Recently, I found out that poetry is a nice way to vent out my feelings, especially those that burst out from my mental 'lock' after my recent defeats. Therefore, most poems are dark, because the emotions I locked up are more the darker emotions, such as anger, revenge etc.
These are my way of expressing myself. Really.
Now let's start off with a happier poem. Not happy enough? Wait till you see those that come after it.
Distance
It's been less than
a month,
less than
a fortnight.
Yet an eternity
appears gone.
Status.
I used to laugh,
scorn at others
who allow themselves
such a
restriction.
Now I spurn
myself.
A few tables.
Traversed easily
in a few steps.
But there I sat,
contemplating.
Disgraced.
This inferiority.
I would rip
aside it all.
But I can't.
The distance has grown
so much
over the eternity.
Metres become miles.
Suddenly we are
so far apart.
But I will walk
this road,
this distance.
Until the road ends,
I will be there.
Come on in
Welcome!
Welcome!
Make yourself
at home!
Yes, I don't
usually have many
visitors here.
Want a cup
of coffee?
Sure!
Go squeeze my
heart and see
if there's any left
inside there.
Oh wait, there's
none?
I forgot. I
threw it away
when it stopped
working.
Apologies for
the mess.
This house is
undergoing
renovation.
That room? Oh
that's my mind.
Why is the paint
so dark? Well
It used to be
shiny bright,
but it stung
my eyes,
became a
liability.
Don't you think
that it's so much
nicer in black?
Leaving already?
Don't go.
No one who comes
and sees my soul
ever gets out.
Ever.
Cry
I am a vulture,
hovering above,
a beast ready
to strike at
a weakened foe.
Cry.
Fear me.
Or rather,
fear failure,
which brings you
to your knees,
an easy prey.
Cry.
For every word,
every phrase,
that you utter
must be guarded,
protected,
must be feared.
For the vulture
follows no
guidelines,
no system.
No restraints,
no boundaries.
So cry.
Cry.
As the vulture soars,
an opportunist,
echoing your cry
with one of its own.
And all you can do is
cry.
Dance of the Devil
Cry.
Weep.
Lose all
hope.
For a harbinger
of the dark gods
dances
at your side.
Look not ahead,
but over your
shoulder.
Awaiting the
cut,
slice,
burn,
disintegration.
The path ahead
clouded.
Yet I can see.
I alone can see.
Because I dance
the dance of the devil,
and he has shown
the future.
The future
belongs to
me.
Not anyone else,
least of all,
you.
As the harbinger
dances the first
arc,
cower in fear,
for false hope
cannot withstand
the devil's wrath,
this dance of the devil.
This dance of
destruction.
Of truth.
This poem I wrote kind of freaked me out. I never realised that I was so dark... I really got scared when I read what I actually wrote.
Destiny
A gift of
gods,
as they mock
the powerless,
who lament.
The judgment
of heaven,
brought in
all its
dark fury.
The reason.
Why strong men weep.
Why laughter ceases.
Why dreams are lost
and hearts broken.
Bringing to heel
any
that they
desire.
It is easy
to see
how
destitute relates
to destiny.
This iron
fist
of the Gods.
Fate.
Devil
Who represents
the good;
the bad,
how is it known?
Even the
deepest darkest
devil
believes
to be right,
does it not?
The path
of the devil,
why judged
by others?
You may presume
to walk the light,
but who is to say
correct?
There is no real
good.
There is no real
evil.
There is only
truth.
There is only
outcome.
Your perception,
slim,
narrow,
matters not.
So,
just fear me.
For I represent
strength,
ability,
skill,
superiority.
I am
truth.
Marksman
The church organs
bellow their tone
in the background.
The rain begins to
fall.
And the chatter
ceases,
diminutive men
running from
the rain
of fire.
Line up your sights.
Barrel aligned,
flick the gauge,
slot the next
bullet.
The downpour
crashes the
old church,
the bell tolling
with
mock sorrow,
As the trigger
pulled,
and heaven
drags another soul
Into this dark
river
in the midst of
modernisation.
A bit of a history poem here, if anyone understands what event I'm talking about here. Although I doubt it. Think snipers + organs, and where both appeared prominently.
Reap
Reap what you sow.
