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| How to Join | Member's Area | Private Library | Search | Sanctuary | Login | |
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| Main Forums | Discussion | Tech Talk | Mature Content | Archives |
A home without a wall, |
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| Open Poetry #12 |
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Thoughts From Within The Asylum Door |
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Embers_Before_God Member
since 2001-03-06
Posts 101USA |
For so long, I’ve tried to be brave, placing my thoughts, my intuitions, my dreams aside, hoping to, somehow, find that peace that comes from the drumming that resides inside my weary, brittle heart, and the ghostly shades of “past me” that wanders, roaming aimlessly amidst the harpies and vagabonds that rove in the trenches, through and about my restless soul. My eyes cannot look inward, cannot spy despondency, nor can they turn my heart to steel, trapping the plague that lies within. My eyes are not sleuths, no amicus curiae, though what they could see—assuming they could discern, that, which concerns them, me—would be a form of self-torture; a pain I’ve become accustom to. And though my eyes cannot see, neither can they sleep. The thoughts in my head, the words I’ve said, the dreams I’ve had, have all driven me mad. Fluffy pillows provide no rest, no comfort that, for brief periods of time, may quiet the storm within. My soul, my heart has no pillow on which to rest, its eyes remain open, alert, drawing fear in through each pore in my porous skin, seeping in like a slow vapor, a hushed ghost wrapped in brilliant rainbow hues, appearing as angels and deities to those that rest on deathbeds, their rattles rattling within their throats. Fear is meant to frighten, but it also lets me know that something inside—buried deep or not—wants to survive, to continue grasping at strings and straws, to walk along un-walked paths, ducking past hanging vines and poisonous plants, cutting thorns and unseen creatures, waiting to devour my flesh, heart, soul. Along aforementioned path, beauty too may be found, butterflies in flight, clinging upside-down to the bark of un-named trees (this is a dream after all) that grow tall, so tall, that their lowest branches cannot be seen from the moist ground on which I walk. Fear is also unbearable at times, laughing at me behind my back, wanting me to fight, fail. And though the dreams I have of un-traveled paths, where I am the King of Destiny, the healer, rather than the great deceiver, I still succumb to its wishes, being hunted throughout those trails that should provide me with some sort of comfort, complacency. My eyes, though closed, still see the deceit that I myself created for me, my obsessions grasping at me with their long, etiolated hands like Death on his stallion—both, Death’s gown and stallion, are sleek and ebony, the color of starless nights (except, of course, for his hands)—chilling my flesh with a coldness never felt before. Except . . . I experience it constantly. My life has not expired, though I am filled with dread, a feeling of utter disbelief and an esteem so low that the farthest pits beneath this world fall short, lacking depth, the strength to know the true meaning of bottomless. Somewhere, and I assume it’s within my sleep, my fluffy pillows, there must be answers, shades of “future me”, for the drumming that I feel within my chest, heart, soul, cannot be caused simply by fear. It must mean, has to mean, that I still live, blood still flows, hope still abounds, dreams still plausible. If not, then I’ve already passed the realm of living, for breath does not mean I live, warm flesh does not mean I feel, desire does not mean fulfillment. Yet I hope. I still hope. That’s why I live, dream. I hold nothing back. I believe. I hold out hope, for hope is all I have. [This message has been edited by Embers_Before_God (edited 03-14-2001).] |
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| © Copyright 2001 TkB - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
If you are breathing, then time is what you make of it, and I don't believe you've actually wasted a moment...this read more like prose, a good read.... I like to see what is going on in others' minds... |
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Voiceless Senior Member
since 2001-02-19
Posts 686Under the stars upon the wind |
This is so interesting, and the title pulled me to it, and when i opened this and read I am thirilled it caught my eye If you love writing then could you really be wasting your time making love? ~*Peachy Be*~ |
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Mysteria 
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
Exceptional write...as I am sure a lot of us put one front in front of the other wondering why, or where it shall lead at times. If one is afraid it certainly does address the fact we are alive anyway if nothing else positive. And if one cares about the written word is that not an existence in itself a reason for existing? To give up is easy - a copout. Life is like hanging onto a trapeze bar, swinging, with the void below and seeing the other bar on the other side, but wondering should we let go and grab for it, we could fall in the the void below. That is life and living...letting go of that bar and hoping we are caught at the other side. It is the fear of the void that prevents us from living! Opps...sorry for the ramble. Great prose. ~*~A poet is someone who reads more than they write ~*~ |
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doreen peri Member Elite
since 1999-05-25
Posts 3812Virginia |
quote: bravo!!!there are too many great lines to quote... this is a work of art.... i have discovered a new poet.... and that makes my day much more meaningful..... believe me, it has been a tough one to live through and finding verse like this which is so rich with imagery and metaphor... is quite a delight to help me make it through.... thank you for the read a pleasure to meet you [This message has been edited by doreen peri (edited 03-14-2001).] |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
My eyes, though closed, still see the deceit that I myself created for me, my obsessions grasping at me with their long, etiolated hands like Death on his stallion—both, Death’s gown and stallion, are sleek and ebony, the color of starless nights (except, of course, for his hands)—chilling my flesh with a coldness never felt before. Except . . . I experience it constantly. ================= Such and intense write Embers.. my goodness...so much emotion and imagery and outstanding use of metaphor... this is very well written and expressed.. or should I say purged... trust me poet...your not wasting your time or your pen. Sprayed across my heart and hers Danced butterflies in the wild This angel, this woman , who loves me with the innocence of a child. ~DeVante~ |
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Embers_Before_God Member
since 2001-03-06
Posts 101USA |
Sunshine...Thanks as always for viewing my poems and I promise, if i ever float up out of my hole, I shall check out more and more poets who post here...I lack the self-worth and am always very humbled when good pens (such as yours and the others below) comment on my work. Thanks, Voiceless...what can I say? You're right. making love (writing) isn't a waste of time. Tedster--what can I say, you've always offered encouragement. PErhaps I'm wrong this time. Thanks! doreen, "a work of art"? It humbles me that someone would think that of anything I write. Thanks for that. Janet, I thank you for the encouraging words. They mean so much. I hope it's all right if I call you all be your first names. --Embers Dance with me under the moon. Touch my pale skin. Devour me. Love me. |
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