Repost: 3 Poems

Not A Love Poem

I don’t write love poems, because I don’t fall in love.

I don’t feel anything beating within, driving me crazy.

I don’t feel anything echoing around, stirring my soul.

There is no lion chasing me, I am running for fun.

I have no desire to find another, I am seeking a solitary life.

I cannot be herded into a pen of passion, I am too wild a creature.

I cannot be tamed to serving compassion, I am too vicious a beast.

I will not be bent into a blade of grass, I was molded of iron.

I will not be twisted into a spiral, I am more rigid than a diamond.

There is no wolf chasing me, I am running for sport.

I have not the will to chase this light, I am a man of simple thoughts.

I have not the will to fight this fight, I am a man of simple design.

These words don’t write themselves, these feelings don’t die.


Twenty-Six


Twenty-six years alive.

Nine years since I fell for her.

Nearly three years since she threw me out.

All that pain nearly twisted me back into a demon.

But I found something, something odd.

Pain is the only teacher that works on the stubborn.

With everything reaching it’s apex, crushing point upon me I have found the final degree.

Everyone we know is more precious than we ever thought but we are no more than what we can do for each other.

Love is not enough.

If we are to survive, at all, we must see what we can do for ourselves and for the world.

It is true vanity to desire to change the world.

It is true humility to wish to change yourself.

No matter what direction any of those we love takes our changing them only pushes them harder out the door.

The young hold all the answers and all the right questions.

This world twists too much on these simple human minds, we are but electrical firings in our deepest thought.

As we enter the world we are able to see it, undiluted.

Then we become faded and lost to this almost as quick as we gained it, to exchange the extreme identity we find appropriate.

Above all else, a child is prone to love.

This is what we lose as become more aware of all that is.

An open heart is punished by all in the mature world.

Yet that is the only nature of existence by which any life form should ever exist.

A pure force of good will and lacking the knowledge required to do serious harm to another’s heart and soul.

If those who draw blood around the world could feel, not the righteous screams from the lost, but an endless love coming from a sworn enemy.

They would place all weapons aside and leave the war making for the next.

Above all the nature of grace within innocence is what all that is true and real is composed of.


If these words were writ in snow, the sun would melt them in a glance.


If these words were writ in a riverbank, the water would rise to wash them as the earth churned.


If these words were cast to the sky, the air would smolder then burn.


If these words were carved to stone, the land would swallow itself whole.


If these words were made to flesh, a soul would cross the divide as the first breath came to be.


These words cast unto me. Forever shall be the same, forever within me.

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