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Silent Things

I dream of silent things
Creeping like phantoms,
Forgoing all dreamscapes,
Softly placing themselves
Into my very heart and soul.

Shadows lengthen, drawing out
Cold breaths that leave me shaken.
Held, rooted to a single spot.
And so it is, and so it shall be.

And here, among the blackened hills
Sit the scavengers. They do not weep.
Their eyes are gone, blinded by sight.
They speak coarsely, dull whispers
That send the mind reeling.

I have paced among them,
Here where the shadows seep,
Brining my silent dreams
Into the cocaphony of nightmares.
And here I die.

Death has but one form,
And I dream of silent things
Creeping like phantoms;
Softly placing themselves
Into my very heart and soul.

Your last poem reminds me of a story I just posted oddly enough. It's called Through the Eyes of Death. As always your poetry it beautiful!

Sadness Never Dies

Words lie unheeded in a rubble strewn yard.
Some backwoods corner of the mind
With fogs rolling in from time to time.

The world has moved on, so they say,
So says he with the gun.
Words strung together pointlessly.

The cogs are broken. The machine does not move
Does not shudder under rusty joints,
It is dead. Its heart is dead.

Look to the sea, it will tell you all you need to know.
The sea holds all your memories in itself.
Those even you cannot recall.

He is born upon a cross.
A cross to bear, for all, for none.
No saviour he.

These pages, these last words, senseless,
Broken. Watching the dawn come up I am reminded:
Sadness never truly dies.

One road to walk, one path to tread,
Heaped burden on burden, I carry my dead.
The skeletons piled; one on the other.
This one my sister; that one my brother.

How long has it been, since my last rest?
A sheltered place, removed from this test.
My will, my hopes, nothing but smoke.
A shriek, I cry, I do naught but choke.

Lonesome is this road I walk.
Absent, of even crows' squawk.
I once possessed a name, that I recall.
That was before my nightmares took all.

And into this night, this void of black.
Time cannot be rewritten, no going back.
Here shall I sleep, my cries unsounded.
The world claiming: my fear's unfounded.

One road to walk, one path to tread,
Heaped burden on burden, I carry my dead.
The skeletons piled; one on the other.
This one my sister; that one my brother.

I have seen the madness in mens' souls, and its name is love.
No passion turns more swiftly in upon itself,
One moment it is the grandest of triumphs;
The next it has left you with ashes,
A private wasteland of the soul.

A private wasteland of the soul

I like this

On The Subject of Silence and Other Things

One of the most frequent motifs I use within my work is that of silence. Not merely the absence of sound, but simply emptiness in and of itself. And, Oddly enough, while poetry is often a reflection of the author's mind, or emotional state, I cannot say that my poetry always reflects that. Looking back over these pages I realize that any readership I have had since I mostly abondoned this thread, must assume I am some deeply tormented and, (I loathe to say this) stereotypically what one would consider "emo"...

I won't deny I'm a little emotionally bent out of shape, I do suffer depression, however, I do believe I read somewhere that highly creative individuals suffer mental illnesses far more commonly (don't quote me on that). However, to me scilence is comforting. Even in some of my darkest works (many not posted) silence offers the reader (and writer) the reprieve needed. I include silence as a means to breathe within my own work.

On the other hand, I realize I turned this thread into an emotional dumping ground, using it to post, more often than not, inadequate work. I would like to revert back to what I had originally planned for this thread, to showcase my talent as a writer, not merely a poet. Hopefully someone from ye olden days of AG (well kinda?) can find a new readership to entertain. It seems my old critics have either left or visit far too infrequently, which I can't blame them, I did the same. So, shall we begin?

Thanks and Goodnight

I remember the nights we stayed up until 2am,
Wondering if this lifestyle would come to an end.
Or, at least I did. You, you knew already.

Charely D. once told me that they were the best
Of times. They were the worst of times.
Man, I wish I had listened back then; when it mattered.

But, now, years gone on, I look back, and yeah,
I can see us at 2am. Finding the secret hearts,
Of eachother, lying to ourselves. To myself.

