My cross is heavy. Tired, I drag it slowly; navigating hidden paths to avoid those that may try to hurt me. In the darkness of the night with blood and heavy sweat I stumble and fall on one knee. Splinters of weathered wood tear into me. My cross is heavy but it is mine to carry; looking back with tears in the wind I see, and hear the moans and cries of those just like me. In droves we walk slowly, and carry on in pain; blood drips on snow, dirt, grass, concrete and open road, and is washed away by rain. Bloodshot eyes are teary and filled with rage. In the book of tears with millions of chapters and soiled with blood, I angrily write another page.
Tag: Writing
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The eyes that hide the hell inside
Are with disdain just cast aside,
For deep inside it thus abides
And causes fear and sudden cries.For people look and wide they stare.
The worst of them with hating glare.
If long enough in the eyes they look,
It is then with shock they see the tearful book. -
If I could, I would turn your tears into diamonds;
I will take shelter in the memories of our warmth,
Hoping that precious love again will find us. -
Tears spill on paper as the anguished write final letters.
Eyes stare up at beautiful bright moonlight on a clear night,
As warm blood turns cold in the snowy winter. -
They feign empathy but are filled with apathy.
From duplicitous lips they speak words of understanding,
But in the deep pit of darkness they leave you standing;
Alone we are born and alone we die;
Alone we seek joy and alone we cry;
Alone we crawl through blue fires of suffering and are purified;
Alone we are redeemed with blue fires of resolve in our eyes;
For we know the treachery of their false sympathy;
Sweet lips throw poisonous daggers of hateful words upon discovery. -
In the final act, illness is unveiled in its true ugliness, raw hideousness, and utter mercilessness; when blood flows from open veins and the eyes from behind which it lies, are bloodshot and teary from torment and unceasing cries.
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In illness the emaciated and anguished take painfully slow steps in darkness.
The quiet torment of loneliness captures and devastates in its stillness.
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When black lace gloves are laid on finely polished wooden dressers and the long procession is over, in stillness she sits at her beauty vanity and stares into the mirror. Thoughts of sorrow and anger forcefully take over. Silent tears stream as she wipes off her makeup; clothes are taken off and left strewn on varnished wooden floors. To crawl into bed is all she can muster; he is gone now, and will never come back to her. And what of the children’s tears? She must grieve in painful secrecy for they need the strength of their mother. Fall has come, and alone in tearful anguish she awaits the bitter cold of the winter.
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With whispers of sweet nothings
Lovers undressed her body,
But could never undress her soul.
The depths of her; her very essence,
They would never know.
Intimate Compositions 