There is much difficulty to be had
in diagnosing a fractured heart,
no medical professional required
to establish the wrongfully obnoxious agony
that accosts me so. What I would not give
to have a higher power suspend my senses,
and punish me ever so severely
with the removal of all emotion
destined to cause further pain.
Despite the raw potential for unflinching happiness,
dank despair, is as always,
unending in its hostility. I am, as I shall be
for a period of incalculable time, a book,
void of pictures and words, constructed
by emptiness in a broken paradise,
wishing to be inoculated from the love
I once held for you, so I may not grimace,
painstakingly, with tears brimming between my eyes,
after being condemned by truthful knowledge
that your heart beat will never share
its wondrous rhythm with my own.
When you apply my old jacket
to your person, and the fabric
caresses your arms the way my hands
used to, does an image of our time together
flock into your mind,
or is this jacket no longer a conduit
of memory, and just a piece of degrading leather,
fit for the trash receptacle?
That word, love, it has lost
its once proud poignancy,
tortured by over-usage,
until it is abandoned by basic dialect,
and fulfills the last dying oath
of any treasured word,
and becomes an unhealthy cliche.
This is the length and breadth
of the relationship we shared,
the image of your face, I once cherished,
now haunting me, making my every sense
tremble with delirium,
until even the thought of you
is poison in my veins.
I’m always back by breakfast
after I have dreamed the night away,
serenaded with the thoughts
now fossilized in history,
tarnished by regretful inaction
and the hope I may redo the broken promises
to myself, in order to find
a resolution. The darkness
though, offers little delicacy,
only charcoal residue, which paints the world
with decadency. There is no safety
or security to be had, however,
if it were possible, I would wish to become
hollow or stone, but to be camoflagued
with invisibility would be a substitute
my happiness would willingly accept.
I question the application of such stimulating imagery,
like that which falls upon my eyes
this night, the moment a gram of romanticism
flourishes within my unequaled passion.
Why is there never a chance to see
a beautiful woman more than once,
and why is there no opportunity
to relive the prospects of an adoring fantasy
over several evenings, but nightmares
are only ever too happy to return?
Being alive may be a gift
that nothing can be compared to, but it comes equipped
with the pains of treachery and betrayal,
and never can one request a rebirth
with the acquired knowledge from a former life,
in order to do everything right the first time
over. But dreams can offer friendship,
though even this is fleeting, when the regrets
of life push through the barricades of the mind,
and force themselves to be confronted
by the unconscious spirit.
If only the world found within those sleepy pastures
was equaled in the realm I regretfully return to,
I would never worry about the comfort
my heart does not abide. If I could sleep
forever, I may miss opportunities,
but then, the pain of the outside would never traumatize
these irises, nor the feelings which swell
behind them in the confines of my soul,
and perhaps this alone defines what beauty truly is.
Fine art is a conduit of untapped beauty
many willingly risk their existence for.
So how much strain must I allow
upon my mortal life, to ensure a line
of poetry is deserving of reality,
amongst the works of other poets
orbiting around my own?
The solar system
of creativity is vast and limitless,
and how else to ensure remembrance
is cast upon the shadows presented by the words
I use, than to make certain the stain
of forgetfulness is never granted opportunity.
But to freely write this point of opinion,
barely begins to touch the truth of circumstance,
actions requiring a mandatory place,
else the promise I make myself
will be turned into transgressionary failure.
What muse, would stem the tides of bleak ambition,
in replace for tears of happiness, and make the hope
I hide inside myself, become as real as breathing?
For years, I have hidden the weakness
I am unfortunate to hold inside my chest,
but this woman of inspiration would set free
the treasures, like a wren from a cage,
and make all that I have swallowed into me
an exterior force for the ears, and if this melody
is proven accurate, then perhaps I ought to write
for the length of time she remains by my side.
As though amplified by a megaphone,
the seed of loneliness calls to me, my name
shouted aloud for all to hear, carried upon the wind
to destinations farther than originally intended,
those who never knew of my birth, questioning
the identity of this unknown, sought after stranger.
It should be sweet, but it’s bitter,
the taste of happiness, and no matter how hard
I try to force a smile, the masquerade
accomplishes little more than nothing
within the frozen swamp that is my heart.
The ceaseless pain fails to subside,
and like a timeless tsunami, drowns my lungs
in froth and liquid, over and over and over.
Perhaps I am not trying, but my willingness
is certainly not the apex of the problem,
my longing to participate halted by a past,
consumed with agony and deceit, betrayed
and blistered by the throes of life and love.
After so much history, no amount of happiness,
real or otherwise, could surpass the impassable
trials that parallel these footsteps,
so what point is there in trying to force
what cannot dare be done?
Although it is excruciating to know
the honor of seeing your nude form
will not be mine tonight, I give prefererence
to seeing an attire clinging to your flesh,
your body bathed in wool and cotton
fabrics, for I know in these moments,
the mesmerizing longing I try to sweep aside,
comes not from the insatiably gripping
urge to touch you, but because of the beauty
you exude from simply being yourself.
I am immune to much it would surely seem,
but you, are certainly not one of them,
and it should be known by your heart
how I do feel, in case tomorrow never arrives.
You are a flare, struggling against
the competitive light of the sun,
but with me beside you, never will your light
cease to blossom, and its faltering sway
will be abolished, every time my fingers
wrap themselves around yours, in an embrace
unlike any ever recorded before.
There are many lessons to be learned in the lines that I produce,
the most eager, or well respected of all, being the reason
that once motivated my hand to write indecipherable images
upon the page. I write poetry for the woman my heart shall not obtain,
in the hopes these feelings shall melt, for a poem
is a non-essential piece of literature
when you already have the woman of your fantasies.
