A cry, if you will.(just tell me it sucks)

by prophet

Posted to Action Poetry on 2001-03-11 01:19:00

the stars donÂ’t shine like they used to
the moon isn’t as bright as it used to be
the wind grows ever colder
night grows ever darker still

i lost the beauty i once found in the sunrise
each day no longer spectacular
the citizens are nameless
their faces masked with cheap plastic
and their voices all sound the same

white clouds turn to gray
blues skies, another shade of black
it’s dark day and night
and suddenly i’m off track

when did i grow so old
when did i lose the grip of my childhood
everything is jaded to me

i’ve traveled a hundred roads
looking for the same place to rest
my feet are scared and stained
with the blood of my tale….

december 19th 2000

now i sit along the roadside, i threw my satchel down. this
tattered carpet–dirty ink stained sack. on the inside my
dreams were kept–all beautiful to me–hundreds of pages of
my journey documented–but for what purpose! none except my
own.

ah i grow too tired for this–my body is numb from the
bitter cold nights of dreamless sleep. my eyes frozen–half
open, half shut. all colors i once embraced now fade to old
photograph gray—i’m dying now, i’m too weak for this.

if you search my pockets youÂ’ll find a few items. pens,
tobacco, some chapstick, and a lighter. time and time again
i thought of burning my satchel and everything in it in
order to save myself from another bitter night–but somehow,
i don’t think it will last.

i’ve played the philosopher of all walks. preaching for
life, screaming affirmation. i lost my insolence for
responsibility, growing into a fine-young-man.

but like old biblical tales i am a seed displaced.
struggling for nourishment, using my instincts to fight off
the birds of prey…i’m a stubborn little seed. but as the
tale goes, struggle i may i will not succeed. life has stuck
it’s claws in me too deep. i can’t seem to break free. my
body masked in my own blood, eyes burning—i’m choking to
death on the very thing that gave me life.

all the while knowing that this monstrous devil will
dilapidate my flesh and leave me in some unknown desolate
ditch where i will wither alone and no one shall;; here my
cries.

i will see the fantasy of my desired future flash before my
eyes and quickly fade away. what have i become!? o misery
o death, i am forced to partake in your sinister game. no
more i beg! i conceit—i’m not as clever as i once
thought.

december 20th 2000

no more words–they have taken their toll. but like the
little sadomasochist that i am–i’ll keep running back to
this mercurial dominatrix—i was a good slave.

but now i rise in revolt…no more i say—no longer shall i
cater to your needs–i damn you words—for you have damned
me! i’ll run away and never pick up the pen again–never
share my thoughts with you—all you’ve shown me is hurt–i
don’t want to cry anymore. i asked you nicely to let me go,
but still you hold on with a paralyzing grip–let me
go—damn you, let me rest!!

my self interjects blacking out the power for brief
moments–but still the voice echoes unstoppable—i’m
speaking to myself again.

such misery–you say a gift, i say curse. this friction
between my conscious and subconscious brings me a wretched
struggle which will undoubtedly be the attrition of my
dreams. no, let me go—i’m not scitzophentic—just
revolting against myself.

you’ve changed me pen–before you i was a well-behaved
straight A student, i could have had it all—i was a genius
and dedicated to success–but somehow i was tricked unto
your world—you sucked me in with sweet words and fairy
tales. you never mentioned this—you lied to me and broke
my life. i hate you for what you have made of me.

december 21st 2000

i feel the writing begin to change me—
how very childish of me to say, ‘i’m a writer–that’s my
job–i can’t waste time on anything else’. schooling was
beneath me–work was beneath me. i wanted nothing of it.

the earth does not cradle me in it’s arms like a mother
should. she beats me like a slave. my words matter to me
only–never really cared about publishment. i spoke of
it–but if i really wanted it, i would have had it by now.
i do this work for me–the populous is a distant second.

and when it comes to poetry. the old want Shakespeare–and
the young want an angst ridden morrison with less symbolism
and more fuck words–so here is my homage to you both.
‘shall i compare thee to a summers day, thou art more
suffocating and more volatile—you oppressive corporate
cocksucker–fuck off!’

when i was young i wanted to rule the world–to influence
and teach people how to strip down their inhibitions and be
free. i tried it with theater, but it wasn’t enough. i
tried it with counseling, but that was too much. i changed
to writing, but the writing changed me. i wanted to be a
king, but all my aspirations have lead me to be a vagabond
begging for change[in the literal, and figurative sense]. i
have failed–my goals was too high—the world is far to
lost for me. there is nothing left.

i ran against time. head first one on one with the world.
but i have lost. this battle is far too much for me. people
are too translucent. they are buried 6000 feet under their
own consciousness–i dunno one told me to–no one saw me do,
but i dug. people wondered why. some understood[so i
thought] but i continued alone.

i started with my hands–walking the surface i grew ever
more restless for what was beneath me that i threw myself to
the ground and clawed my way down. my hands were cut and
bruised–infected and swollen. black from years of
struggling with this shit. sweat and blood mixed with dirt
to paint my body a warriors mask of persistence. i screamed
for the bottom dwellers to hear but all returned was
silent–not even a faint wind song.

my energy is drained–i just want o rest–i can’t dig
anymore. all is finished.

how i wasted my life. i traveled the road for 400,000 miles
till it lead me to the final point. when i reached the end
i was greeted by three signs. one saying, ‘dead end’,
beneath it read ‘wrong way’, and the third, ‘no u turns’.

so i reached the end of my road to find out that there is
nothing and there is no turning back. there is no salvation
for the world, at least not in my hands. i’m too tired to
care anymore. my life is over. but i keep breathing, and
there is nowhere else to go. there is no road to
nirvana—or perhaps the understanding of this is the
nirvana. ultimate knowledge is knowing that you are
incapable of knowing. incapable of freedom. i can’t own the
sun–and i’m too far from the moon. there is nowhere else to
go–no more poetry to be written. and with that comes my
silence. no longer shall i document my thoughts on
paper–they shall be left inside me–what i do with them is
my own–the world has suffocated me–and i don’t have the
energy to kick anymore.

i’ll submit to it–i won’t release form it–the darkness
wants me drenched in blood–colorless–i am penniless. the
world keeps me poor but promises me riches if i become a
slave to it. the world is deception. but i am left with no
other alternative than to submit to the pain.

what i do want–is for my present situation to change–my
poetry tells the truth, my journals explain it. until all
embrace white light, dark cold overshadows. i am alive–i
know this–but i don’t feel it. i don’t ask for any human
help. you must learn on your own–all i want to do i sleep
right now–rest–to break away from all this melancholy.

all i want is satisfaction, but i am malcontent.

-st.