I’m supposed to be better
Your pride, your joy
And all the things you can’t do
Are supposed to be my quick employ
You were supposed to be better
His pride, his joy
But all the things you couldn’t do
Were just a mirror, and he saw a boy
So you tell me to be better
Because the pain never goes away
And everything that I can’t do
Is just a reminder we’re the same
But how can I be better
When in your eyes all I can see
Is the doubt you still retain
And though it’s his, it falls on me.
I lost the words that I was seeking
And with them, any meaning
Of the cowardice that plagues me
And the meeting in my head
Of all my paltry virtues
And their tyrants, and the fortunes
Of failures that ever seek me
And the mistakes that keep them led
And the demons that I’m keeping
And every grim that does a reaping
And every chance that almost meets me
But then finds that I have fled
To a place worse than the last
A darker mirror of the past
Endless reflections staring back at me
Endlessly filling me with dread
But I find I cannot look away
(Or else will not — who can say?)
And the only thing that’s clear to me
Is the glass and what you said
That the choice is mine alone to make
The power, mine alone to take
But the only truth that stays with me
Is that when I broke the glass, I bled.
If I ever find the wielder
Then there’ll be hell to pay,
For I can feel again the dagger
That with my heart just loves to play.
All I know about him
Is he has those steely eyes;
And there is no doubt about him
When he’s playing with his knives.
He comes to call when I am angry;
When I’m tired, and confused.
He sells his blades for free
And leaves my heart all steel-infused.
I wish I knew just why he did it;
But he’s always leaving knives,
And yet his worst leaving to wit
Is the need to stab him in those steely eyes.
I am friendless because
I died and no one ever knew;
Every day something of darkness
Inside my spirit grew.
But nobody seemed to notice;
No, not even you.
And I realized that I was alone
And might as well suffer that way too.
If time could only sweep away
Scars unseen and lifelong pain
Maybe then there would be
A healing that was not in vain.
There once was a poet in Someplace
Who was a bit all over the place:
Brain scattered here and there,
Grey matter everywhere;
But, she at least managed to save some face!
There was a policeman in Someplace
Hard on the heels of his case
His culprit was there
His gaze met her stare
As she kept with the mortician’s pace.
There was a mortician in Someplace
His patient looked done by a mace
But just a gunshot
More often than not
And someone’s left cleaning the place.
There was someone’s sister in Someplace
Whose tears streamed on down her face
Somebody told her
It wasn’t murder
Her sister was done with this place.
I had started this to make fun of myself. It was to be just a little, self-mocking limerick. Then it flowed into a morbid pun, and from there it became it’s own, more serious, story…
Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it;
Tell me how, and I’ll muddle through it.
But I don’t know what you want,
And I can’t tell what you need,
So I just have to hope
That someone will hear me plead.
Bless me with the eyes to see
The pain, the sorrow, everything;
Grant me the strength I need to bear
Them up from down upon their knees.
Let me be the one who’s there,
Let me be that which I need to be;
I’ve sought an angel that I never got —
Please, let theirs be me
I only cry out when in pain:
More than I can bear alone.
And I wish I could explain
What I’m feeling when I feel alone,
But even when you’re there
Sometimes still I’m not at home
And none of it, I know, is fair;
But still I wish I could explain it in more than just a tone.
I don’t know why I’m angry;
Why I just cannot accept.
Love, to me, sometimes seems
Like a foreign concept.
Have I ever even felt it?
If I did, how would I know?
There are some we’re just supposed to love,
But we don’t always feel it’s so.
Instead, we just feel empty;
Instead, we feel alone.
And though it may be that we share the blame,
We begin to cast our stones.
Not my best week. Sorry for being scarce. I’ve been distracted by several things, one of which you can probably extrapolate from my most recent poems. Add to that recent and upcoming events (like Thanksgiving, with all its accompanying chaos), and my trying to keep up with writing approximately 1700 words a day this month, and… I’m kind of beat.
Still… Just one more week to go, and the month is over. Back to status quo. Theoretically.