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Livid Lunacy

A learned lunacy juggles
with the template of the self,
examining its imperfections
with a glazed look of contemplation.
Those few who have forfeited
existence, now isolated
on an uncharted archipelago,
with me at the stern of the corvette
navigating the inland passages
towards the bastard destination.
Schemed into the offices
of unfair dismissal, I have longed
for great workmanship,
but am instead granted
hard labor at the expense
of my grovelling frame.
Is this a deliberate ploy
to keep me out of their classless
empire perhaps? To have me run
amok across halfwit desires,
or is this a life bequeathed
by my soul upon myself
until the true destination is revealed?

I am not entirely sure what I am illustrating in this poem. A couple of lines came to me, and when writing, the rest simply fell into place. Thanks for reading!

A Crushingly Timeless Passion

I was told once it is okay to cry,
but when the fluid fell
from the aqueducts around my irises,
I was met with scorn and discontent
for showering those few socialities
around me with the weeping
of pained emotion. Criminalistic
circumstances were the charges
brought forth upon my broken passions,
scattered like an unsolved jigsaw
around the foundations of a life
left floundering in the endless atmosphere
of failed accomplishment
when the crippling strike was struck,
like a deal of vile occurrence
behind the veil of life, I wailed
with an intense suffering, who slips
into the empty void between us
and touches the timeless entity
that is our combined affection,
attempting to dare shatter
that which we have so cautiously
and frequently built upon? There was no response
to these few words, left unheeded,
and before I could announce
an outburst of like intensity, I found myself
spluttering beneath the weight of failure
and a doubt I could never escape from.

Life’s Grateful Announcement

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?

Misfortune’s Fate

Alright world, here I am, now you may,
with my permission, surely do your worst,
for I have certainly just done the same,
with the enacting of a commitment
I could never do before. I had believed
I made myself, soul and all,
over the longevity of life, decisions
and consequences folding the existence
of my time here into a piece of worthiness.
However, since the moment
the sun rose behind the image of your face,
it was always the touch of beauty
in the movement of your life
that made me who I am,
and though you shall remain unforgotten,
that is the least you should be rewarded,
until the end of my tether, it is now that I must
move aside. Rather than admitting
the three words I could never say,
but felt, like blood beneath my veins,
allow me to instead replace this confession
with one that shall set you free;
I forget you;
and now, with this proclaimed testimony,
you may venture forth to love again
someone who will give all that you deserve,
for as misfortune has decided,
this fate, is not mine to enjoy.

The Moment Reality Returns

I was blessed by the arrow of my compass,
pointing towards a heart due north,
a serenade of a love’s true blossum
kissing me with a touch similar to that of lilacs
shedding their petals onto flesh.
To hold this secluded affair to the rhythm
of my aorta, was to let feelings
become a part of life, but now that dream
is gone from me, tarnished
by great banishment at the hands of fallen hope,
lost to a passionless time.
The apple-seed has withered, and with it,
I cannot settle in the deserted graveyard
awaiting me the moment I return to reality’s fold.

A Better Life?

I became concluded
a second later than I should have,
and the desire that scolded
my physical self became disillusioned
in a time not long before it needed dismantling.
I always asked the wrong question,
and in doing so, I received no answer
capable of stemming the pain
that leaked from within my heart.
Perhaps to relieve myself
of my own sense of hopelessness,
I tried to imagine a non-existent future
far brighter than the one
my life already occupied,
and in doing so, I forgot the disheartening truth;
some people are destined only for loneliness.
This did not bring me any closer
to a happy conclusion,
but it certainly enabled my eyes to open
each day onto the truth of a new morn,
without being suckered into the belief
that someone of great value
awaited me the moment this shallow verse
ceased to be written, the proceeding quest
being not for love, an emotion barred to me,
but to find a ladder to a better life
worthy of clinging onto.

Forever Dusk

The sun set on my heart
for the first time this summer,
the colder season immediately approaching
without warning or intent;
an occurrence I never did see coming
until I was drowning
in a storm of ice and frost,
the fires going out
before time could officially be counted.

Battling for a Truest Love

Every minute left undedicated
to the search for your heart,
renders littler chance of settling
beside you. I will not be resolved
of my guilt ridden pain and jealousy
should I fail in this accomplishment,
lusting to take you close and whisper
pleasing affections into your soul.
How I have longed, perhaps even for eternity,
to caress the desires of your passion
with my own, and to rid your bright eyed
vision of any other paramour
who would dare harass my chances
of becoming yours. Despite any greater
distances that may lie ahead,
I stand determined before the trespass
of time, to battle willingly the sparring
opposition. On the eve of this fortunate
recovery, would you look to me
with kindness, and a heart of virtuous
faith in my unlimited romance,
or will you shake with an ominous rhythm,
and instead acknowledge the love
of a certain nameless soul,
nearer to yourself?

A reading of this poem can be found at the following link: http://youtu.be/_hU1QkLN1ak Thanks for visiting!

To the Gal that Writes me Well

When waiting for love, like a bitter disorder,
the haunting loneliness cascades
across the temperate peaks of one’s imagination,
delivering a crushing blow
to all that was wishful affection.
Internally, in my dreams, I hear her whisper words
of much intensity, which drift, like sandpaper,
across the bruised perimeter of my heart,
and upon awakening, my arms
around an always invisible desire,
her name rolling across my tongue;
a name she never hears.
We write and we talk, and frequently
I am forced to pretend that what I feel is non-existent,
and by the time she and I have the courage
to be prescribed that adoring conversation,
the wait which filled the abyss between us
became too steep, and she has found
another, better heart, whereas I am left behind.

A reading of the poem can be found at the following link: http://youtu.be/zuHWdy4JrUo

The Avarice of Unhappiness

Maybe we ought to smash all mirrors
if our fractured reflections
fail to expose the truth.
The supernatural rip cord
attached to this submersible called life
should return us to the plane
where eyes accurately see us most.
But happiness is sadly not the conclusion
promised to us all, with many destined
to relive a certain failure for infinity,
that is always dressed in different clothes.