So, here's the thing . . .
I don't let people read my poetry. Ever. Like not ever. I have been friends--really close friends--with Meg for a year and I finally just showed her some of my actual real poetry. . . and I did that because she shows me hers like a lot and I respect her literary opinion. I have posted one poem on here which was vague and generic and really not my best work, so I figured it was safe. Well, I'm going to post some now seeing as not many people really read this anyway and I really just use my blog for selfish "Let me release to the world" purposes. But, for those of you that do read it, please don't judge too hard, but feedback is appreciated--positive and negative. So here it goes:
I.
Woe me! the savor of bitterness.
Is it but the knowledge of that which could be sour?
Tasting what thou tasteth, knowing what thou must see.
Wealth within itself is not a sin,
But what of the Gluttony which purgeth such a sin?
To purge is but to see,
To see is but to know,
And to know is but to understand.
A tender chuckle was once heard in the vast halls of my mind
But no longer will such a shine glimmer.
The muse of misery knows itself too well.
Knowing I will always return to it, wishing
For no more but unable to abstain.
The organization of the mind means nothing but to laugh.
And yet, where does laughter go but into the sour bitterness we all conceal?
II.
To embark
Upon the world in its midst
Of Misunderstanding.
Who is to clear the clouds which crowd our view from what is most real?
My fingertips reach for warmth but find nothing in the fog.
Smog it now has become as man once again makes his footprint.
Oh how much there is to the green which should surround us.
The green which has been dissolved to such a sad gray.
When will we cease to blind ourselves?
Oedipus knew what we continue to deny.
Blindness comes not only in injury or birth,
But in Smog.
How I love to fly as the birds do rejoice—
Clear the clouds!
The rocks and mountains we care so much for
Beyond the green misunderstanding.
I will soon journey my way through the ashes.
When will be decided by the Smog
. . . And when it chooses to clear its ugly head of green blindness.
III.
The sweetness of a word.
The need for that great juice to reach our fingers and glide its way through our blood.
Even the toes yearn for such nectar.
Capital!
Wanting what we can not have and receiving what we do not want.
What wilst be most important will not reach us now, but in time.
Oh the joys of love—
Music be the food of love,
Yet where are all the musicians?
It seems strings grow quiet as words come to be still.
From the tips of my hairs to the pit of my gut
I know things are not as they believe themselves to be.
Yet what of that?
The existentialist will tell me to wait for the juice of life,
But the realist sitting upon my shoulder knows it will not be so.
Come back to me, sweet music.
Come back.
So, there you go . . . please don't judge too fiercely.
