Value of the gold of gods
diminished in the eyes of men.
Atrocities of blood long shod
Convince us not to start again.
Death, destruction, fear and doubt,
A people running, hiding scared.
Glass in the throat. We cannot shout.
It’s war and we are unprepared.
Electric tongues of famous faces
spit their lines amongst deaf ears.
They try to shock, their lies leave traces;
lightening scars awash with tears.
Athena won’t you come to me,
explain the reason for this woe?
She will not come, our destiny,
to take a seat and watch the show.
Smothered in a napalm blanket,
tiny hands begin to reach
up into the flames that drank it.
No more children left to teach.
Through echoes of the promised land
the sound of drums attempt to tell
the story we don’t understand:
we are the reason we’re in Hell.
They arm themselves with dictionaries
for words too striking to ignore.
They slip them into policies
they don’t explain, but kill the poor.
Cry me a river, grab an oar.
O, Amphitrite strike me down!
They took our freedom, then took more.
Faith can’t save us. Let me drown.
There is a lesson left to learn:
do not succumb to this defeat.
Through glass walls we watch it burn
and play our mantra on repeat.
“O, woe is me, this world is cruel.
Please, no more, my heart will break”.
We make our coffins, fit to rule,
and lay down in them. Our mistake.
O, why must I be Hamlet?
Two feet walking step by step
along a line that is paved with blood.
Poison in my heart, pierced.
To my left I see a family,
all smiling like they mean it, yet
plotting my demise.
I must deny you, sweet girl.
The right is all-destroying Darkness.
Though true, it’s right, but is it right?
Whether ‘tis nobler to agree,
or walk the endless walk of Time
and His cruel agony,
perhaps soft Sleep will tell. To sleep
perchance to dream. Dream forever.
O, Ophelia, why can I not choose like you?
Sleeping with the fish, warm in the riverbed,
I envy you.
To sleep the final sleep, it’s true,
may not have been your choice.
But you could make one.
The crazy girl that sung
and broke out in hysterics just because she could,
because your fate was sealed by foul lips
that uttered words like nails to your coffin.
You were so pretty. They thought it a waste.
You made the choice to take it, crushed
though you were by the weight of your rejection.
I could not, cannot, choose.
I walk the line once more, my dear Ophelia.
I do not, will not, drown.
My eternal Princess of the deep.
I am but Hamlet,
and I’ll never choose.
from a voicebox unprepared.
Physical, the trepidation
of the sentence, piercing.
Trapped between the walls
that make them.
Broken letters lose their meaning.
Harsh are the shards
of a syntax born of Mutiny
A fist unclenching in
the throat of the destroyer.
They will not come.
Glass fragments of Soul’s window
those suicidal words of murder.
A knot entangled in
the fleshy chamber, lodged
somewhere behind the traitor tongue.
Intent betrayed to silence.
But for the throbbing ache
that stabs in spite,
all is unchanged.
He shall not bleed.
swirling torment over water;
destruction in a blink;
here one moment;
gone the next.
Never does it solve itself,
the grey skyline confliction.
Never will the dust settle
on this heavenly candyfloss annihilation.
Above the water,
where the shipwrecks sleep,
an ever-watching pair of eyes
awaits the fall.
Mind and iris.
Fuzzy edges of a feeling.
Sense nonsensical and
meticulous line of poison red.
Slice of rust.
Liquid pulsing into
flakes of coal-stained ruby.
forever etched now with those screams.
Oppression in a vaccuum.
All is lost.
Busy busy like a bee,
Noise always surrounding me,
Buzzing buzzing all the time
Makes me think I’ll lose my mind.
It’s hard to take it anymore,
Don’t think I’ll make it out the door
Of my external world of pain
That’s trying hard to shred my brain.
This hurt, this anger, every day
Is getting worse and I can’t say
That I will make it out alive
If I am forced to live this lie.
Pain pain pain pain in my head,
Now the noise wants me instead.
Knives knives burying themselves inside
The segments of my inner mind.
Cutting cutting cutting deep
And making me forget if sleep
Is help or hindrance to me now
That I can’t tell my up from down.
Constant constantly it drones
And makes me hurt and makes me moan
And forces me to figure out
If anything I write about
Is ever going to help me gain
Some sense of semblance here again.
The noise, the noise, it buries me.
It drives me to insanity.
And yet, the silence soothes my nerves.
It calms me. It restores the words.
Quiet. Quietly I stay
Here in this world of night and day.
The sun is harsh, the heat it burns,
But darkness, though it scares me, turns
The hum and bustle of waking hours
Into something that empowers.
I can do this if I just believe,
Tune out the noise, don’t panic,
Can you spot the literary technique? Hey, hey, can you? Probably not, but that’s not important. NaPoWriMo #3 is all about the truth of trying to write poetry. In all it’s glory, this is Poetry is Hard.
People don’t understand the difficulty.
Over and over I try to piece the language together.
Every time it gets harder
To state profoundly a message to the world.
Really, I don’t know what I’m doing.
Yet I keep trying.
I fail often,
Scrap more often still. Paper baseballs in the bin.
How can we continue to create in this world of language mutation?
Anyone would think we’d forgotten how.
Rarely do I now find myself interweaving hidden messages in imagery.
Don’t underestimate the craft: poetry is hard.