It is not always one is touched
by the flare of feelings vast,
and quite unending, and to encapsulate,
that which has bloomed so astonishingly
with a word, or few, is a hope
I cannot have, nor grasp.
Not all things, or people, of great unimaginable beauty,
may be named or written,
and with a breath, so fleeting,
I bid acceptance of the fate
that graces me, and yet I look away,
wishing I could prove myself a writer,
and capture the poetry of my environments.
I am grateful for my life,
even if it is but a moment,
however, much like a cup of coffee,
all must be devoured, and all must eventually conclude.
I do not wish to write of how I die,
but, if you may honor me, I would summarise
how I did live, from occasions of much mature love,
where oxygen was fewer on passion filled nights
of highs greater still than ecstasy, sweat pouring
across my face like the run off from a waterfall,
to the lowest points of my existence,
when the touch of absence was filled
by graceless depressing sorrow, consuming
my every whim and need until even a step forward
felt like an unending sprint.
But am I in the moments that I have listed here,
or are occurrences little more than items
on a shelf to remember me by? Who is this person
that writes this less than fabled tale, and who
shall I be tomorrow, or the day after,
when words of my time upon this Earth
are not presented onto those few readerships
who place an ear to this aching voice of mine,
hoarse from so much writing, and listen
ever so closely to what I dare announce?
If it were sensible to love you,
then everyone would do so,
and as I sit across from loneliness
in this kitchenette, I contemplate
how the table, much like my heart,
pivots on an angle.
To which would I be referring,
the blistered legs or decayed heart,
when I gently touch the texture
and wonder if its origins
are similar to my own?
Once proud and strong
in a wilderness of shrubbery and undergrowth,
now that which stood for centuries,
admiring the still changing world,
was crippled most severely
by a single blow.
I, who sits beside myself
acknowledges such strife,
a liquid beverage running like a busted tap
along the curvature of my face.
A salty droplet collapses
upon the table top, the misery
of both myself and the furniture,
which helps keep me upright,
becoming unanimously combined.
Where one mourns the loss of comradery,
exhibited from the fellow environmental beasts,
I cry anonymously for a woman,
struck down by an avalanche
of lightning fast pain.
Never will you return to the great beauty
I fell hopelessly in romance with,
and out of all the patron’s in life’s orchestra,
this fair princess of goodly will,
now isolated and distressed,
is the one tender soul who never did deserve
that which indefinitely ruins you.
If I were to die tomorrow,
would you tell my story,
and would you tell it well;
tell it truthfully? Or would
there be so little to say,
that only silence could fill
the empty void which makes
up my obituary? I held this life
in my hand on too many
an occasion, preventing
myself from ever cherishing
what I had while it was truly
my own, and by the end
when the final beat exited
this heart of mine, perhaps
it was not death I wished
for, but life instead. The irony
of such circumstance
could never be melted down
into a purposeful existence,
and though death was always
an acceptable choice,
by the end, it may well
have not been my own.
Destiny is inescapable,
as I might soon discover,
and if my life is to be proven
forfeit, might I have
the pleasurable luxury
of knowing I will be remembered,
along with all the rest.
Below is the link to a reading of this poem, along with the reading of ‘Shangri La’, a poem I recently published on this blog: http://youtu.be/O6TSAbTLrd0
If I were to complain about my romantic
circumstance, who would listen to my woe?
Despite my feelings, I have doubts
you would come to my rescue,
and even so, I am inclined to ask,
what am I to you? What exactly do I look like
in your eyes? If I were not so shit-faced
after trying to reduce the darkest colors
of my depression, from being frequently excluded
in a town without a need for me,
perhaps I might have spared a chance
to hear your words with much attention
evermore. If I were to excuse my actions
though, I would retort by noting how
I have been disqualified for living
once before, the truth of it being,
that in this town, nobody ever wants to know
the real inside. What words did you ever say
to me, which were not meant for other ears,
because the moments we spent together
just so briefly, contained a dire silence
I could not help but get away from.
One of us ought to take the lead
and open up, but never does such seriousness
penetrate the want we shall never have,
except for in my dreams, to kiss
the other on the lips and confess
the honest truth; I love you.
It is so unfortunate fair maidens
do not want these words to come from lips
of mine, else I would have said
them long ago, before the two of us
were on the verge of separation,
and now that chance, so fleeting,
cannot ever be resuscitated once again.
Mental health group Good Morning Bedtime Story (GMBS), an organization I work for during my spare time, is still accepting submissions for their campaign, Be Kind, and shall continue to indefinitely do so until otherwise stated.
Today, the ‘selfie’ movement has taken the world by storm, and GMBS wishes to use this medium to promote the advocating of mental health awareness.
If you are passionate about mental health; if you enjoy frequently taking photos of your beautiful features; if you spend just as much time in front of a camera as you do elsewhere, GMBS would really appreciate your involvement.
‘Be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle’ is the organization’s slogan. If you wouldn’t mind recording yourself saying this one line, and submitting it to GMBS, they would be very grateful.
