Of Quality: The Writer's Dilemma

What's the point 
When all that's asked
Are memories
Of days gone past?
This isn't why
The poet writes;
He writes for, rightly,
What is right.
But play the puppet
One frame more
And give a show
Of which they're sure.
These empty words
Will over soon,
And you can live
A writer's ru'n. 

Or…

Maybe falsehoods

Written down

Are no more real

Than playing clown 

To entertain 

The enter'd few

That care enough

To hear from you. 

The only point 

To write that song

Is for them all 

To sing along.

We only ask for

Eyes and ears;

They justify,

Or death, we fear.

A First World Problem

Surround sound and polished waves

Keep reality from the crazy raving

Fantasy that we all fall for;

Us white sheep herded through the doors

Into a promised neverland

Where hope and love could never land

For fear of pop contaminants.

Such is the life us blessed are in.

Virtulove?

Do I trust in a world of sin
that love can be a happening?
I once placed hope beyond the screen
and ended up with ev’rything
that I cared for and I hoped for lost,
with dreams that forced to turn and toss.
I vowed to push lust to a place
and with it, that same screen away.
Now, in days where I can feel
that I am free of sin and devil,
in days where I feel I have won,
I see that same screen once again.
I do not think it is the same,
but there is yet no simple way
for innocence to recognise 
the diff’rence ‘tween two sets of eyes.
Can one set truly be those eyes
which I have yearned for, day and night?
Do I trust in a world of sin
that love can be a happening?

Sonnet of Hope

I pace among the masses while my legs keep me from home,

and a cloud of grey descends on a brok'n mans shoulders. 

It's not oft that I am left here standing on my own,

with haunting dreams of 'wish I could have' soldiers. 

Wish I could, wish I may, wish it would have bin;

wishing that these dreams of mine were gone. 

But that is not reality, a world I could have seen,

that is not the truth of my own bones. 

I am a brok'n man with a grey and heavy cloud

resting on my brok'n, nothing soul. 

And the grey gives truths I know a blanket of doubt,

endless dreams with ever-reaching goals. 

But in that cloud of grey, there will always be some light,

as true as stars will always light the hopelessness of night.

Sentimental

The waves between two foreign lands

Halt destined love from coming to,

But on those shores where lovers stand

Are hearts that beat with purpose and truth.

For now, they wait with bated breath

Until horizons disappear;

They’d hope for love until their death

When free souls could, at last, be near.

Such a heart is hell to find,

For true love is a miracle,

But when the heart does truly find

Such never, then forever’s real.

    Let men claim heaven is fantasy;

    They’ve never felt what I have seen.

A Smaller Picture of Bigger Things

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

But flowers are nothing

In the sight of you.

They say that absence

Softens the heart,

But never again

Will we be apart;

For the thought of your loss

In this world of ours

Is enough to turn sweetest

Of moments sour.

This is the plight

Of the common at home,

What the warrior fights for

When he is gone…

Wulf Young's Love

The waves play tag

As they criss-cross by;

A misplaced day

For a playful tide. 

A rainbow spouts

In the distant sea, 

But as moments pass

The rainbow flees

Beyond the silent

Volcanic giant,

Who watches tides

Fall and rise and 

Playing tag

On a winter's day. 

Volcanos, waves 

And rainbows play.

Almost Princess

My mind is clear,

Or at least enough to know

That today's hope of sun

Is tomorrow's promise of snow. 

But I need a hand

To reach out to me,

Even if it's a hand

Only I see. 

Because all that I'll love

Will be memories soon,

A moment faster than

Timeless noon. 

For now, she is my hope,

She is my dream

Until she is all or

Gone for reality. 

Leading Words

Formation of nations,
The waging of wars,
The world's nov'l narration
Or the artist's score.
The power of harm'ny
To lift a lost life,
Or power of hatred
That twists like a knife.
They made what we became,
Made us who we are.
Our lives, on them we blame.
On them, our lives craft.
    They are our gods, moments be damned.
    They lead us, hell-bound, by the hand.

