Screams, Rants and other Poetic Devices.
Hymn to Eris

Dedicated to the muse, my avatar of Eris’s bliss

Though I knew as Eris, the sweet tree where chaos blooms,

she begged to be known as Ereshkigal today.

Ebony as sin itself, she was shining obsidian in the sun,

warm to the touch and pleasing to the ear.

If you listened hard enough, you could hear the cacophony her very atoms sang.

Though together they were still, one choir of macrocosmic cohesion,

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If I have cried,
please remember it is because I am lost.
Maps only give so much direction,
just enough to feel like I don’t know where to go
My compass points in wrong directions,
leading me to the places
far from where I’m meant to be.
Be patient, please. These tears are frustration,
built up from inadequacies.
None of us are right
and it’s hard to accept that,
given the narrative we’ve been…

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To Do or Not To Do

To Do or Not To Do

To be it or not to be, it is not even a question.

Life, dear Hamlet, may be absurd,

you may feel pain and mountains of sorrow.

I dare you, instead of unwinding the mortal coil,

to climb those mountains you are feeling.

Does the sun not still rise upon those lofty peaks?

Will you not gain muscle with every tear shed,

with every word misspoken in anger?

To do or not to do, sweet prince,

that is…

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Little People

This is my first rhyming poem in a long time and I’m surprisingly satisfied with it, which is odd because I usually hate my poems to be constrained. I’ve been sitting on this one for about a month now, hoping I’d have more to write on it. But after letting it stew, I’m happy with what I have now. 

There are all these little people

doing little people things,

going to little people places,


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Apparitions on the Wind

Apparitions on the Wind

This world is haunted with horrors too grim;

I stand by idly watching the world struggle with the ghosts.

They’ve taken to the skies, they’ve blotted out the sun

with their rage, with their sorrow.

Can you not hear the spectre’s cries?

Their laments are loud! They shake the trees,

condemning us for their mistakes.

Drip drop, we see them cry, but there’s naught a thing we believe we can do.


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High School

There are some times,

in the wee hours of the morning,

that I wonder where the people I went to high school with

are today. Are they living happy lives?

Are they succeeding? Do any of them

remember me in any significant way?

No matter how old we are,

we’re just trying to impress the kids

we knew in high school. 

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The soul is a finite thing,

expended and exchanged

through social interactions. Like a plant,

it will die if not tended to,

and in the wrong soil, it’s maturity will be stunted.

The soul can be stolen

in the right circumstances,

by people, by things.


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I took one step out to the sidewalk, feet crunching

on hard snow, wind hitting my face

like a whip, flaying skin.

I took one step out to the sidewalk, unaware

of what lay beneath, waiting to grab me down

My boots found no traction on the icy ground


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