my emotional dumps.
At least there is companionship in that.
Why do I bother?
I am just hoping,
However unrealistically,
That someday
I will be healed.

Yes, it has been a while. I just ran out of old stuff, and I haven't written anything fit for public display in a while (when I say fit, I don't mean good enough. I mean distanced enough. Written with discretion. That sort of thing).

Just in case you were wondering what goes through my head, read it.

To you, Self

Hello, Self.
What have you done to me?
Why can’t I get it?
What went wrong when you made me?

Damn you, Self.
Look at me.
See the havoc you’ve wreaked.
Look at this mess of identity.
Bloody, cold, and shapeless.

I’m so tired, Self.
I feel like a lab rat,
Getting my ears zapped off
In some sick, twisted experiment.
And I know I’ve caused this,
But it’s easy to blame you.

You were my coconut shell.
You were rock solid.
You were suffocating me.
And now I’ve forsaken you.
Look at me, Self.
Lying still and lonely.
A puddle of milk on the highway.

Please help me, Self.
I’m not asking much.
Just let me see you.
By God, just let me know you.
Or, Self, I’m through with you.

A little less of my usual self-examination and more angsty, but all in all nothing new for me, although I did differ in that I'm actually writing it *to* someone, the whole way through, even if it is just to me. That's something I do very little, if any, of. Enjoy.

Reluctantly handing it over

Hope is…
The glimmer of laughter
The depression dissipating into the air around me
My life put on hold
Just to be here a little longer.

Comfort is…
Sleeping beauty in my arms…
Just to be this close to her
Puts my problems at bay
And my soul jumps for joy.

Love is…
The feeling inside
When she is torn from my eyes…
Over…
And over…
and over.

needs no explanation.