Grief

 

Concentrating your mind on the meaning of things. Grief

the undoing of comfort, security, nameless feelings.

Pain and distress and misery. If I’d say to you

that as a person you were pathetic and

any attempts of gratifying yourself,

or anyone else, will always fail,

you would feel something

probably pain.

 

 

The darkness of night would seep from your eyes, screwing things up inside.

Conceit, strangling itself out through your nostrils, limping into air.

Substituted for a stronger, meaner face of despair.

 

A sickness comes about. It makes us weary.

We don’t actually need people to suffer. We can suffer well enough alone, easily.

We can grow old and cold, unable to remember what we’ve been taught

and how the biggest lessons were told.

 

If no one can hear me, I feel pain. But I don’t speak.

I am weak with nothing to ignite me. The fuel to aspire.

But when freshness comes, occasionally, I wake up

from my indulgences feeling rightfully vain,

excessively valuable, gifted and talented.

I’m the Poet who hasn’t learned to spell yet,

or think, or forget, or remember. Handicapped.

The seasons occur on a daily basis within my spirit.

 

But it withers away, again, occasionally, eventually.

But is always temporary.

Casting shadows of scorn upon the world, my crumbling pride overturns my senses.

Fretting about the place with fear in the eyes.

Success bothers us all. In the absence of it, we feel tiny small. Sick with glee.

The Sorrow of incompetence drives us Insane, the opposite of free.

The cloak of grief, with a top hat and braces.

Everywhere you turn you see unbelievable,

Happy faces.

We have hope for ourselves but we are not happy.

 

 

When grief is not respected, we forget about its reason, its purpose.

We shrink into ourselves, aware only of a tragic treason;

a mightier crime against ourselves

by an almighty misconception of other worlds.

 

The shift is only noticed because we speak less,

smile less,

think less.

 

Hope less.

 

Hope More, for all of us.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Robert Luna]

Such a powerfully truthful piece here. We must always know with happiness there is sorrow. The other can not exist with out it counter part the yin and yang of the universe. The world can not exist with only good there has to be the bad to coutner balance life. I thank you for reminding me of that fact and that life is what we make it out to be. If we only focus on the bad bad will as was come.


Great Job!!!!!!

[Peter Grantham]

I love this.

[Fabian G. Franklin]

This read well as free flowing prose until I hit the word "thy". Then I'm thinking, is this persom Amish? A Quaker? What's that old King's James English doing in this piece? They didn't even have computers back then. lol I like the piece but unless you are going to write the entire piece in the same middle English, I suggest you drop the "thy" for your. Also. in the line before, you seem to be speaking of yourself, then BAM, switch to talking about the reader which you then cast your opinions on. This work shows great promise in your ability and skill, But in prose form, I think you need to watch those two things. Just my own suggestions for what they're worth.

[Emily B]

When I found my words, I thought that I could fly. Again and again after the darkness, I find I can soar to great heights. It could be that's way it is meant to be.

The best thing is to have someone know that we are lost in the dark night. To have someone to reach out and find us. If the pendulum must swing, let it not stay to long in one place. The journey will be more valuable that way.

[Emily B]

My first though is how amazing this all is . . .

I want to read it again and again before I leave my impressions.

[neanie]

so sad but so true; i like this piece.

[Poeticpiers]

You write in well constructed descriptive prose and touch on many deep subjects. From reading your profile I see that your education like mine is mainly self inflicted Schools only produce clones The university of life provides a far superior education. Writing is probably the best therapy against internal angst Once you realise that the little you know is at best a workinh hypothesis you can start to discover who and what you are.My abiding love is formal poetry I find the discipline forces me to waste no words in trying to convey some message.Although modern free form writers argue for the freedom of their writing very few can write comprehensibly