Category Archives: Self-doubt

You Don’t Bug Me

Howdy howdy, folks. I’m fittin’ to show y’all a brand spankin’ new poem I’ve just written. It’s about the feelings you get when you’re trying something new. Without further ado…

You Don’t Bug Me

Cicada, cicada,

what do you see?

Much like a dog,

you bark up the tree.

~

Blasted blasphemers

that scheme and abscond…

What do they do

at the edge of the pond?

~

Tempted now

by shadows in the deep,

dip your toes,

and then you weep…

~

But weeping then,

is valorous and honorable

when it is the fragile pen

with which you struggle.

~

In the corner of your ears,

someone hears

the whirring vibrations

that stem from a thousand carnations.

~

And every color of the rainbow

sings a happy lullaby

to that one

happy little butterfly.

Cheap Wine

Afternoon! I’ve started labeling these posts with the poem titles. I figured that might be easier if anybody wants to search. At some point I may go back and rename others, but I also kind of like the titles those posts have. Apt in their application, though outdated now as I have outgrown that period. We’ll see if it comes back. Growth is not a linear process. Without further ado, please enjoy today’s poem.

Cheap Wine

Red wine drips from my lips,

descending now

in a gentle cascade

like the slow dripping of a broken faucet in an old, old house.

How could I ever forget the taste of copper?

Like a mouthful of pennies;

far too hard to swallow.

Should I try it again?

The wine, my dear?

I didn’t like it the first time;

or the second.

Do you think I should try it again?

I’ve no real recourse.

Not now, anyway.

It is as it will be.

Every day the words are harder to find.

I should think that, one day,

I’ll not have them at all anymore.

…

Do you think I should try the wine again?

Entombed

Good afternoon, everybody! I’ve got another little piece today. Something sadder than the last one. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Entombed

The writing, my dear.

Scrawled there on the wall;

can you see it?

Those old runes…

What could they mean, my darling?

Chicken-scratch, sure.

But what if?

What if there is something to them?

What if it’s about us?

What if it means something?

All of it.

Can you read it?

Interpret for me the symbols of antiquity?

You always were smarter than me.

I am confused.

Something you’re all too familiar with.

It made me angry before.

Now?

A hollow sadness.

Memories and dreams reverberate through old and decrepit halls.

Could you…

Could you help me remember?

What am I doing here?

Where was I going?

Who are you?

Who…

Who am I?

Back, Behind The Mask

Oftentimes, I feel as if I live behind a mask, one made from all those things which obscure the things that lie behind. I feel as though my heart would break at the very sight of my own face, not to mention those of others. My mind is addled, rife with holes, ripped apart and sewn back together time and time again with each passing day that feels like a year. It is not even two o’clock yet. I am told that time goes faster as you age but my own experience has been one of aching deceleration; my sense of time continues to slow down. Each passing second threatens to become a lifetime, lest I find some way to lose myself. A devastating cycle, truly. Without further ado…

Back, Behind The Mask

There,

in darkness abounds

on that far side of the moon

a face from brass

and eyes from glass,

and in this face

one might see

something seldom seen

in reflections past.

Lights that pass

betwixt the stars

time and time again,

illuminating

and

elucidating

those things

so seldom seen

in times that have passed.

Entombed by iron in steely visage,

behind this mask lies an unspeakable image.

Every garbled word

and metal clang

belies a gentle soul

caged and shackled

in alloys unkind.

Window Pain

My mind is adrift upon a raft I’ve sewn from cheap thread and old leather, one that buoys atop the bilge-water I forever fear that I will sink into. Maybe everything looks the wrong color when the window you’re looking through is dirtied so heavily. Without further ado…

Window Pain

Like streaks of paint

sliding down the inside face

of one little window pane,

my thoughts take on

the consistency of these oils

that stick to canvas

but not to glass.

Smeared as they are,

these ideas that live and breathe,

growing and changing

into beautiful things

and horrible things

through which the world can be seen.

Peering out,

through the reds,

through the greens,

and the cyans,

one might have trouble seeing

those things that shade

in hues galore.

Perhaps one day

I’ll see the world

clearly

and unobstructed,

no longer undone

by the lines upon

this window pane.