I dare myself to commit a retaliatory strike against
all that would oppress me so, with frequent wonder
in my veins: how many reincarnations must I sacrifice
to live, at least beside you, for even the most fleeting of moments?
You were never stolen away by the wind,
and due to this, I cannot accept the unacceptable
tragedy that engaged my voice, prohibiting me from wallowing
in the agony that flourishes like a field of daffodils beneath the morn.
Why does fate mock me so with its cruel hand,
leading me astray, for I have longed, so greedily,
to have you to myself, but never is the beauty
of this occurrence unlocked to me,
rather, the gateway is banished beyond my reach,
thus, I am left behind.
I cannot help but internalize every moment beneath the dim twilight
that never ceases in its astounding blight, which ought to be
so legendary by now. Never has a pain existed quite like this,
and awakening from this failed rapture, to drink bliss
instead of agony from the oil well I have inadvertently tapped,
would give me pause to consider astounding happiness.
Divine phosphorescence exudes from the pores of my heart,
struck by the fiery hand of longing and temptation.
You’re a courier, at least I wish you were, transporting these fair feelings of mine
towards your soul, bewildering me always
with your magnificence. Every good memory I own
took place around you, and if you were a flower,
you would be a rose, your thorns cutting into me
with every touch, ensnaring me like barbed wire,
until our connection is complete.
A reading of this poem can be found at the following link: http://youtu.be/bH46vKqZLts Thanks for reading!
Here I stand, in the midst of a maelstrom,
for I’m a poet. I don’t get paid, I get ignored.
The images I produce in exchange for feelings,
have the littlest affect on those I long to care for most.
This fact is one that should have already been absorbed
into my bloodstream, after all, I was not born for happy endings.
I was however born to love. I have been blessed
with several opportunities, but none
have ever eventuated into everlasting circumstances.
There was a time, I opened up my mouth
to speak with a beautiful stranger,
but I did not say a word; not a cry, not a whisper,
not a sound; the silhouette of silent ambiance
deafening my hopeful dreams.
Instead of terraforming my confidence
into a state of leadership, I retreated into myself,
wishing for vain circumstances that would not arrive.
I am many things, and alone is one of them;
the apex of my existence, without chance of ever leaving.
In your eyes however, I witness the potential for a future,
and I cannot help but fight secure
the beauty of this paradise. It is in my mind
that I propose the incidents which lead toward our meeting,
concurring on the day I celebrate my birth.
On days before this one, and all those that come after,
I carry with me the unspoilt desire to obtain a kiss,
my arms however trembling like a tumbleweed in the wind
at the thought of touching you, whilst I writhe
before your eyes like an ant, beneath your magnifying glass,
burning not only from the outside in, but from the inside out.
Beneath your luminous tranquility my heart has prospered,
and though the light of purest nature warms my skin,
you are the embers of the ignition fluid in my soul,
warming my insides. You are the sun in my sky,
serenading me wholeheartedly with your light.
No words would be needed from my lips to convey such feeling,
for the rhythm of my heart when pressed against your ear,
announces all that which words could barely comprehend.
In a hundred years, or more, the warmth of your hands
in mine shall remain like volcanic ash dribbling across my fingers.
There will be no pain, and no conflict the two of us
cannot resolve, for as long as we have each other,
no obstacle, however large, could dare oppose
the heroism of my eternal desire, to live harmoniously at your side.
I would wish for any words exchanged between us
to resonate inside your heart, like the chorus
of an outstanding symphony, the never ending echo
reducing all will power you ever had agaisnt romance,
to enlighten you with the honesty of my emotive announcement:
I cannot image living my life without you. I would wish
to receive a response, both positive and pure,
for every soul deserves to have their heart acknowledged.
When the world has forgotten that I even am alive,
my only wish is for you to kindly remind my life
why I am still breathing, and why, I will breathe again tomorrow.
if my lips find yours,
for this puckered flesh
of mine, searches
for a continuously
Mirror my heart
with your good beauty,
eclipse my soul;
burn my retina
of all foul thoughts
and leave only room
for compassionate intent
towards both you
and your smile.
I never regret
these moments vast,
and even when your hair
does not brush against mine,
and your hands
are absent for me to hold,
a part of you
beats within my decisions,
and I am always happier
Despite any distance
that may come between
these depths of emotions,
the sun shines
upon the both of us,
and in it, our energy
is transferred across
the light, shot like an arrow
into our chests,
for never are we truly far away.
The star that fell a few nights before,
bathed in the cruelest malice, promised
you to me upon its rays of glistening,
temperate light, only to corrupt my senses
with its scandalous deceit, and scold
the marrow of my bones to the epicenter
of a heart, bludgeoned and broken
and worn, and now deceased.
Despite differences in culture, race
and religious ideology, by evening,
we stand beneath the fall of moonlight,
but by day, the sun stretches its warm glaze
upon the tendrils of our flesh,
and when pain crushes and saddens
the emotions buried beneath the surface,
we, all of us, can inevitably break
the same. I stand before this page
without a blessed thought, having broken
like a weather beaten branch, caught
in the updraft of a rain storm cascading
across my external organs, for you,
young lady, are the ache in my chest
when absent from my vision,
and despite the knowledge, gifted to me
in sacrificial blood, tied together
in a bow of hair belonging to the damsel
I shall never hope to groom, I can dream
like anyone else. I can imagine to myself
a night in which you tentatively remove
your articles of clothing, which fall
gently to the surface of the ground
like the peel of an orange, while I stand,
torn between serenading my eyes
with the sight of your blossoming fluidity,
admiring every voluptuous curvature
of your vibrant flesh, or standing watch,
eyes elsewhere, acquiring the stance
of a provisionally lone guardian,
longing, for all that I do now.