Had a few hours to tinker around with the balance of some of these. I also finished a drawing I started a few years back. As always just click the blue links for a PDF version of each poem with the superior formatting. Drawing is at the bottom.
Fractured Memories (Click for PDF version):
The pain that’s easiest to hide,
The one hurt I can’t abide.
The times I want to die,
Are when I stop feeling alive,
But you threw the die,
Told me to try,
You didn’t laugh when I’d start to cry,
Or when I told you to help me fly,
Away from here.
I wanted was to be free,
Can you be my key,
The one and only who’ll let me be,
I don’t know where I’m going,
Or how long-away I’ll be,
But you’ll live on forever,
In these fractured memories.
Born of Frost
Born of frost,
Splicing winter’s cross,
with summer’s burning moss.
They laughed and jeered,
Twelve foot tall,
A thousand thrall,
Skin; an ice-plate wall.
Now they cry in fear.
A cruel-dawn’s slaver,
Beware my dear,
The towering eolith,
No man or myth,
Fear our moiré; the WinterSmith.
Call me Faceless
Who am I to speak to what’s wrong or right?
One who’s closer to oppressor than victim,
I try on a long and stormy night,
To decipher this dictum,
Oblong and gritty plight.
How can I complain,
When I rest on the laurels of another’s fortune,
Screaming a phantom pain.
Who am I to say what you should do?
When I’m a short step away from weak,
Despite being one of the lucky few,
Who has money enough to speak?
A fallacy tainting the fabric of my minds misfortune,
Learned condition renders me lame.
Do I really care,
About blood-soaked policies of an empire built on the backs,
Of those with actual despair?
Why can’t I just relax,
Cut out the fancy fucking syntax,
Abuse our militaristic axe,
Deny the horrendous acts,
Against children who couldn’t afford a simple tax.
But it’s not easy for me to lie,
When I walk outside and watch the homeless die,
Call me weak,
Because I cry,
Because I try,
You tell me money isn’t happiness,
Then tell me not to worry; because I have enough to eat?
As if the relative suffering of others is supposed to placate my crimson-soul.
The only thing worse than trying but failing,
Is giving up entirely
Media: 6b pencil + a bic pen.
Paper: 6×9 inch cut watercolor paper.