This section is perpetually under construction, as I am always finding more poems that should be put up. I've decided against including the background behind each poem, but if you have any specific questions, feel free to email me. I will warn you in advance that I used to "work" at an online personalization studio and wrote poems for people's charrie profiles, some of which are included. Most of the fluff falls into the above category. There's also quite a bit of randomness. This is also by no means all of my poems--this collection probably represents about 50% of them. There were just some that either didn't deserve to be put up here, or that I didn't feel particularly comfortable putting up here. Deal with it.
Poems with an asterik have been published.
Tattered
Tattered
A tattered butterfly, drifting on the wind,
Fireflies
Dancing in the streets, the spirits wail,
A small pale form lies collapsed on the stone,
Ivy*
Eternally morbid, jade green vines,
She is not a worshipper of darkness,
Devil�s Maker
One for the darkness, a crimson flame she bore,
Cage a Spirit
You cannot cage a spirit,
Deception (3)
�Objects in the mirror are closer than they may appear.�
I Stole myself, a while back,
Prayer to a Muse
The music pulses through its cage that is me,
Yet still I struggle, and fail, and try over again,
Muse, maybe its not meant to be shared,
Wouldn�t it be wonderful
All goes marching surely by,
No angelic music reaches your ears,
Before you lies a forgotten grave,
As you wipe away dust,
�For though it�s long since you left,
�I no more shall struggle,
The carving there ends,
As you exit the room and a lump�s in your throat,
Flaming heart and serpent�s tongue,
Is it flames or is it ice?
Dark horse, yet no dark rider,
The evil one. . .
In battle,
Hunting through the everlasting night,
Fireflies
Ivy*
Dark Trespasser
Devil's Maker
Cage a Spirit
Deception (3)
Stole (1)*
Prayer to a Muse
Grubby
All Goes Marching Surely By
Angel of Light
Deception (1)
Deception (2)
Lucifer
Queen of Darkness
Stole (2)
Confusion overwhelms as it struggles to descend,
A moment, pure, of freedom, now encased in deadly sin,
When did this tortured cyclone of destruction begin?
A butterfly without its wings is nothing more than darkness,
A heart without its soul is useless, helpless,
This butterfly is lost now, never to be free
It shall be life without a purpose, for eternity,
Escaped the danger leaving damage worse than death,
Rasping wings, they try to fly like a corpse drawing breath,
Who is to say there is no sorrow in the pain,
It�s just an insect, but it can feel things just the same,
It tries a final time, wings breaking on the ground,
It seems to scream with rage, although it makes no sound,
There�s just the whistling of the wind through ruptured wings,
And the revelation of the prison that the loss of freedom brings,
A final flutter, like a neverending sigh,
The fallen angel gives in, and at last ceases to try,
It�s freedom swallowed, it gives in meekly to the chains,
No longer cares about the moisture of the falling rain,
A tattered butterfly was drifting on the wind,
Confusion overwhelmed as it struggled to descend,
A memory encased in sin, of former complete freedom,
Now waiting for the day that death finally comes.
Fire dances in their eyes,
Hell-sent fireflies, they trail
A distant form, the pits
Of mouths gape ever wider.
They chant, the trail is warm.
They consume, pigment of coal
Overpowers, overwhelms the world,
Leaving just a little girl
In a land devoid of souls.
Lost in hell, whirling flames of sin
Surround the child as if preparing to impale
It on a hidden sword, mouths
Parted, jeering, to inhale the single
Spark of self within.
Craving what they cannot have, the ghouls
Stretch forwards, reach--she screams.
But there is no one to hear.
All taken, given to the demons, it is
The fireflies they fuel.
Having claimed their prey, they
Turn to search for more, though nothing�s
Left, the gray is all,
They leave.
Face turned earthward, skin of ashen
Tone, concealed from all, an unnoticed death among many,
None saw her fall. Who knows? Who cares?
There is no one left but the fireflies,
Flickering, mirroring hell.
Coiled slyly �round the trunk of fir,
Supporting whilst they do close sure,
Tightening �til life they take,
Like boat, cradled by azure waves,
Like captive�s comfort as master weeps,
Like man wrapped by serpent in his sleep,
Which steal more life than they do wake,
Traitorous, deadly, iron masked cold,
Which chokes whilst it do give support,
Which hunts whilst it do feign rapport,
Playing life�s chess game for its own sake,
Moonlit silver, devil�s trap,
Ensnares that to which it does hold fast,
It�s gripping tendrils ever last,
Beyond when soil its leaves do make,
A demon�s breath, a phantom�s dream,
True lover of itself it be,
This cruel and clinging death bound ivy,
These morbid, jade green vines. . .
