Tag Archives: samuel dotson

Still Cold Amidst The Fires

Have you ever felt that bone-chilling cold? That cold that not only chills your body but your mind, your heart, and even your soul? Light a fire just to keep warm. You’ll just end up burning the house down. The firefighters picking through the burnt and smoldering wreckage of what was once a home only to find you there, sitting on an ashen sofa, turned from flesh and bone to ice. So cold to the touch it spreads.

Frostbite

So cold

Freezing, even

I can put on a blanket but…

It won’t help

This frigid mood that overtakes

Turns to ice even the largest lakes

Can’t feel my fingers

Can’t feel my toes

Only the stinging, piercing cold that knows

I hold this in

And freeze within

Look behind my eyes and see the snow.

A Light That Won’t Go Out

Always on, always burning. There is a lamp that never goes out. The light across the bridge, the light at the end of the tunnel, eyes in the dark that watch your every move. For every champion of the light, there lies in secret something far more sinister. But just as there lies the body of the Sinisterium, so too is there the light. May harmonic balance find you and retrieve you from the depths of this eternal oscillation so that you may see the light as much as the dark. To walk not between worlds, but within one world. Find yourself now, arbiter of the unbroken. I hope you all like the poem today.

Blindspot

Is there anybody out there?

Searching, never finding

Plentitudes

Of loneliness and solitudes

Staring down at screens abound

Wishing only i could hear the sound

The angelic hymn and calming tune

The hope to hear your voice again soon

I feel so lost amidst the dunes

Shifting sands

Far from home in distant lands

Skin so burning

Stomach so turning

I only hope that i am learning

Peering out at ancient monoliths

Think of you, i hope to share with

These old bones and ancient myths

Try again to find the pith

Specters haunt and do surround

The darkness always finds a way around

An Honest Day’s Work

What is an honest day’s work? Certainly not what happens here. It all feels so hollow. So… inconsequential. Nothing really happens here. Numbers go up, numbers go down. Meetings all day, every day. Nothing really changes. Same thing. Day in, day out. Sit at a desk. Walk to get coffee. Back to the desk. Maybe take a vacation at the end of the year. Go to Bali or Cancun. Whatever. No adventures, no quests, no treks. Back to the office, back home, clacking keyboards and haughty metronomes. A building full of cardboard cutouts that never seem to wither or fold. All oblivious to the pain that lies underneath a thin veneer of niceties and falsehoods told and retold until hearts give out and cubicles are emptied.

Faring Not So Well

Almost as if

The feeling itself

That being numb

It might be better

But whether it’s the former or the latter

Here I sit

Dreaming of forgotten malls

And Taj Mahals

Wishing I could feel something other than the one that gnaws

At my heart

At my bones

On my mind

And on my toes

Can you hear them?

Can you feel them?

Phantoms and spectres

Invisible

Screaming

Begging

My heart, it begs the question:

“Love me?”

Ever The Romantic

Somehow, I manage to retain my ability to see the world in rose-colored glasses no matter the circumstances. I look up through the clouds and see the stars shining just so brightly that I am basked in the faintest of lights. A world in which the problems I face are but a bump on a road to something greater. Gotta keep looking forward, that’s where your eyes face.

My Heart In California

There I am

Heart in the sand

In California where I wish I could stand

Smell the sea

And hear the gulls

Ships passing by, so many hulls

Cliffs by the ocean

Penguins in the spring

The queerest little notion

Perhaps you’d like this ring?

Hear wedding bells

Adorned in seashells

Listen to what the wind tells

That golden, shining bridge

Spied from a ridge

I think that’s where I’d like to be with you

What A Day To Wake Up

Not hungover, not particularly in shambles or anything of the sort. Simply feeling rotten and worried about the many things you’re under pressure to do and be a part of. The many thoughts and feelings you have that you so desperately try to repress. It doesn’t help to bottle it up. It helps to let it go. Try not to shake the bottle though, lest the contents explode. That would make a mess.

Sure to be Dying

Roiling, riling, writhing in my gut

A pit’s been dug, just for the bodies

Found myself in quite the rut

They’ll find me, they’ll find you

Always searching, one and two

Always looking for something new,

Something evil to do

Sick to my stomach

Try to find that thing I still lack

It feels like flying

Though we’re sure to be dying

It hurts like hell

As bloated midsection swells

Ain’t it swell?

The stories of great evil that it tells