I wonder
If my role here
Is to sacrifice myself
For others
No one
Gets out alive
So why not give
What I have?
Perhaps
In doing so
I’d find
My purpose
This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
If I were
To let go of my pain
Who would mourn
The future
I was never able
To have?
This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
contemplating suicide
is a luxury
i can no longer afford
i am blessed
with life’s baggage
weighed down by love
spurred
by the desire
to prove them wrong
cajoled into action
my inner voice
softly screaming
to be more
than a footnote
of failure
to act
in-spite of doubt
and fear of judgement
to resolve
to do everything
to ensure my legacy
when I die
i will die
having truly lived
This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
What’s the point of trying,
When my efforts leave me crying?
When my thoughts circle dying?
When I think everyone is lying?
What’s the point of trying,
If my bravest act is complying?
If it’s the deepest truths I’m denying?
If even greatness is unsatisfying?
What’s the point of trying,
When I’m constantly self-denying?
When a simple conversation is terrifying?
When depression is positive identifying?
What’s the point of trying,
If angsty poetry is all that I’m supplying?
If my mental state is all I’m edifying?
If an internet like is the peak of gratifying?
What is the point of trying,
When my legacy will be horrifying?
When my body will be mortifying?
When the result will be mystifying?
Yet I am trying.
Trying to be the one supplying a way to express the horrifying. Cause there is no denying, the thoughts of dying are mortifying, but also mystifying and strangely gratifying when you find that justifying the days spent crying, or self-denying, or complying, was purifying.
When life feels unsatisfying, there is something edifying, in identifying with the terrifying. Processing and magnifying, focussing, and occupying the stupefying underlying processes of the mind.
Perhaps the point of trying,
Is to begin the process of purifying
Is to enable present moment occupying
Is to deny the darkness justifying.
Perhaps the point of trying,
Is to promote hope magnifying.
Is to reveal your truth underlying.
Is to heal from trauma stupefying.
This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
She been dulled
Stupefied and lulled
A painful recognition
Of love confined
Her life defined
Critiques and hard lines
Shrines to inner conflict
Oft spoken in rhyme
Words to pry
Words to satisfy
Words to lie
Words to live by
Dredged from depravity
The page a consul
Her soul’s aspect
Judged
Her life fudged
An act
Hiding truths
Expressed in ink
The artist’s dilemma
To flow or stow
To create or embody
To scratch with pen or knife
To be or not to be
That is the question
A modern problem
Shakespearean to common
Passed down without solution
She seeks absolution
A promise
A freedom
A satirical lyrical empirical miracle
Something
Anything
To break the cycle
To begin again
She comes full circle
Thoughts mulled over
Conclusions culled
Her love is dulled
And she’s confined
This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
My body was broken,
before I realised it was my own.
I took it for granted,
while it was slowly being taken.
I used it without thought,
I used it without comprehension,
I used it without appreciation.
Now it’s just used.
I got old,
before I realised I was ageing.
I squandered what I had,
while worrying about what I would become.
I wasted my time,
I wasted my energy,
I wasted my opportunity.
Now I’m just wasted.
My life was over,
before I realised I was living it.
I ignored reality,
but reality kept a watch on me.
I spent my time,
I spent my money,
I spent my soul.
Now I’m just spent.
This poem is from the book, ‘Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
God asked the man,
Why did you choose to die?
I saw no point in existence,
I couldn’t fathom a reason why.
I couldn’t stay focused,
I couldn’t hold down work.
I’d just wait for the day to end,
to sleep away the murk.
Every day was the same,
I’d already lived it through.
What was the point of repeating
when there wasn’t anything new?
What about the small changes,
the gems of love and life?
What about the lessons learnt
from surviving hardships and strife?
True, I did feel most alive
when things were at their worst.
But how is that reason to live,
just hoping to be cursed?
I could handle the drama
but not the monotony,
nor the vagueness of existence,
nor humanity’s cacophony.
I would sit alone,
I would sit in the dark,
I would sit and listen and
my mind would remark.
Highlighting my failures,
reminding me of lost dreams.
Showing me bad outcomes
and my own devilish schemes.
Where were you God,
when I needed you the most?
Why’d you only start talking
now that I am a ghost?
I was talking the whole time.
I was in the warmth of the sun,
I was in your kid’s smiles,
their laughter and fun.
