The ink of the poet’s pen wails on paper,
releasing passion onto pages,
telling of love, remembrance and anguish.
The sky is set on fire, and words are eloquently put together;
the poet weeps — writing in-between bouts of insomnia.
Memories do not die, they only sleep,
to be awakened again in vivid recollection.
They tell of a childhood lost, the wants of intimacy and love,
and pain exposed in its rawness.
Tears fall on rough drafts as they are discarded;
the heart whispers, and the hand narrates what can’t be ignored.
The pen itself weeps, as it is infused with the author’s agony;
it bleeds the dark ink that continues to tell a story.
He is no Poet Laureate,
but what he conveys is an emptying of the soul and transparent;
in his world, the summers are hotter and the winters colder.
In his world, the soul whispers the things of the innermost, at the writer’s hour.
Tag: Life
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In her travail, she remembers to love herself, dry her eyes and deeply inhale.
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“If it is not right do not do it; if it is not true do not say it.”
—Marcus Aurelius
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You took my once cold heart
And gently wrapped it in your warmth
I had lost faith in love
Because I had been hurt
But you became my saving grace
And I learned to once again embrace
True intimacy
When I began to touch your face
And then the tears streamed
And my soul screamed
As I released emotions from a place
I didn’t know I had within me
Then held you in my embrace
And it was then you told me
What you saw in me
And we wept together
While my spirit poured out
All the love that I had in me
And then I lovingly
Whispered three words to you
In sincerity -
We were but striplings, some without mothers, some without fathers, running wild in the night unafraid of pitch darkness with hearts of lions. Our aura glowed beautifully in the souls of us; we laughed and we wept in fierce countenance. We were young, yet many were the trials for us; our bodies skinny and undeveloped, so in the company of monsters we fought with tears and dreamt of vengeance. To keep the pain from sorrowful and depressed grandmothers, some held in their agony and kept the devastating silence. Go back in time, and look into the eyes of us. Move past the innocent smiles, and see the hurt in us. The unresolved pain of our past is the illness of us. We cry on the graves of our mothers and curse the abandonment of our fathers. If I could, I would take away the trauma from all of us. We seek heaven’s light to take away the darkness. They are scarred, and they are beautiful. They are my brothers. They are my sisters. Still, now, with the blood of hope, and with the blood of vengeance, we survive tormented summers and bitterly cold winters.
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You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this,
and you will find strength.
—Marcus Aurelius -
When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious
privilege it is to be alive — to breathe, to think, to enjoy,
to love.
– Marcus Aurelius -
Wailing is heard in darkness behind heavy black curtains;
The sorrowful long for the light,
But the darkness constantly whispers—
Cradling in its womb like a perpetually pregnant mother.
An umbilical cord of despondency feeds its blind baby;
The child is gaunt and withered within four walls;
Its amniotic sac of agony is the purgatory of dark halls.
The melancholic stumble listlessly,
Holding on to wooden bannisters lest they fall.
The precious tears of the tormented are cried in unbridled lamentation;
The flesh is weary, but still sleep is not found.
In the hell of insomnia the afflicted are bound.
The dark mother tries to sooth her kicking child
With the singing of perfidious lullabies;
It is calculating and vicious in its lies.
There must be a delivery for the baby to survive.
Dark pupils must see the sunshine;
The mother’s milk must not be ingested—
It is the milk of unceasing agony and poison;
Her whispers of love and safety are not genuine.
She causes the once strong to fall to their knees and crawl.
The tears of her children are scattered between anguished calls;
Witness the final moments of her torment
On blood soaked sheets and blood spattered walls.
See the transfixed open eyes of those that long cried.
No reprieve was found; there was no sunshine.
There was no light to illuminate desolate nights;
Still, the darkness whispers, trying to sell her wares.
The light must be found lest they all disappear;
At 4 AM, in darkness, gaunt hands rub against walls feeling for stairs;
In front of unlit fireplaces, in worn chairs,
The despondent sit listlessly;
In darkness, they stare. -
Shirley Horn – Here’s To Life
Released: 1992 -
Blood runs from my crown; my heavy cross is stained.
Heavy head with crown I stand under torrential rain.
Distilled and then purified by fire seven times again I feel no pain.
They seek to destroy me permanently, blind me, and take my name;
They will never take my name.
When the love is gone, it’s gone, it could never be the same.
Pupae in various stages of travail we have all become butterflies of pain.
I weep with anticipation of the day that I shall reclaim.
Though I have faltered, angels with broad white wings
Surround me to cover my shame;
Mortality is often pondered and then pondered again.
Hope wanes in cold winter winds so prayers to heaven I send.
After the heart is broken something in the spirit bends;
Subconsciously I had held back pieces of me,
So to finally mend, the pieces of me, to myself I will lend.
Love sometimes comes and goes, and like a crushed burgundy rose petal,
There is staining and scarring of the soul;
We were all young once hoping to be old,
But now aged men in cold seek warmth for old and brittle bones.
Even the dust of us will retain our essence
With love and beauty, revealing long past years of romance untold.
They had witnessed my previous form but were not privy to see me transform
Into a king with power sovereign in gorgeous starlight reborn.
An orchestra plays with the lead violinist in passionate depths of forlorn;
With a heavy crown in rain, I reign through storms.
In white linen and fine silk with gold borders I am adorned;
In white linen and fine silk with gold borders I am adorned.
Intimate Compositions 