Buried, crushed

Under the weight of a million comments;

Swarmed and lost amongst endless empty halls,

A buzzing stirring the silence stagnation of monotony; 

Filled with threads long dead or dying

Bound to fall to the disease of desaturated:

Sleep descends -- gentle as snow

And crashes down on your shoulders.

Goodnight. 

Hanging

By a thread

Over

A perilous edge.

I feel no fear,

Breathe in the pain,

Forget the drop

And dangers far too near. 

Alas, the end is imminent

What could human constructs

Ever hope to achieve

Against an existential horror

Such as the void of eternity itself?

Why beg and plead and tear up

When acceptance is so much easier.

Easy, no?

But work smarter, not harder;

Fix the way you think --

You're already falling, so don't waste energy,

No need to bother

Trying to undo an ill-placed blink. 

There's something incredible

About the movement of words on a page --

They can flow and  trickle,

Run and slide, smooth and calm

Like butter or water,

Cool and serene. 

But so too can words be

Chunky.

Hard.

Rough. Sharp.

Thick and heavy.

Common but fierce.

And so too can they breathe

Like the winds themselves,

Full of gusts and whooshes,

Maybe pushing into tides of run-ons

Dictating by the moon who is the mind,

Slashing and hissing and simply existing.

The can be BOMBASTIC

or   c r u m b l e  

or loooooong

orshort

And it's all completely magnificent

When you get a chance to think about it. 

Will you

The mask is

cold

hard

reassuring

I pick it up and

put it on

People smile at me

It is the face they want to see

People wave at us

We are the person they like to meet

People greet the mask

smiling

And it answers

the way they expect it to

happily

calmly

easily

The people are all blind

They do not see the fading hope obscured by dark eyeholes

They do not hear the constrained whisper forcing itself out marbled lips

They need to see the mask, that is all they want

And when they turn and leave, the mask

raises our hand

to feel my face

The mask is

warm

soft

made of my skin

I can never take it off

ever again

Will you 

The stairs are there.

We all clamber, push, shove

only to climb a step higher.

Why do we climb?

'To reach the light above.'

What if we fall?

'Care not, only others do.'

The stairs have no railings.

They teeter and sway in the dark gale,

slippery and ominus.

But we climb.

Like fools.

Like drunkards.

Like idiots.

Because there is a hazy glow at its end, shining white and pure.

We climb, like moths to a flame.

Because the ones that reach it can leave this abyssal place. 

We climb, with no regard to face, ambling up on all fours.

We climb. 

People fall off every second, dropping off into the shadows below the stairs.

No one cares.

What is important is only another step higher

and another

and another.

Closer to the elusive light,

always a stair out of reach. 

I am there too,

trapped inside the flow of heads.

Never resting, never stopping.

Climbing.

But I stop sometimes, to give my raw hands a break.

To nurse scratches on my face.

To forget the endless rain lashing down on us all.

And I think:

What 

If 

We 

Are

On 

An

Esclator? 

Not an actual poem, but a compilation of some of my favorite lines from poems I've written :)

-"These streets are hallowed, you know,

Consecrated by youthful saints who share our names."

-"Beautiful in the way only something

Tainted and pure and unashamed can be."

-"We fly with wings of glass -

So high, so easily broken."

-"Something strange and electric runs through my veins,

Stronger and wilder than blood."

-"My gods are not capital,

Not found in pews and doctrines, gold and radiance.

They are old gods, existing long before cathedrals,

Their voices echoing through ruin and storm and breath."

-"Every light glows like pure gold, filling it with splendor

Singing, “come away, come away.  Make your mark here,

Test your soul against the fires of glory.”

-"Walking home some November evening and I

Swear I saw your face in a passing car,

A Taylor Swift song stuck in my head like a record of times gone by.

My steps echo the pounding of bass blasting from a stereo.

All that’s left are autumn leaves beneath the worn soles of my shoes."

-"Perhaps we knew each other in a past life.

Maybe we're soulmates,

The kind lost between time and space."

-"Can you even remember what we used to be?

Do you see anything true behind those shattered lenses you call eyes?"

-"I want to hope that you’ve found your dreams,

But I’m not pure like you.

I want you to never be able to forget me.

I want to haunt your dreams like some vengeful ghost"

i'm not sure how much i like it but here have a haiku

Falling Leaves

for ELA class

Siena and rust

Sunlight shines on crimson trees

Leaves fall, then decay

Slap palms against the night-polished sky,

Salt it with loose sparks of silver--

Follow the whispers of the river

'Til you've travelled far enough to touch the sun

Avast, for you're already half the way back home. 

This was a poem originally for English class, but I actually liked it so I tried to make it more my own. I'm pretty sure I haven't posted this before (if i have, sorry)

Enough

“Enough.”

Defined as,

“a sufficient number, quantity, or amount”

or,

“to a degree that satisfies.”

As in,

sometimes I think even the whole world would not be

enough

to sate my hunger.

As in,

sometimes I think it would be

enough

to just get through the next

six hundred and seventy two minutes until

midnight.

(As in,

what will be

enough

when the timer hits

zero?)

As in,

I have already spent

seven hundred and sixty eight of my minutes

on today’s nothing and I don't know if I have

enough

time left to

live.

As in,

the swirling, snow-laden winds are not

enough

to topple me,

but

what will the clamoring, furious

tempest clouds bring?

As in,

there are not

enough

sugared lies in my smile, or

flavor in my clothing choices,

but

more than

enough

meat on my bones.

As in,

when will I be

enough?

Hmm... I don't usually post any poetry on the CB, but here's a poem I wrote yesterday:

William the Conquerer was a great man indeed

But he just happened to be thin as a reed

Which was very bad for his self-esteem

And he would often go up in steam

When his mamma said, "William, you're just too short"

And he would give a disgruntled snort - 

Oh yes, William the Conquerer was a great man indeed

But his mamma he never would heed.

And then I was experimenting a bit with iambic pentameter, and came up with:

A king or fair queen in the moon I see;

'Tis hard to tell of two which one it be.

A shining lantern, our way to guide;

This is the moon, that be by our side.

Fair moon, without you what would I now do?

Whoe'er you be, with love I now love you.