I was the crash of the waves,
the vision of the moon,
the spring flower’s scent,
the young lover’s boon.
I was the quenching of thirst,
the purr of a kitten,
the pillow at night,
the book well written.
I could go on
but I think you now know,
I was with you always,
even when you were low.
Ah God, you don’t get it,
your words were too easy to miss.
What with all the noise,
with our collective descent into the abyss.
How could I just stop and look?
How could I listen to the bird’s song?
How could I take a breath,
When everything was going wrong?
It isn’t my place to save you,
nor can I fix your life.
I can only remind you,
that there is something beyond the strife.
That even in the midst of suffering
there are small joys to behold.
But you are right my child,
perhaps I should have been more bold.
No God, I was also wrong.
You know this was my last thought,
I could fix every problem but this one.
Oh how my family will be distraught.
God thought for a moment,
then asked the man,
If I sent you back to Earth
would you change your plan?
I will do my best,
but I make no guarantee.
I will attempt to listen,
I will attempt to see.
This poem is from the book, ‘Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
If I was to die, would you cry?
Would you look up at the sky and scream why?
Would you lament being shy for not asking after I?
Please do not deny.
Just know that I am forgetting my why.
You don’t need to be a spy to see that I don’t have the energy to try.
Truth is, I’ve barely enough to sigh.
No longer spry, no longer able to apply, no longer able to fly.
How can I amplify? How can I stay wry? How can I make that pie?
I’m just a lonely guy, trying to imply the need for you to reply.
Perhaps I need to demystify before I say goodbye.
Perhaps I need to clarify before I horrify.
Perhaps I need to verify before I falsify with this note left to justify the lullaby.
Don’t worry. These words are a lie, just a sly attempt to identify.
Just an attempt to pre-emptively reclassify when you turn a blind eye.
Just an attempt to declassify and diversify the constant misapply.
Just an attempt to edify you on the thoughts that multiply, the need to certify, the ennui.
I see how others get by. They gratify and deify; they codify and fortify. Believing that the Mystify will specify how they should diversify.
But not me.
I can’t believe that rallying cry.
Life has no retry.
Just a constant attempt to scrape by under a dark sky.
Just a vain attempt to signify.
Just cause and effect bound to the wings of a butterfly.
This poem is from the book, ‘Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
Erotica, R-18+
‘Please don’t stop’
She wanted more,
Pain or pleasure,
She wasn’t sure.
Hidden desires,
Unspoken wishes,
For soft caresses
And hard kisses.
He opened her mind,
His confidence solid,
Spoke the right words,
Her body followed.
A passionate embrace,
Inhibitions confined,
Moving together
Their bodies entwined.
The final moment,
Arriving together,
The mutual satisfaction
Of lovers forever.
This poem is from the book, ‘Kink, Volume 1’
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
Flash fiction
It happened suddenly and without reprieve.
She stands motionless as desire washes over her. The intensity of the moment engulfs everything that led her to this place. She bites down on her bottom lip in hopes it will stop the trembling, but nothing can quell the flutters in her soul. She moves closer, every step intensifying her desire. She feels him behind her. His breathing laboured as he grabs her firmly by both arms pulling her towards him. She stumbles back as he wraps his arms around her.
Opening her eyes, she looks over the edge of the cliff as the sea rages against the rocks below. “I know living is difficult,” he whispers tearfully “but please, don’t stop.”
Author’s note: This poem and story came from the three word prompt ‘please don’t stop’. I responded with a poem, and @verbsandvodka responded with the flash fiction.
I love the subversion of expectations that she produces in such few words. Thank you for letting me share you work.
Using words for expression,
A curing pain session,
My inner mind’s compression,
With anxiety, rumination and depression,
It’s an obsession,
A self-destructive messin’
Around, with pills or a knife,
Ideation of death is rife,
Friends and family feeling my strife,
I got them worried ‘bout my life,
But I am fine,
Words help me shine,
No longer stuck in a confine,
Like a farmer’s favourite bovine,
That’s escaped the plot,
Mental clarity I’ve now got,
Pen in hand, my afflictions are shot,
Now I’m free to write my own plot,
Dream following,
Ego swallowing,
Heart opening,
Pain forgoing,
With a pen in hand,
And paper I brand,
Myself anew in this land,
Here I stand.
This poem is from the book, ‘Words On A Page’
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, or Audiobook.
