I do intend to illustrate that sometimes, real art does come from the darker side of human experiences and emotions- because, I think, those are the ones which move us to create and express. There are one or two of these for which I cannot name the subjects; I really just can't remember what or who I was writing about. I tend to try to write cryptically enough that I can express myself without anyone realizing what I'm talking about- (and that, folks, is called passive aggressiveness...ha!) So, in the process, I've forgotten one or two myself.
But for many, I remember exactly what was going on at the time, and who was involved, with a lot of fresh intensity- not fresh intensity in a bad way. I'm not damaged and hurting and holding grudges, bebes- just remember what I was feeling.
This kind of writing is just purely me expressing emotions. It's always kindof a freeverse.
Anyway, here they are. Some are titled; some aren't.
Passive.
Beauty lay in the eye of the beholder, and so
He cast her upon his pedestal,
High enough to hide, from her verdant hands
Its clumsy foundation;
High enough to hide from her
The whispers of the ones who told him
She was nothing but a passalong;
A distraction and a runt.
She stood upon it,
Never nervous of a crack;
Never knowing they were there-
And then, when his illusion could scarce stand another day,
He took her gently in his hands;
Her yellow rays tender and trusting
And set her on the floor--
He picked up his jagged knife
And piece by piece,
Destroyed his own foundation-
And ran.
By the pieces that fell, he so unknowingly
Tore her leaves in such a way
That the beauty--or only its half--was left
Reduced to a saltless tear.
October 26, 2011
And who may say, for certain,
That rust bleeds from the rogue's heart,
or that Angels don't have scars?
June 14, 2011
Trudge on, Weary Footsoldier
Trudge on, weary foot soldier, while your world is torn apart
When the winds and rains and outright pains ne'er seem with you to part
And consoling word becomes hardly heard; merely duct tape to the heart.
Trudge on, weary foot soldier, when you feel you cannot stand;
For when you cannot, and you feel distraught, inner strength you must demand.
Keep the will to wear and endure the tear, and life's plaguing reprimand.
Trudge on, weary footsoldier, when you feel you've nearly lost,
When you've tired of trying, your faith is dying, and your ship's been thrown and tossed
Don't tire of coping, hold on to hoping, no matter what the cost.
Trudge on, weary foot soldier, when you cannot keep the pace
Of worldly trials, when simple smiles are stolen from your face.
Grasp His redeeming, all-esteeming love and saving grace.
June 6, 2009
Light... A curious thing, for it is seen and not felt, though it can just as well be felt and not seen. In the first sense, it is weightless; by the other, its absence is the heaviest of pains. January 15,2009
Schroeder tore away from the doorstep, and without caring for direction, ran; sprinted; barreled faster than he ever had before.
He imagined himself past feeling; there was so little that could add to evening's events; to what he had already seen. He had nothing to do but run; nowhere to go and yet every reason to get away. His lungs hurt from the cold, and except for the rhythmic thudding of running feet on the dirty sidewalk and the occasional crackle from the fire eating at several shops, the street was silent. Soothingly, and yet suffocatingly silent. He was lost inside his own head; he saw Rebecca's terrified face, over, and over, and over again; saw her try to resist the unfeeling, wrenching hands which bound her on either side; saw the emptiness in her sapphire eyes as she had turned and given him that last glance.
The fires meant nothing; the debris from tattered shopfronts were irrelevant. He saw only her eyes. How absent of hope they had been--how absent of hope the whole village was! Empty, and dirty, and torn and aflame! And he had been able to do nothing but watch; perhaps it was that, very most of all, which tore at him the most.
He slowed to a canter and, eventually, to a stop; he tasted salt and for the first time that night, heard the sounds of his own sobbing. He didn't know what to feel, aside from shock, and as he reached a shaking hand into his bloodied pocket, he heaved a small sigh of relief; the locket was still there.
He slid the ring off his tiny finger and strung the locket's chain through it- now it would sit alongside her picture and, if such a combination did not first drive him mad, it would perhaps fuel him to endure the fight ahead.
Miles away, Sydney's fingers tick-tick-ticked across the keyboard. Codes flashed across the monitor faster than any human eye could have comprehended them, and yet his eyes were blank and his face expressionless. His lower jaw portruded slightly over the upper; it was a habit he'd had all his life and one he slipped into when in deepest concentration.
Finally, with a sharp intake of breath, he sat up straight, and then leaned back into the chair with a heavy sigh. He stared at the screen with one hand lifted to his cheek and the other folded across his chest.
After reading over the codes, Sydney loosened his black Buquerdine tie and unbuttoned the top button of his plum, starched shirt. With the run of the hand rumpled his perfect, Ivy League haircut. Rubbing his nose, he glanced at his wristwatch; It was nearly ten o'clock, and as he peered out the window he was unsurprised to find the windows of the Rhinendour building mostly black. And so, even more than usual, the dimly lit window on the eighth floor stole his attention; he knew Dacey would be there, finishing her radio show.
January 13, 2011
That's probably 'nuff for one night. If you got this far, and read the whole thing- why, thank you, Mr. Washington!
And as always-
G'night.
-TBF
