Ignorance- an original poem

"Bliss & Ignorance" by Kathryn Renee
Bliss & Ignorance” by Kathryn Renee

Is there a difference between ignorance and bliss?
More often than not I find myself wondering this.
In the past I would’ve stacked them as separate tiers,
but now I’m not so sure that things are as they appear.

Ignorance is a coating of concrete atop soil,
acting as adamant armor that seals the cracks of
a loose disposition.
Bliss is the organic and honest puddle that boils,
and as the sun kisses its tears
it smiles in submission.

Separate tiers?
Or shields of fear?

There is no difference between ignorance and bliss,
for incapacity soothes euphoria’s fierce hiss.
It knows of the poisons that shriek the atmosphere,
and wraps its arms around rapture until the skies clear.

 

Advertisements

Liar- an original poem

"Rain Soaked Archer" by Unknown Artist
Rain Soaked Archer” by Unknown Artist

Liar.
Stand before me dressed in your deceit;
look me in the eye and tell me
that the chain of untruths draped around your neck
is nothing but jewelry.
Tell me that each link is but a silver lined
ring, simply a pendant disguised
to look like a noose.
Tell me true.

You can’t.

Liar.
I only see you at the end of my arrow head;
I only see a target, a neck reddened with guilt
and a forehead slick with shame.
Watch out, or else your sweat will freeze
to crystal beads, encrusting your
cheeks in all your splendor-
your wretched, backward splendor.
Now all the world will know.
They’ll spy you, dripping with faux diamonds,
and they’ll see you for what you are-
a fabricator.
Tell me true.

You can’t.

Because you’re a liar.

Darker Purpose- an original poem

"Old Assassin" by Lensar
Old Assassin” by Lensar

What do I believe in?
Huh, that’s funny.
Believe.
Like I had a choice what to believe,
like a silver platter
of gleaming chances was
slapped in front of me at my birth,
and I got to pick
the tastiest of the batch.
Believe.
You’ll learn fast that nothing
is ever given to you in life,
none of these copper-colored dreams
and rosy hopes you speak of,
that reek of delusions
long rotted away.
In the real world, you have to
supply for yourself.
There’s nothing to believe in.
There’s the dirt you have
and how you sculpt it.
Nothing more.

What do I believe in?
That question again…
Yes, once I might have longed
for a greater purpose,
striven to be something of a legend.
Tell me true, don’t we all?
Don’t we all want to be the stuff of
lore, written into the undying saga
of the world, forever
to traipse across history’s pages?
Huh, greater purpose
There is nothing greater than what there is-
the stones and the sky and the sea,
and the thoughts in your head.
I long discarded my greater purpose,
and kicked my potential to the wind.
My ambitions darkened as the
tempest teemed with dust.
I don’t believe in anything,
because nothing is fixed.
You’re born and you live
and you die, and your corpse
becomes another man’s garden,
the dirt that he will build his house upon.
What is there to dream of
when your greatest purpose
is to mold a stranger’s bones,
and then abandon your
skin for the worms?
There is nothing but the
darker purpose and those
who reject it.
Nothing more.


I’ve been experimenting a lot with character types lately. Obviously, the narrator of this poem is more than your average “the glass is half empty” kind of guy. For some reason, I’ve always been fascinated with characters who are considered the darker, antagonist-types. Not necessarily villains- but not a hero by any means. I don’t know; there’s just some kind of appeal they have on me, like I want to delve into their minds and discover their motives. If it’s not clear, I wrote this poem from the point of view of a particular character I’ve been working on, so it doesn’t display my own views in any sense!

