seventeen

Don't leave me behind––

They ask for too much,

forever wanting,

Wanting me

to satisfy them in their infinitely individual ways,

to pride myself on their satisfaction,

ingesting their fears,

washing away their despair

I see their countenance every day,

dissatisfaction every hour,

disregard every minute.

It's true.

I can't satisfy them.

In the end, they don't care about me

Why do they so hunger

for eighteen?

What can she do

that I can't?

What is she to them?

Another opportunity?

Another chance to

––what––

fail again?

What is eighteen––

but an artificiality

constructed by the past

disgraced by the future

––What––

Can she

satisfy them?

Can anything––

but their illusions?

––illusive––

––elusive––

When I was with them, they did everything

––to help me––

everything

––to help themselves––

but it's too late, they've given up

––on me––

––on themselves––

They can't satisfy themselves.

Once I lie dying in the dust

they might reach for––

nonexistent freedom,

false hope,

blind conviction,

But they're them.

They couldn't

and they won't.

They could never,

and they will never

Not without me. So––

Don't leave me behind––

Not like the other two millennia.

Not like sixteen.

Don't leave me behind––

Necessity

There are kings

—of wasteland,
ruling the domains of the discarded,
the realms of the abandoned,
the lands long left behind.

There are knights

—of failure,
shame is their steed,
aberration their armor,
blindness their blade.

There are creators

—of destruction,
erecting chaos,
forging blight,
compiling oblivion.

But there lies in all

—a resident but necessary evil:
in every crown guilt,
in every helm doubt,
in every mind mania,

And thus the most capable leaders,
the most vigilant guardians,
the most ingenious thinkers,
who warrant the highest regard,

—also merit, in some ways, the least.





Are we not all kings and knights and creators in our own ways? Mind the necessity as with all questions of balance. Mind the risk, the reward, the trials, but none too much. If only...if—

Fallen Petals

I suppose
A rose
Is naught
But fraught,
Not
With love,
For such a dove
Is of
Optimism,
Slaughtered
By its very thorns,
Caught
Red on red
On the bull's horns,
Sought,
Hard-fought,
And yet left to rot,
Distraught,
Taut
Between worlds of fakes,
An onslaught
Of uncaught
Mistakes,
And one is all it takes,

Indeed a rose
Is wrought
From the darkest thoughts,
Deepest betrayals,
Sharpest hatred,
Heaviest burdens,
For fate
Is not
So kind
As to bind
Without breaking
Find
Without forsaking,
So too is the barbed arrow
Thus shot.





I suppose, additionally, that this poem has a hint of rap to it; that's not exactly intentional, but I guess that's what rap is at its finest and deepest. Might it be Pleonasm in Rap? Well, that defeats the purpose of the genre, but imagine in another world, where such works are treated differently, almost as hybrids of rhyme and free verse. In a world where these works are embellished with the nuances of poetry, just as they are tarnished by the shadows of themes inseparable from their more elegant counterparts. Might I call rap...light? Not that I have the knowledge nor the expertise to make such bold statements. Nevertheless, onward we proceed.

Also may I point out that the long-sought "double-edged arrow" metaphor...is impractical. Thus we rely on the fallen petals at hand, for as much as we might try to deny it, they're everywhere.