Tag Archives: poems

To-Do List

Good morning, all. What’s on your to-do list? Groceries, practices, galas, or lunches. Think of all the decisions you might make today; is it you that is making them? Can you help yourself? Or does your self help you? Think about this as you read this short piece today. Without further ado…

To Do

If it were agency

through which we divined our decision,

would we have defined this insanity?

Would we have found ourselves,

rife in the ways that we are,

at the impasse of that infernal cycle to which we are bound?

Does the man make a decision?

Or does the decision make the man?

If it’s agency, you are a monster.

If it’s not, you are a monster.

Hardly matters, so it seems.

Make the choice;

let it make you.

There’s hardly anything you can do.

Paradoxical Paradigm

Good afternoon, everyone! It has been a long while since I’ve posted on a Sunday. I hope you all have had a wonderful weekend, and for those starting their Monday on the other side of the world, I hope you have a wonderful day. The sentiments of this piece may seem vaguely familiar, the stench of indecision and ambiguity being one we might all recognize. Please enjoy, my friends.

Twisted Memories

The last dream I had?

No, I…

I cannot remember it.

I must be mad.

It sang to me once,

that one dream I dreamt,

but now is lost to me

unsynchronized,

without harmony.

No truer words were spoken,

no more valuable a token

had ever once been given.

If only I…

If only I could remember

the shapes those words resemble.

My heart beats in time with drums

which, in turn, compete with hums

that reverberate and kiss me ‘till I’m numb.

How did I ever find the time,

adhering to that awful paradigm?

I only wished for a simple sign.

Dancing Deftly In The Dark

Good morning, everyone. It’s been a tough week for me. I’ve had to make some hard decisions that I didn’t want to have to make. This is, of course, how life always is. That knowledge doesn’t seem to make it any easier. I am only a man, and a young man at that. There are many things I no longer fear; experience has helped in this regard. The things I do fear, however trivial they might seem to others, are those things that experience has never seemed to make any easier. This has been my inspiration for today’s poem. I hope your heart does not break so much reading as mine did writing. It is hard to see the light when you are dancing in the dark.

There Behind My Left-Side Shoulder

I flee away from things unseen,

so very much in darkness,

have these monsters been.

My heart flits and flutters

at the touch.

Slips and falls into the gutters,

better not take on too much.

Tear drops fall

on tattered vinyl,

only wishing that it all

would be so final.

Infernos rage at the sight

of that crumbling might

which,

once upon a tear,

may have been so dear.

This, I have certainly come to fear.

Pillars in the Sand

Good morning, everyone! I have literally just written today’s poem. In class. Not paying much attention. I am a terrible student. I am a much better writer. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Sad Little Architect

Does it feel the way it always felt?

The way those certain words were spelt,

it feels…

Something is in all the wrong places.

Only You

are in its graces.

Built upon pillars of smoke and shadow,

this castle stands before fields most fallow.

Searching for the light of Apollo

or something meaningful to follow.

Lacking guidance,

meaning

and feeling

has left me unduly reeling.

Hallowed stones might sink beneath the sands,

ushered on by hallowed hands.

It is hard to recognize these lands.

Not a single thing which you have built still stands. 

Flitting on Forgotten Wings

Good morning, everyone! I have for you today a piece which I have freshly written, so freshly, in fact, that it still smells of warm ink and the sweat of my hands. Like warm bread, I would hope that you enjoy what I’ve managed to bake up for you today. Without further ado…

Perception of the Mass

To die upon your crossed arms,

a fall from grace so fed by charms

would be so sweet and free from harms.

It would not be

that Pontius Pilate

determines my fate,

for such a thing

now seems so trite.

Willful masters know their place,

looking in the mirror

and finding their face.

Do you not harm,

but simply farm

that sorrow which you carefully guard.

In the eyes of a dog

is reflected one ghastly visage

of one most malevolent demagogue.

Make your choice,

knowing all the while

that what you do

matters to you.