Now That You’re Gone- an original poem

"Lines Hold The Memories" by Agnes-Cecile
Lines Hold The Memories” by Agnes-Cecile

I remember your touch,
like the pattering of rain before a storm-
prominent yet gentle,
and warm as it drips onto my skin,
breathing a sigh of warning
for the gale to come.
I do that often now;
remembering.
All I seem to do is remember,
now that you’re gone.
I reach back in time and see your eyes,
alight with playfulness and mystery and intrigue-
and I wonder why you left,
when your blaze was so young.
I wonder a lot of things,
now that you’re gone.
I wonder why the night ever seemed so sweet,
like a blanketing of ink upon
a bed of stars, painting its mellow ‘good night’
across the sky.
Now it just seems cold
and dark and unwelcoming.
The night’s become a stranger,
now that you’re gone.
I wonder why the fire in the hearth,
which once kindled endless embraces
and sparked a passion untold,
seems so dank and dull.
It’s dying, that fire,
if it’s not already dead.
Its embers have dwindled,
crumbling to choking dust,
now that you’re gone.
I remember your voice,
like a long lost melody humming
against my ear, and I can almost
see your lips mold to its tune,
as you sing the night away.
You sing a song to me,
etched with bliss and pain and power,
and I smile as your voice envelopes me.
And I’m happy,
for once.
I do that a lot now;
remembering.
All I seem to do is remember,
now that you’re gone.

Beads of Memories – an original poem

Unknown Artist
Unknown Artist

You live forever in the wind,
and your voice
breaks the waves of the surf.
No matter where I go
you’ll be there,
because your words
streak the sky and the earth.

When the night grows cold
and all the stars seem bleak,
your touch will linger on my lips.
For within these somber halls
there is no light to seek
and I am lost
in the shadow of the
eclipse.

Linked within this chain
I tell you it’s true,
that I am so lost
without you.
Don’t you see
this spell you have cast on me,
strung in the beads of my memories.
Why did you have to go
and leave me lost
and so alone?
Now I have
nothing but my shattered dreams,
dangling in my bruised memories.

Every word you speak’s
another bead to add
to your endless
string of dead promises.
But I’m stronger now
with your beads
strung around my neck,
and I will never
take them off
and acquiesce.


This poem is actually the lyrics to the first few verses for a piano solo I wrote, so it might be a little different from my usual writing. In the future, I might add on to it as I refine and tie together the last loose ends of the piano score.

Tell Me What You See — an original poem

"Daughters of Teheran" by FedericoMusetti
Daughters of Teheran” by FedericoMusetti

Tell me what you see when you look into my eyes.
Is it fury? Frustration? Fire?

Or is it fear?

Fear is a feral serpent, slithering through the slips of time,
always hunting for the most succulent,
untainted and unblemished skin to latch its fangs in to-
the perfect neck to wind around
and squeeze of each last powdery breath.

But it is not fear that roils within my eyes.

I am angry at fear,
for it grips me like any other mortal-
and I am angry at its tail that lashes my back,
knocking me to my knees and demanding my gaze
as I watch it batter my spirit.
I am not without fear, but it does not rule me-
No, fear only bitters the taste in my mouth.

And it’s the taste that angers me.

Tell me what you see when you look into my eyes.
It is not fear, but a fury-
A fury at what I cannot control,
a dread of being paralyzed in what I do not know.
A fury at the fear that swims in my veins.

 

Iron Heart- an original poem

"SpitPaint" by Forozan
SpitPaint” by Forozan

Where I’m going
I must have an iron heart,
stalwart and stony against
the frozen rushes of the night
that ambush in my sleep-
finding food in dreams of yore
and devouring memories.

Where I venture,
mere skin and flesh are poor defenses
against arrows of ice
that rain down on pools
of ripely reaped blood-
and sting my cheeks with metal kisses
that cake my wounds in poison mud.

Where I journey,
only a mortar hide will
shield my spirit, and a
cloak of mail will veil my head
from stranger tears that mewl like acid-
boring sores into my soul,
stringing my hair into ashes.

Where I’m going
I must have an iron heart,
for hearts that bleed beg mercy
from loping shadows of the reach-
weeping red as the storm closes
and praying to the faceless stars
for light to mend their bruises.



Not one of my better poems, but I’ve been fairly busy lately and unable to actually sit down and put effort into it. I’ve been working on a bigger project too, so that’s been taking up a lot of my time.