So they say.
Those seeds I sowed.
Pears, I figured.
Now where is my
harvest?
Those seeds I sowed.
Where is my
reward?
Not with me.
With others.
Throw down the hoe.
Pick up the
scythe.
It is time for a
harvest.
Time to
reap
a just
reward.
Time to become
a reaper.
I just hate people taking my credit.
The Fan
And the fan
just kept on
turning.
Stuffy room,
air on fire
and the fan
unable
to disperse
the tension.
Hard mattress,
a metal rack.
Nothing else,
nothing.
The man howled,
screamed,
threw himself
at the
steel portal,
another world.
But it held fast.
Picking the rack,
flung at the door,
cacophony of a
symphony.
But it held fast.
Hair ripped,
added to the
pile,
growing.
And the man
outside
whistled a tune.
The same for
twenty years.
The same for
twenty more.
And the fan
just kept on
turning.
The Flame
A dark pit,
freezing
mud and water.
That is where
I was left,
abandoned.
Cold.
Icy tendrils
chill.
The black flame
lights up.
Flickering.
It is warm.
A tonic
for my soul.
Drags me
from that
bottomless pit.
That dark flame.
It is mine.
Let it wash
away
my weaknesses.
Let me
embrace
it.
This dark flame
of vengeance.
The Scorpion
Grab the prey.
Can you see?
Yes,
but no one else.
That tail
hovering.
Waiting to
strike,
as I pull
you in.
You call for
help.
But they see
only the claws.
Yet you see
the true
threat.
For what
I
am worth.
Only you.
You are alone.
Welcome
to isolation.
As the Scorpion
draws his prey.
Third Time Lucky
Fling out
the dice of
fate.
Staking
pride,
time.
Every time
the roulette
spins.
Slot machines
cackle,
spilling rewards
for the
fearful.
While the biggest
riskiest
gamble
lays ahead.
My only choice.
This poisonous game.
Russian Roulette.
Bang.
Bang.
Perhaps I would be
third time lucky.
If I wasn't
already
dead.
Fin~
If any of you can actually work out the meaning behind more than half of these poems, I really must congratulate you. I'm well known for talking in meaningless circles and no one really can understand what I say, never mind what I think.
These are my way of expressing myself. Really.
Now let's start off with a happier poem. Not happy enough? Wait till you see those that come after it.
Distance
It's been less than
a month,
less than
a fortnight.
Yet an eternity
appears gone.
Status.
I used to laugh,
scorn at others
who allow themselves
such a
restriction.
Now I spurn
myself.
A few tables.
Traversed easily
in a few steps.
But there I sat,
contemplating.
Disgraced.
This inferiority.
I would rip
aside it all.
But I can't.
The distance has grown
so much
over the eternity.
Metres become miles.
Suddenly we are
so far apart.
But I will walk
this road,
this distance.
Until the road ends,
I will be there.
Come on in
Welcome!
Welcome!
Make yourself
at home!
Yes, I don't
usually have many
visitors here.
Want a cup
of coffee?
Sure!
Go squeeze my
heart and see
if there's any left
inside there.
Oh wait, there's
none?
I forgot. I
threw it away
when it stopped
working.
Apologies for
the mess.
This house is
undergoing
renovation.
That room? Oh
that's my mind.
Why is the paint
so dark? Well
It used to be
shiny bright,
but it stung
my eyes,
became a
liability.
Don't you think
that it's so much
nicer in black?
Leaving already?
Don't go.
No one who comes
and sees my soul
ever gets out.
Ever.
Cry
I am a vulture,
hovering above,
a beast ready
to strike at
a weakened foe.
Cry.
Fear me.
Or rather,
fear failure,
which brings you
to your knees,
an easy prey.
Cry.
For every word,
every phrase,
that you utter
must be guarded,
protected,
must be feared.
For the vulture
follows no
guidelines,
no system.
No restraints,
no boundaries.
So cry.
Cry.
As the vulture soars,
an opportunist,
echoing your cry
with one of its own.
And all you can do is
cry.
Dance of the Devil
Cry.
Weep.
Lose all
hope.
For a harbinger
of the dark gods
dances
at your side.
Look not ahead,
but over your
shoulder.
