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…
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,
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,
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.
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.
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.
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
I wish to be a masochist,
to be beaten into submission, to be humiliated.
Take me down into your dungeon
and flay away my flesh. Stomp on my balls,
call me disgusting. Make me worship you, mistress,
and beg for your attention.
If I am a masochist,