These are the words you an buy, at any gas station
Convience store, just out by Route 5. If you know
Where to look and when. Cheap things these,

What with there barely half altered sounds. Choking
On the fumes that they made.But man, those were
The nights. Waking up at 2am, just to find an empty bed.

Or, at least that's what I do these days. You're gone
And I can still look back and see you. I'm glad you're gone,
Honest. Time isn't suposed to stand still.

But those were the nights where 2am didn't feel like an
Empty Pepsi can, coated in dust and grime. Yeah,
Those nights meant something. Thanks. I guess.

There are boundaries
And then there are
Boundaries.

One will keep us
Safe. The other will
Keep us.

Fear is a
Poison. No more,
No less.

Time time time
All for the reckoning of time
And to show, to depart from bliss and ignorance
To stand
To fall and fall.

To fall again. Oh, what of time
Time for all and none and all again
We speak and speak with no
Passion.

And speak again, oh speak speak!
To me to her to him to all.
There is no time to speak
Just time to fall fall fall.

To weep, to laugh to hold
To push
Away.
The time we shared and that we didn't
Of things we knew
And those we forgot.
There is no time
No time now, nor ever
To go back to go forward

No time to look to touch to tase to see
To hear to sense, for this.
This.
This. This.
This. This. This.

Is the end.

Hollow

I am a shell, a stuffed man
So T.S Eliot once said.
Leaning together.

Faithful pain you were old
But now new. New, not in the means,
But the ends.

To sleep, to dream, to suffer.
Meloncholly is all I know.
I apologize, dearest reader.

The Woman, not the Girl.
Has stolen my heart and wits.
She outshines the Girl.

Aaahhhh...
Let but this piece end,
I am but a stuffed man.

What Love Is

I have learned that there is a difference between
Falling in love and
Being in love.
When one falls in love, it is simply that.
Falling. Weightless. Hoping against hope
That someone, anyone, will catch you.
Because of this, falling in love
Is not being in love.
Being in love is reciprocated. Shared
Between two individuals.
Being in love brings both passion
And temperment. To be in love is to be static.
Immovable until love itself changes.
When you fall you fall alone,
And falling is the uncertainty that plagues us all.
And that,
Is the difference of being and falling in love.

What I most enjoy is how the uncertainty of falling in love is reflected by the irregularity in the legnth of the lines. Well done, sir.

Lack

There is a lack.
A lack of breath
Of space and time.
A lack of blood it seems.
My heat beats.
And words echo dimly.
I see you clearly,
Beyond all recognition
My heart breaks;
Again.

For Women (Spoken Word)

Now, I don't want to be rude, crude or anywhere in between.
It's not a defense, an offense
I'm not trying to be obscene. And I am
Sorry, honnest, if it comes of that way. I'm good,
At least at heart.
See it's hard sometimes. When you're there
Swirling around me like an intangible mist.
You're beyond reach, and I keep running into solid figures,
But they're all wrong see. They don't fit quite right.
Or they can't fit, because they're taken.
Not that you're possessions.
But that's a man's thought, and my weakness,
At least to you and your judgements; because
Men are men are men. We're weak
And we're not allowed to be. There's no screaming
No yelling and crying, only fists and violence
Blaphemeous destroying.
I'm not like that though.
I.
I work words, I try to at least; I spin tales
Write poems and scrawl essays and numerous blackboards,
And I most certainly wear
My heart.
On my sleeve. It isn't safe there, I know, but I can't help it.
I'm incomplete.
I
am
Incomplete.
There, I said it happy? ... no? I didn't think you would be.
A lack that feeling.
No, that isn't it. I lack the feeling be returned to me.
Reciprocated. You know the meaning of the word?
Half the time I don't think you do.
You play games, you judge, you laugh, mock ignore.
I'm not innocent. I judge too.
We size each other up, hoping to take home some mythic prize.
Like the Holy Grail.
But here's the thing: I'm willing to take chances.
I'm willing to lay my heart down.
But that scares you, doesn't it? A man who isn't a man.
There's my conflict. Me. Myself. I.
Well, that's fine. I think I've said all that needs saying.
I'm sorry then, if you're offended, or even apalled.
I think I'll leave now.
Goodnight.