Submissions can be produced in any number of ways; instead of saying the line, you could write it on a piece of paper and hold it up for the world to see; or, you could introduce yourself; ‘I’m (insert name) from (insert place)’, followed by the line; there are no limits on imagination.
Please send any and all submissions to: email@example.com with BE KIND in the subject line.
Any recordings will need to be done pro bono, because GMBS regretfully does not have the funds to compensate people for their time. Just know, they will appreciate your involvement, and shall pay you with admiration.
This campaign will be presented on the GMBS YouTube channel.
If I cannot speak the love I hold for you
with words fallen from my mouth,
let my heart bestow upon you
what my ever prevailing lips cannot;
the jewels from my soul’s crescent keep,
that may stain your cheek with warmth
on the nights so cold, when you pray
for a decent lover to become enthralled
by the blissfulness of your affections.
Let my feelings hold you in an embrace,
absent of all shortcomings, and allow
my eyes to dance across the rivetting
surfaces of your mortal frame.
To describe you would be an insult,
with words as they are today,
unable to capture the poetry, so pure,
which comprises the totality
of your gorgeousness,
that I have so graciously glimpsed
with much admiration. My lack
of words however, comes from
the unfortunate truth, to which
I rarely speak. You see, I am a slave
to my own self-worth, which equals
to little more than naught, the silence
of my words resembling the quiet
confidence within, that fails to speak
volumes about abilities I seldom believe
myself to have. When without this inner
strength I am meant to hold,
which is to be a magnificent fire,
long quenched by a body of water
that drowned me in lackluster esteem,
I am a pauper inside myself,
left without the energy to give my hand
to yours. What I would not wish
to be the man so adored, by self
and others, whose positivity beckons all
to witness the character within.
If I had such a spark, I would grasp
you between my heart and soul,
and confess the feelings of either
every moment in which we kiss,
and never would an hour pass
when you feel the absence
of an outstanding phenomena of love.
…the way only a person so connected
to another can know them, deep down,
to the very core of life, you would never
love me, and like the sweltering fires
of uninterrupted silence, I would be left
beyond the care of your young, maiden
arms, to die alone in discontent, without
the touch of your feelings, or the knowledge
of what your love truly tastes like,
on these lips of mine. My life, like the death
awaiting me, near the conclusion
of this verse, cannot ever have a happy
ending, for the directionality chosen
by myself, does not lead to prosperous
salvation, nor to unending delights.
This choice is one which has been consumed
by the fingers of your mind, which point
away from me, and even if I were to strive
for greater pastures, and save my sickly soul,
my life, wrapped in a condiment,
applied by my own hand, and those of others,
would never wish to be ferried across the divide.
We are all products of the choices
we have made; the embodiment of our destinies
that deny us access to paths we cannot walk,
and how could I possibly feel anger
towards those who shake their fists at me,
when it was not them who made such choices,
but the peers who hold them back. Society
is the gravedigger of my smile,
that I have seldom seen in years,
and until I feel the rays of happiness,
slipping beneath the veil of cold deceit,
I will remain buried in this tomb
with all the others, who failed to acquire
the love of a decent friend or paramour.
For those of you familiar with Good Morning Bedtime Story, a group which advocates mental health through art, writing and poetry, then the new anthology set for release this October, titled Home Grown Ghosts, will be old news to you. For everyone else, listen closely!
Although Home Grown Ghosts is looking for any form of writing pertained to mental health, the anthology is set to be broken down into three unique themes which focus upon different characters. These include a man, once plagued with alcoholism, who is attempting to redeem himself; a man suffering from delusions, who wishes to alleviate them as to better experience the blossoming romance he has encountered; a woman, who, as a child, witnessed her parents take their own lives, and has since then been riddled by guilt.
To poets and writers interested, you may submit one poem per e-mail, and up to a total of three poems. These can be sent to: firstname.lastname@example.org, with the e-mail title HGG Submission, followed by the title of the piece. In the body of the e-mail, attach a short description and background of the work submitted, along with the total word count.
There is no word limit, however poems with fewer than 400 words, and prose with less than 1,000 words will be looked upon appreciatively.
Submissions close on the 1st of June.
Best of luck to everyone. Hope you consider submitting.
Close the lid on this detrimental world,
where a grandiose scheme of insidious measures
blizzards forth across this terrain.
What beautiful corpse
shall I make of me
as to turn the atoms of my flesh
into a state of wholesome elegance?
When death grasps hold
of the fruitless melody
which dictated through chortling teeth
my life, shall I be gifted again
with the opportune prerogative
to endure the mistakes
which brought me to this standstill
if my cadaver is indeed attractive?
When collapsing from where my feet
held firm the decisions
of my circumstantial woes,
shall my memories be of beauty,
so unapologetic and serene,
or the embers of corroded ash
which once comprised the foundations
of my many misplaced principles?
Here is the link to the first poetry reading I have uploaded online: http://youtu.be/ojMGtsWFBOk
The poem is a piece I have previously published on this blog, and because it is close to my heart (as I explain in the video) it is the first of hopefully many poems I will eventually upload.
Thank you for reading/watching!