To…

I’m not perfect,
I know that best.
I have an attitude –
anger, hate, fear,
bitterness, resentment…

Loneliness, forgetfulness…

I won’t forget, no I won’t,
that it is not who I am,
to feel…
to hate, to fear…

My skin and bones
are sometimes dry,
like the stone of torment
on which my head lay
on occasion – they rust.

Because my anger,
my hate, my fear…
Empower me to see who I am,
and to be who I want.

I am not anger, nor hate, nor fear;
I am compounded, strengthened…
by my flesh and bones,
riddle with pain and mistakes.

I won’t forget, no I won’t,
that it is not who I am,
to feel…
to hate, to fear,
to contradict.

It is all of me to feel,
to see these factors
– not compliments –
as a way to improve,
as a way to be free…

As a way to feel,
to hate,
to fear…
…in my own way.

Broken Dreams

We are lost behind
a wall of lies,
that cradles hope
in our years forgotten.
We have changed our ways
to seem younger than before,
for our dreams are broken
behind this wall of lies.
But we move on with faith,
our lives are not lost,
just our dreams
like the snow of late winter
melting at our feet.
Because we are lost behind
a wall of lies that towers high
and cradles hope for our broken dreams.

*Untitled

The smell of the past
is the destruction of envy,
and every memory a reminder
of thoughtlessness and
compromised devotion.
Time disintegrates blurred pictures,
once vivid pictures of trust and peace,
now formed to haze, an augmentation
of no longer mindful photographs.
Turned from memory to nightmare,
are altogether a metaphor of distrust
and anguish, just imagery evermore distorted
from recollection and time.

Ruled By Lies

In a world of oppression I stand,
I‘m trapped, alone and empty.
The world’s view is cynical,
filled with “You must do this”
or “You must do that.”
My opinion is strong;
it’s open and willing
to the thought of something new
and anything different.
But my words ring hollow,
unheard by the masses
who refuse to acknowledge
that concept isn’t always reality.
Distraught, detested, deprived
is this world of conceited ways;
Including myself, apparently.
I must be in the wrong,
for what I believe destines me to hell
with other scumbags and beggars
who fight to believe something different,
Who strive for change and hope
and faith of a different kind.
I see myself in the bottom of a pond,
protected by men overseas
and a cloud in the sky.
I’m burdened by cement in my watery grave,
dragged to the bottom and suffocated
by the loose protest and congregation
of a world ruled by lies.

A political poem I wrote for my creative writing class.