Awaiting the
cut,
slice,
burn,
disintegration.
The path ahead
clouded.
Yet I can see.
I alone can see.
Because I dance
the dance of the devil,
and he has shown
the future.
The future
belongs to
me.
Not anyone else,
least of all,
you.
As the harbinger
dances the first
arc,
cower in fear,
for false hope
cannot withstand
the devil's wrath,
this dance of the devil.
This dance of
destruction.
Of truth.
This poem I wrote kind of freaked me out. I never realised that I was so dark... I really got scared when I read what I actually wrote.
Destiny
A gift of
gods,
as they mock
the powerless,
who lament.
The judgment
of heaven,
brought in
all its
dark fury.
The reason.
Why strong men weep.
Why laughter ceases.
Why dreams are lost
and hearts broken.
Bringing to heel
any
that they
desire.
It is easy
to see
how
destitute relates
to destiny.
This iron
fist
of the Gods.
Fate.
Devil
Who represents
the good;
the bad,
how is it known?
Even the
deepest darkest
devil
believes
to be right,
does it not?
The path
of the devil,
why judged
by others?
You may presume
to walk the light,
but who is to say
correct?
There is no real
good.
There is no real
evil.
There is only
truth.
There is only
outcome.
Your perception,
slim,
narrow,
matters not.
So,
just fear me.
For I represent
strength,
ability,
skill,
superiority.
I am
truth.
Marksman
The church organs
bellow their tone
in the background.
The rain begins to
fall.
And the chatter
ceases,
diminutive men
running from
the rain
of fire.
Line up your sights.
Barrel aligned,
flick the gauge,
slot the next
bullet.
The downpour
crashes the
old church,
the bell tolling
with
mock sorrow,
As the trigger
pulled,
and heaven
drags another soul
Into this dark
river
in the midst of
modernisation.
A bit of a history poem here, if anyone understands what event I'm talking about here. Although I doubt it. Think snipers + organs, and where both appeared prominently.
Reap
Reap what you sow.
So they say.
Those seeds I sowed.
Pears, I figured.
Now where is my
harvest?
Those seeds I sowed.
Where is my
reward?
Not with me.
With others.
Throw down the hoe.
Pick up the
scythe.
It is time for a
harvest.
Time to
reap
a just
reward.
Time to become
a reaper.
I just hate people taking my credit.
The Fan
And the fan
just kept on
turning.
Stuffy room,
air on fire
and the fan
unable
to disperse
the tension.
Hard mattress,
a metal rack.
Nothing else,
nothing.
The man howled,
screamed,
threw himself
at the
steel portal,
another world.
But it held fast.
Picking the rack,
flung at the door,
cacophony of a
symphony.
But it held fast.
Hair ripped,
added to the
pile,
growing.
And the man
outside
whistled a tune.
The same for
twenty years.
The same for
twenty more.
And the fan
just kept on
turning.
The Flame
A dark pit,
freezing
mud and water.
That is where
I was left,
abandoned.
Cold.
Icy tendrils
chill.
The black flame
lights up.
Flickering.
It is warm.
A tonic
for my soul.
Drags me
from that
bottomless pit.
That dark flame.
It is mine.
Let it wash
away
my weaknesses.
Let me
embrace
it.
This dark flame
of vengeance.
The Scorpion
Grab the prey.
Can you see?
Yes,
but no one else.
That tail
hovering.
Waiting to
strike,
as I pull
you in.
You call for
help.
But they see
only the claws.
Yet you see
the true
threat.
For what
I
am worth.
Only you.
You are alone.
Welcome
to isolation.
As the Scorpion
draws his prey.
Third Time Lucky
Fling out
the dice of
fate.
Staking
pride,
time.
Every time
the roulette
spins.
Slot machines
cackle,
spilling rewards
for the
fearful.
While the biggest
riskiest
gamble
lays ahead.
My only choice.
This poisonous game.
Russian Roulette.
Bang.
Bang.
Perhaps I would be
third time lucky.
If I wasn't
already
dead.
Fin~
If any of you can actually work out the meaning behind more than half of these poems, I really must congratulate you. I'm well known for talking in meaningless circles and no one really can understand what I say, never mind what I think.
