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––

Dues Payed

One-two, one two, and through and through,
  As life doth take its native hue,
Once-more, once-more, and rage and roar,
  But whisper too what thank thou for,
Come all, come all, to watch us fall,
  Thrice gaspéd wind a moment crawl,
Now see, now see, 'tis only we,
  Hence heed the call to set us free.





A random tidbit of everything and nothing, written in the barely-alive non-darkness of post-autumn. Pseudo-Shakespeare + Caroll anyone?

Starbound

"It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;"
And as the clouds tossed to and fro,
   So did the aimless, fearless we.

Two perfect rings as the seagull sings,
   Forever together as long as can be,
And the tide brought things––such perfect things
   To this kingdom by the sea,
Tributes to us, for we were kings,
   Annabel Lee and me.

Four eyes on the dusk as our shadows drew
   Long against the longing we,
As the wind blew the night into
   Our kingdom by the sea,
And the crescent in our sky came to,
   We ventured we were free...

But starbound cries are naught but lies,
   And our love was not to be,
The gull's replies sink into sighs,
   Heaving as the sorrowful sea,
And as the torrent dies, the current dies,
   From my feet the spirits flee.

It's time to say my last goodbyes,
To my beautiful Annabel Lee.





Of course, based on "Annabel Lee" by Edgar Allen Poe. Isn't divergence poetry fun? From dark thoughts come darker thoughts, and thus from poetry poetry. From rhyme rhyme, and from convolution convolution.

But truly: is there any real way to dispel remorse? We all cannot help but find our own answers, through our own Annabel Lees, in our own kingdoms by the sea, just as we cannot help but fear the seagull's song.

A Sprinting Feeling

As sprint to sprint,

So feel to feel,

A lifetime perched upon a reel,                           

And breath to dying breath gives way,

As ashen air from shattered clay,

Ungentle light a bidden blade,

As broken seal by solemn spade,

Exhausted skies by thunder heave,

As tarnished steel the rager reave,

Immortal from the mortal flee,

As faulted stars strike dark decree,

As feel from feel,
So sprint from sprint,
A lifetime birthed of foul flint.





Because who can tire of such poetry as this? Just a spurt of energy in the endless chasm of life, in the infinite vacuum of that which is not, in the unfathomable void of––

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—

Lingua

These walls that close us in,
Disparate cells devoid of sound,
A prison to twist the soul,
A jail to shatter the thought.
Where nothing seeks,
And nothing is sought.

Reeking of the lightless stars,
Scorched by the lava of Libras and Leos,
Melted into a dormant crater,
Into a lifeless sky of ash.
A deafening storm,
But a silent crash.

Where music drops into static,
And color slips into smoke,
Flaring rifts to part the flames,
Stabbing secants through the ring,
And even as starlight ebbs, 
Arcs apart so somberly sing.

What once rang true,
So through and through,
Resigns to death,
With dying breath,
And leaves behind,
A world confined,
A nescient drought,
When words run out...





For what remains when thought is naught? What remains when all is consumed, when the world becomes everything yet nothing? Thus, appreciate language for what it is––and what it isn't. And wield words well for the betterment of all. #wieldwordswell maybe? (also this was originally completely white but it isn't for the sake of mobile users who lack the weapon of command-a)

Taking Inventory

              A single black hair, two

          unreturned pencils, fifty captured

         moments, three keys, a million locks,

      a family picture frame, a box of firewood,

   a handful of courage, a pen for when, a lie for

why, the line between goal and purpose, the moral

of an old fable, an untaken shot, the pennies from

the cashier, two fallen petals, a dozen unhatched

eggs, a sibling's advice, a dewdrop of resolve,

three impossible words, a paper towel's worth of

spilled coffee, twelve footsteps, three seconds

of complete failure, two backwards glances,

an unopened bottle of ink, an infinity of

doubts, thirty fumbling syllables, an

unshed tear, two meters of thread

unwound, a shattered mirror,

a white colored pencil, the

covers of an empty book,

some guilt, thirty regrets,

two seeking eyes,

one unbroken

silence of

what will

never

be.

This is the half of the tale we all hear. Indeed, this is the half many of us experience for ourselves, and along with it all the unsought emotions and sentiments. On another note, this is the side of poetry I rarely explore. Perhaps it warrants a quick foray...or two?