Dream for Immortality

Perfection lying at your side,
With gold and green in ev'ry move;
To live the moment you're alive
And never any moment lose.
To have the body of a God
And live with immortality;
The world is yours, so come, take hold
And live without humility.
You are as young as in your dreams.
And thus, where failure waits for you,
For you are only just a gleam
Of light that through the world goes through.
   The man who has but a thousand dreams
   Will never achieve anything

Rats and Rainbows

This world is full of wonder,

Extr'ordinary things,

Resounding booms of thunder

And streams of white light'ning.

They shout, "Can you deny

The presence of your God?!"

But in my own flawed mind,

By Nature I am awed.

A name brings prejudice

To ev'ry mind of man.

Forget the words, the benefits 

Will halt you where you stand.

The rainbow'd is the brother to the rats of the sky.

Stop reading, turn around, see the beauty in your sight.

The Hunted King of Death

He paves the concrete red
And yet his hands are clean;
The children hurt or dead,
Forgotten for the green.
Unnecessary pain
For unnecessary gain,
But he just hides the stain
Of where the children lay.
This is cowardice
Of the most pathetic kind;
To destroy a wealth of promise?
He cannot be so blind.
He hides like a hunter behind his slew of guns,
But as the guilty hunted, he will always run.

The Music In My Blood

There's no songs for now

and I'm not a fool;

I know this time

will leave me soon. 

I know these feelings,

yet again,

will cease and leave me. 

I won't pretend

that this is right

and I don't know. 

I know the way that

my heart flows, 

but if distraction

keeps me sane, 

then bring perfection;

come once again.

Stardust In Our Blood

We idolize and fantasize about celebrities and cars.
We dream of, one day, being them and shooting for the stars.
When we're young, there's no such thing as a body of potential,
because we have no limits, we're unstoppable, immortal.

Our senses are bombarded at every single turn,
eyes blinded by the lights for which we are taught to yearn.
We are deafened and lose touch as we take in reality.
But the fact of the matter is what is what is nought but dreams.

What is in fact a fact, the real reality,
is unknown now to most, just a barren wadi.
What is important, the core of truth, can still be found if sought.
It is more and less than currency, something riches never bought.

The fact is, there is no point in reaching for the stars,
for the blood that runs through our veins came from the heavens afar.
This is not a cause to do nothing to aid in our progression,
but to realise that your blood is the worthiest possession.

Damn the Valley

How we are deceived

by the innocent,

by those who never knew,

by the ignorant. 

It makes you wonder

if it is ignorance at all?

How could the obvious

be so small?

It's been some time since

this feeling, or lack of,

has punctured my heart,

my hopes, my dove. 

Days and weeks of

letting go and holding on. 

Months, a year of falling into

a pair of nowhere arms. 

My light is gone, at least

not in the angel I once saw. 

But damn the valley,

to the mountain peak I claw

to try and find the lost

light once more. 

That light is the reason

for life, for less, for all.

The World in a Window

A window is simply
a singular view;
a sole perception of
the face of the world.
Ignorance to the
actuality can lead us
to make wrong or
terrible choices.
Yet what choice
do we have, but
to choose those choices
according to the window?
In the end,
we are all blind.
The faults of the world
are our own.

Manly Conversation

We talk and we talk,
and we drink and we drink,
of manly things
despite what we think.

I try to bring in
emotional talk,
but the chance of that
is like I would walk.

Finally we reach
my territory,
after talking of never
could-be queens,

but even this is
simply childish;
it's a new and strange world
to join that I wish.

A Lesson On Love; or why my heart hurts.

Love is a complex thing, made of
time, growth, and experiences.
They can not be spoken of independently,
but such is the lesson today.

Time

Many have seen my writings of
an angel; she entered my life three
years ago to bring me
heaven and hell.

A seeming never ending saga began
in a chapel and a corridor. But I convinced myself of certain things
so that I would not fall.

Time goes on and so do I,
views change and so do I,
the world changes and so do I.
Time changes and my feelings glide

to new and unknowable, unthinkable
heights. I guess falling is not meant
for intention. So unintentionally,
unwittingly, uncontrollably, I fell.

