The Poet in Black

I hope my present and future
can get along
because they left my past
out cold in the rain.

My blog’s 2 today :D

Her heart is an abstraction
Collapsed upon itself
It gave and gave
But received nothing
in return.

Tears were rivers on her face
But hate was fire in her veins
So her heart devoured shadows
To fill an implacable void
Until it became the negative
Of the picture it once was.

Drowned by dreams and
Subtle things
Turning to not but dust.

I’ve lost perspective
Too busy searching the clouds
For silver linings.  

We are simply
finite things
that restlessly roam
trying to be what
we will never be;
endless, eternal
and however we try
be it words or song
or legacy or grace
We are simply
spring blossoms
that fall into decay.

Are we ever really happy?
Or do we find contentment
In things we despise?

Do people ever change?
Or do we discern the truth
Past a veil of lies?

Are we really that blind?
Or do we just not care
To open our eyes?

I hear your words
upon a breath of wind
but they’re not for me—
they’re for love I rescind,
tirelessly sought
in cavern, under rock
endlessly bought
with gold and praise.
Love cannot be found
Love cannot be priced
Love breaks worlds without a sound
it drowns them in oceans
of lust and devotion
Love turns to hate
in moments, in years
until it dissipates
And we are left here
without.

Wise men write dogma,
they write books,
they compile words like numbers,
and turn fiction into fact.
Poets never write
because that implies “wisdom”.
They string emotions
into syllables and wear
such chains around their
neck. Wise men don’t
know emotion and don’t
write such things.
Wise men can’t wear
emotions like rubies
like sweet sanguine rain
trailed upon a poet’s lips.
Wise men choke on scripture
as to never bloom,
Never breathe. Wise men
Claim to be wise men
Despite what poets
Burning dogma
Say.

Some people are fools
others are just lost
looking for rules
to live by while here.

Some people are brave
or maybe fools too
looking for those to save
without even a clue.

Meaning has lost itself
upon the wind and tide
though reason is lost
by such laws I can’t abide
I make reason from the rhyme
find a way to confide
all my secrets upon skin
so they cannot be taken
by the wind.

Why does he insist
On telling me all about
Her?
Does he just revel
In breaking my heart
That much?

It’s there.
Always there.
An aching cavern
where blackness yearns
to be free, to consume
me in eternal gloom.
I think my soul’s still there,
broken by the stress and wear.
Oh god,
how it screams.
Just agony begging
to rip at the seams.
Flimsy boards and
rickety doors
cover this pit—
hide me from
the pit.
But it’s there.
Always there.

I’m unable to give form
to words weighing heavy
upon my chest, sleeping
in my lungs where wind
has long since vanished,
leaving my throat a dusty
tunnel, where only
tumbleweeds of syllables
fall desiccated past these
lips like ridges
far to broken for their
own good.

I fear the morning
I wake to find you missing
From this lonely bed.

Sometimes she forgets
Today is just a day
Among thousands
And he is a just a boy
Among millions.
That betrayal
Is painful, but
Transitional.
That what doesn’t
Kill you
Makes you stronger.

She makes lines
Of demarcation
Upon her wrists
Every time
She forgets.

Write
With endless abandon
Until you make stones bleed
Inspiration.