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Poetry / Midnight Fields
I feel so dead,
yet, so at peace…
This is what poets write about,
this is what dreamers dream about:
The utter emptiness of
everything.
No words can describe the pleasure I get
from tugging at my face
and seeing these letters dance gracefully
across these blind pages
like swans upon a lake.
Is this poetry?
Is this storytelling?
I have no answer,
It simply is.
I’m okay as long as I can write.
As long as I can feel the words upon the page,
I’ll be okay…
I am a liar.
I am a sinner.
I may burn in hell for all eternity,
but I don’t care.
It’s worth it.
It was all worth it.
I cannot read the words I’ve written
seconds ago,
they swirl and slither too quickly for
my eyes to chase.
I can only write.
Write of what was,
write of what will be,
write of what is,
write of this magical moment
inside my room.
Sheltered by the heavy blankets that
keep the sweat crying from my pores.
I am a great mind.
If only these years of thoughts and poetry
could be sold,
if only they were read by others,
by millions.
They could witness my every thought as
I dot my i’s and curl my y’s.
My mouth hangs open,
gaping,
waiting
for an eternity that will never come.
I am everything yet nothing
at all.
I am a silent shadow,
not moving, nor feeling,
barely even breathing,
just being.
Existing
‘cause that’s the only thing left for me to do.
I need sleep.
I need pain.
I need to know I can feel anything
at all.
This
Is
Emptiness.
There is no feeling left in these tired letters,
these commas,
these dead and decayed words that,
for years, have searched for a way out.
All I can do is write
and repeat this cycle of thoughts inside my head.
My mouth gaping,
my body numb,
just writing…
I am happy if my hand is free…
I wish you could see this.
(It’s amazing.)
I just want to sit back and stare
at all that is,
at what could be,
at all that’s inside the mind of a
Tragedy.
This is how you look at a Picasso;
This is how you see through the eyes of a genius,
the eyes of a God.
This is me, I just am.
There is nothing behind these
shallow breaths and hollow movements
of my hand.
I want more.
I want forever.
I want the nothing that I find in
my broken skeleton.
I want the puddles of never that
collect under my pillow to
reach out and touch me
as nothing else ever could,
or ever has.
I am a simple ghost,
lost in a state of delirium,
unfamiliar even to me.
Lost behind my soul,
behind my eyes.
I curse reality.
I curse anything other than this.
This music I feel inside my mind.
The emptiness and numbness
behind every swoop and swirl of my
damned pen.
Behind every empty stare,
behind all the untold “I love you’s,”
I am here.
Hiding in my own world;
I was trapped
But now
I’m
Free.
Free to feel the nothing that is;
Free to feel the simple poetry of the moment
without having to look,
nor think,
nor feel.
I want to lie beneath the ocean.
I want to feel the chaos crash over me,
and not move,
nor feel the salt stinging my open wounds.
Barely breathing,
yet begging for every moment
as if it were my last.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to waste away in the
blatant miscommunication of our world.
I want to know a God.
I don’t want to know what is,
but, what could be,
I don’t want to become numb to the
wonder of possibility.
My heart is beating,
I am still breathing,
constantly bleeding,
but am I living?
Am I daring to look beyond the
cob-webbed corners of
what is and what I know?
I cannot feel time.
All I can do it lie here,
in a swirl of my own saliva,
Drowning
because I refuse to swallow the
shallow truth behind it all.
This is pure genius.
This is poetry found in the fields under
the midnight moon…
Luna…
My darling, Luna;
You are art.
You are love.
You are everything we breathe
or ever will breathe
through our crisp, black lungs.
Because I am here,
lost and taunted
by all that was and never could be again.
I scratch at you,
hoping to tear away the flesh and
watch you
bleed.
I want you to suffer for all you have
never done.
I am chicken-scratch and fallen tears
on empty soulless pages
that will never be filled with something real,
something beyond what you can feel,
behind these blatant,
faceless shadows
of what I never want to witness.
Exhaustion is all I know.
This is everything and nothing
all in the same pill
that I found buried by the moonlit magic
of the midnight fields.
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TheDisturbedOne reviewed Version 1 -
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Oh my god, this is an amazing poem!! I have no idea why I love it but it really hit me, not many things do that. You have a true piece of art..As your note says you were in a perticular state of mind, I have to say it helped I think, I don’t know your skill without that state but I do know that with it your one of the best poets Ive seen…Congrats!..Really amazing, if anyone reads this and says its to long their insain, the lenght makes it more powerful…10 outta 10
keep it up!
-TDO
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wisedec4u reviewed Version 1 -
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I am no poetry expert. I usually stick to prose, but your poem was so eloquently written with so much passion in it that it moved me to my core. What true writer has not felt the desperation, pleasure and exhaustion you expressed in your poem. I loved your many metaphors and how you kind of poked fun by mentioning cliche topics about love, desperation and dispair and kept asking the reader, “Is this poetry,” as if voicing your insecurities as a writer who wants only to please his reader. I enjoyed this piece immensely and like to read more from you. Keep up the good work!
ErnestCooper reviewed Version 1 -
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Wow! It makes me sad to read your poetry. I feel so sad for your pen and paper to witness such sad thoughts that come from your mind. Your words were heart breaking to a happy soul but it was very interesting to see that you have enough talent to bring out those words that you did. Well I know that you wrote it some time ago but I really hope you have chilled up since then.
Great work though very sad.
HarryVann reviewed Version 1 -
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Okay, a lengthy piece of self observation from a seemingly negative perspective. What I like about it is the heartfelt manner in which despair is described. Yet that same content is a downer if you know what I mean. There is an air of “depression” here that one who has been there can relate to. Even so, the clarity of expression and the depth of the writing seems to emit from the very core of the writer’s soul. I think this is a good piece to reflect upon and to decide what not to write about as much as it is a developmental piece that could possibly be translated into a piece of non-fiction. There is an obvious background scenario that in my opinion has potential for development along the lines of a story of some sort. What form it should ultimately take I am not certain. But I can assure you of one thing, I recognize a cry from the soul when I see one. Thanks for sharing. H.
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