A Simple Seeming

Once I had a I dreaming that was much more than simple seeming,

Upon finding myself waking I found my form was shaking

With tears that were streaming and voice that with a quavering

Was calling for that feeling that dreaming that so much more than simple seeming

That image of a life, of a living breathing self with a calming caring touch

Something beyond this existence, this simple being

I find myself wanting this feeling this thing that had me living

Had me more than just being, more than a black casket husk

I had a smile, I did know joy, and I had a love all my own

But upon my waking I discovered my woe, because I did behold

Alas, it was but simple seeming, just a bit of careless dreaming.

Nothing more but simple seeming, and yet the seeming won’t be seeming to leave me be.

Splitting at the seams, the careless dream has shattered my hold

Damn and blast that cursed dreaming, that simple seeming that I see upon my sleeping

It won’t leave me be, I can’t forget that feeling that left the tears streaming and oh…

Oh, I wish I could.

 

 

 

Crack in Mind/Knives in My Back

Two steps forward three steps back the cracks in my mind are the knives in my back. My smile breaks apart my legs won’t bear my weight, the cracks in my mind riddle this rotten form of mine. The knives find my back and leave it riddled with tracks of scars, the pain I knew has once more come home to roost, my smile cracks apart, my skull no longer whole, the cracks in my mind begin to show true.

Thoughts on Doubt – Reasons for Lack

Granted, I’ll admit lately I’ve been wondering about the quality of my works, looking at my previous works and wondering if they weren’t childish in some way or shape, and debating if that doesn’t mean that anything I make will seem as such, as if written by a child in crayon attempting to pretend its really the black ink of a fine tipped pen. Doubt, I find, is such an insidious thing that comes from the most unlikely, and rather odd places. Comments from friends, meant to be friendly or somehow just, rather than doubting a word of advice can twist in the shadows of ones mind, causing that leviathan to rise up from inside one’s self, only to gnaw and feast on what little confidence one might have as it whispers spiteful phrases and points to all those things you’ve done wrong, all those things you’ve noticed yourself, and then points to those that say you’re good, and reminds you, that perhaps they simply feel obligated to say as much, to say such empty praise to a friend to make sure they don’t feel, wronged, in some way. The empty polite words offered in a misguided kindness rather than in bright, painful truth.

Perhaps this simply means I should write more, write of the slaying of my own demons, those twisted things that whisper of horror and violence, the same things that grant me inspiration but cause me to feel that my stories, my poems and words lack the emotion needed to carry a true tale along. You see, I’ve debated on trying to submit some of my shorter stories, or writing new ones for submission, to those publications that might find them as I do, but I can’t help but fear that shadowed leviathan that dwells within me, that voice that tells me to doubt for I’ve no reason to believe. However, again, I’ve no recourse but to believe, but to proceed and walk forward for going back is not an option and well, if one story fails for a time I suppose one might say that failure is limited, it is not the fault of the publisher not finding it worthy, it something flawed that simply must be polished more I suppose.

True failure is not found in the lack of success, but in the lack of any attempt to succeed at all, and in the face of that knowledge, I suppose doubt is nothing more than a shadowed whisper upon the wind, barely there and nothing to pay heed to past the acknowledgment of knowing ones flaws, and attempting as best one may to correct these.

Only I Remain

There is only I, for We have vacated and They have left, the husk that was known has long be gone to shadow and waste for Me has gone to take to task Who, those that dared destroy the Us by siding with Them. Shadows and tatters and little bright fetters, only I remain, to sing a tune and dance at noon while drinking the moon away.

I remain to sing and dance, sing this tune, and I can eye the world view, see the pollution of the that was once belonging to My or Me, either or don’t you see? I can see just fine, and yet at times I perhaps wonder if this poison has caused me to be blind, the images a perception of a hallucination of a fevered troubled mind, as I dance at noon and sing this tune, with only shadows and tatters and little bright fetters to call a place of home.

But Me was cruel and They were quite mad, Us was foul and Them never cared to say a kindness or offer a passing aid, perhaps perhaps I’ll sing them back one day, with this tune I forgot but remembered but only just made. Cobbled together of broken pieces of shadows, little tatters of light and bright shiny fetters I’ll simply dance and dance until all comes back, and They returns and Me is new, Us and Them no longer fight but become We once more, and perhaps with this I will be restored and eyes will see clear past the haze the shady dream scenes of troubled tortured days that pass at night in tattered painful frights. Yes, until then I remains, to sing this tune and dance at noon and drink the moon away.

 

Chorus of Echoes (Thoughts on Music)

The echoes reverberate all around, the chorus of music, that symphony of sound.

The choir does sing and the band does play and all we want to do is dance to the tune, to sing and sway.

The echoes reverberate all around, the chorus of music, that symphony of sound.

It worms its way inside my heart, inside my soul, breaking through that dark and sorrowful glow, until once more the smile within again does revive enough to show.

The smile does gleam as I sway to the sound, as I move to the chorus of echoes, that symphony that does cradle and surround.

Music is a relief, a release and way to meet, a way to meet my muse I love, that muse I adore.

Who once again rests upon my shoulder, whispering sweet inspiration into my ear one more.

Two Muses

I have muses, two, one is kind and bright but weary of life. The other is not born of me, not inside my mind, but within my soul, it is the drag of life, the scars that don’t show. The pain that burns, that sears my mind and poisons me so, it builds and builds until the dams must burst and wounds re-open unless I purge and let it go, fearful of not indulging that poison muse for fear of making the pain worse. A cruel task master, the whip wielded by life, it cracks and sears upon my soul and upon my mind until I take up the pen, the ink my own life blood and jot my pain, my agony upon paper with words and deed, letting the poison out, sewing the seeping wound once more with words for all to see.

I’m Sorry I Sorrow So

Tired of sorrow so I’m sorry I sorrow so, I never meant to worry you, climbing so high I never thought to fall at all.

I’m tired of sorrow so I’ll say one last time I’m sorry I worried you so and now its morning and your mourning for a friend that climbed too high and never thought to think of that fall at all.

Someone who needed to be above the clouds just to feel safe to breath, the press of bodies the swell of souls was to much to bare, to know.

So I climbed higher still and never thought to fall never thought to slip or tumble, or worry towards that at all.

So I’m tired of sorrow, I’m tired of mourning but I’m sorry I brought you to it. The last apology, the sorrow of a sorrowful poet, my tears have dried and my years have gone, and gone without any kind of love or hope, just mourning every morning, and sorrows every night, I couldn’t rest I couldn’t stop so I reached and reached towards those glorious heights but I never meant for you to hurt for my hurt, my inability to stand the press of people and the swell of souls, and that dreadful wound that was the only emotion I was ever to know.