Time has brought it's ups and downs,
created strange paths to hurt or
help the unsuspecting. Time has not
been kind, yet kinder than all.

Today is the feeling I had yesterday,
except more powerful than
tomorrow's could ever have
been conceived.

The problem with stopping 'now'
is that tomorrow will come. Destiny
can only be postponed for a
moment of forever.

Growth

When the angel first appeared, I
was a man (or boy?) of God. My,
how things have changed. Cynicism
and existentialism have lead my way

following a clarification on reality.
This moved me from faith to
confusion as my world fell down
beside me, a new world dawning.

Finally, a lesson was learnt on the
ability to find happiness with or
without and wherever you
happened to be. What a truth!

Faith and hope were gone to be
replaced by questions and laughter.
Friends were made and a light
rekindled; a love grown.

We understood each other more
with the absence of invisible beings.
We could speak of joyous things
with the absence of invisible beings.

Yet some things did not change;
I am unsure whether my hand
reaches for nothing, or if we are
passing lights on an empty road.

Whichever we were,
whatever we are,
our paths have still not crossed
and nothing has changed.

Experiences

And yet how everything changes
in the dream of a solitary night. Well,
let us begin at the fore before the
dream of that solitary night.

It's never been more than casual conversation,
that's fine by me. At first it was
nothing more than a chat in a corridor,
while she mistakenly pulled my heartstrings.

It was followed by unmet invitations
(why did I not make the most of chance?!),
and invisible, technological,
empty conversations.

Finally, we meet again amidst a time
of social emptiness on my part. Oh,
the joy that she brought to a
lifeless, broken heart.

We would meet again, and the
New Year was not as terrible as
it could have been. Talking and
wanting and cliches coming true.

Things slowed down, but my feelings
did not. I would wait, look forward to
the meetings of tomorrow, the times
to see and talk and hope.

Daydreams would pass my way
and stories would fill my mind.
But I still yet wait for reality
to catch up with my dreams.

The Dream Of The Solitary Night

I was with my former contemporaries
discussing religion and politics,
apparently it was wrong to form
opinion not dictated by men in suits.

I looked outside to see a field filled
with more of those formers, and I
knew that she must be among them.
I searched and I searched;

my subconscious was on my side.
Her glowing hair, her glowing smile,
she was there in full form as only
she could be, at least to me.

My mother briefly enters and
mutters something (I wonder what
Freud would say?), but disappears
to leave us to our happiness.

I'm about to quote someone in my
usual pretentious way, when she
says to me, "I'm going to lean in
and kiss you now."

And she did.

It was amazing and perfect and
more than I could have dreamed.
I forgot my words when forever
broke, and she left with my heart again.

But it was a dream, just a dream.
My subconscious torturing me yet
again. I don't know what to do now,
but I hope for yesterday's dream tonight.

Parking Lot Ballads

What a voice! The tender
innocence (or is it ignorance?)
that caresses the moonlit
fire in the parking lot.
Generic OMG's and totally's
while trying to fit in with a
generic crowd of small brains,
big egos and testosterone.

Guitars and Dalmatians playing
to uninterested wheels under
the supermarket lights; there is no
audience but I.
Not the best, but better than
he's placed. I guess this is the way it
goes: money and geography
determining wealth and worth.

Filling in the Spaces of Heartbreak

There was a time when it
felt as though every cliche
came true. All lovey dovey;
complete feelings amidst an abyss.
I thought it was everything I wanted,
thought a shape was wrong and
meaningless. Now, I don't know…
Character? Intelligence? Physical
beauty? I thought it was all there?
Maybe I was wrong; maybe there
was nothing special except for all
that was special. Was it not?

What it was, what it wasn't; I can't
figure it out, I can't try to begin to.
It's been a knowledge of some time
that I must release, but this is one area
where the heart is more powerful
(or whatever chemicals they may
be), and it's been periods of triumph
and trauma. I think I now know what
heartbreak is, at least on some small
level. It is a crack, one that will
be there forever more. But, such a
cliche, maybe time heals everything…