Anger And Angels

 

Witching Hour

Strike Twelve

And my darker side?

It can’t be helped

So while I’ve got the mind to say

What words I lack throughout thy day

I speak with rage,

Sorrow and angst,

That such a world can’t accept such pains.

So.

Here I am, once again,

Speaking by ink and dew,

But of course,

My reader you, of which so few,

Accept the truth

That lies before their very eyes

But alas,

A notion too new.

But enough of rhyme,

It’s child’s play,

A game today,

The last breathe wastes.

And but the mind escapes

My grasp of which to take,

A thought to write….

 

(sigh)

 

It’s built of fury,

This blinding rage,

Spawned by such lies and hate!

To think of what one has become

And what such fate that has begun

A gun?
gun to fire all thoughts away,

But ‘tis the way to wish away?
Fear.

So near.

So blunt.

A heartbeat.

A pulse.

A beating pulse of hearts entwined

The echo of the souls of twine?

Divine…?

No.

Author's Note

... I don't know what to say for this one. It's weird. I feel like a child, admitting a wrong to one's elder. I've confessed my poem to the world, and don't know what to say for it. I hate to be so dramatic, but that's how it is... This poem is not good. I know it, and hopefully many of you will realize this as well. It lacks any organization, the rhyming is terrible and haphazardous and you'll be lucky to find two thoughts that relate. If you're a past reader, you know I love to use symbolism and deeper meanings in my work. In this poem, there may be some of that, but I can't think stright enough to see it myself. I've been dry of inspiration for the past month or two now, and... it's troubling me. Last night was the first glimpse of inspiration I've had in so long I jumped on it. Half-way through writing I realized I had seen the mirror and not the real thing. And by then, it was gone. Thus, I wrote the poem that should not have been. It sucks being looked down upon by random people, but who gives one. Those who care about the way I act don't matter and those who matter don't care. (Gotta love Dr. Seuss) But it just hurts when you find out those who matter care, and judge, and presume the worst over the best. It hurts when people you've known for more than a third of your life are disconcerted because of the people You hang out with. And not because they are a bad influence. No. It's because of stupid stuff, like gender. Apparently, a guy can't be friends with mostly girls without people questioning his motives. It sucks when you're thrown into a group of people with such low standrads and morals you want to scream. It sucks being judged by those you love, and thought would never judge you. But enough of my crap and venting. Here's the bloody poem. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I can't write. Not as of late. And the person who used to read everyrthing I wrote, since the very start, I doubt she'd want to anymore, and that, I'll admit, is my fault. But that's another tangent...

Reviews

[amailleia]

*sighs* dang, kid. Once again, you're putting yourself down. It's a good poem, hun. Really. Trust me, don't, whatev. True, mistakes, but it still reads well. And who ever said poems had to flipping rhyme?! *breathes* Ever feel like talking(feels like a big if, but still, if you do), you know how to find me. Good luck with everything. Really. I mean it.