Some are true to others, and not to themselves,
Yet there are a few, a small portion, who dedicate themselves to chaos and death. . .
Yet rather its creator,
Her heart is not of ice,
But rather a bottomless, dark abyss,
Never giving, always taking,
Starving for its own benefit,
Rejoicing in the despair of others.
Her voice is not that of hatred,
But rather of its source,
She feeds not on damned souls,
But rather on condemning them,
She dwells in the heart of all ill will,
Every beaten child has seen her face,
Every prisoner felt her touch,
Poisoning the minds of those she envies,
None can block her from their soul,
For she shall find her way inside in the end,
And take out vengeance for the wasted time,
A Dark Trespasser in the hearts of all men.
Another for the light, dancing on a puff of air,
A third for the shadow, for all caught between,
And a fourth, yes a fourth, for all that is yet never was.
Time travels on, yet never began,
Caught in the web of eternal entropy,
Day follows night, or does night follow day,
All falls between, and between is outdoors,
Heaven�s own song is naught but a spell,
Yet the spell is truth, not from a forked tongue,
And so is she, there and yet not,
Light and yet darkness,
Day and yet night,
She is everything and nothing,
Is and is not,
Hunter and hunted,
Truth and a lie,
For none have seen her, yet all know her name,
She is. . .
The Devil�s Maker.
Like you cannot cage the wind,
You can�t tell a spirit what to do,
You cannot keep it pinned.
The spirit knows the truth,
Of all that is and all that�s not,
The spirit is not bound,
By modern theories, forms of thought.
Spirits may be broken, aye,
But with them breaks the bearer,
The neither mended ever,
With changed treatment, words far fairer.
Spirits see what eyes may not,
And spirits go where feet don�t tread,
Spirits journey, heaven bound,
Whilst their bearers rest in bed.
To attempt to cage a spirit,
Is folly you see, for,
In doing so you�ll likely
Damage your own much, much more.
Now I�ve warned you, don�t forget,
Don�t say you did not hear it,
Don�t try and put the blame on me,
When you try to cage a spirit.
This is the moral found in every scene.
�The essay due this wednesday? Wait-- that�s today!�
We all know what it is that it means.
�Today�s your birthday? I know, but I got mixed up.�
The time got switched, or your brain�s not too keen.
�Ow! Stubbed my toe. Since when was that there?�
It�s Deception at work. Don�t be fooled by what�s seen...
I was getting rather bored,
I took myself out in the woods,
And on me honey poured,
I tied myself up to a tree,
And sent a ransom note,
Then got sick of the whole thing,
And to myself I wrote,
�I�m afraid I�ve gone to find myself,
I�ve lost myself you see,
If you meet up with me, myself,
Or you, let me know please.�
I then sent it on to myself,
And with a smirk did wait,
I wondered what on earth I�d think,
Would I be angry? Would I hate?
At last it did come back to me,
And I eagerly did read,
Then wrote, �You silly fool, you know,
I know because it�s me!�
I sent it off once more, and then,
Since it was getting dark,
Untie myself I did,
Once more was freer than a lark.
Struggling ever to break its way free,
Wishing fervently to dance in the wind,
Aching to fly unbound and unpinned,
And I try, endlessly, to let it all out,
To unwind, to let go, to let the song shout,
To declare, to give voice to the lyrics inside,
But I fail, yet again, can�t give in to the tide,
Which pulls me, ever beckoning, �Come in!�
It seems to say. �Sing! Play! It is no sin!
�To set free your music, your magic, your song!�
But the words do not help me--I�ve known all along.
Through my voice, through guitar, through flute, through my pen,
But it can�t come out. Why won�t it flow?
Like it does in my head, if I will it or no?
For when I try, at last, to share it with those
Who don�t mind that no one quite knows what I know
Or thinks how I think, it gets stuck in my head.
Can you please pull the plug so it�s not all unsaid?
But can�t you make one exception? Don�t you care?
I know you give me poetry, stories, a creative mind,
I guess some don�t have muses even that kind,
But still, don�t you find it just a bit cruel,
To leave my music, bound, firmly under your rule?
To give me a taste, and then take it away?
Of my music, my songs... but I�m forced to obey,
I have no choice, after all--they�re yours to take,
Or give, as you please, and yours to make,
And I have no choice, I know, but still. . .
Can�t you, just once, let me please drink my fill?
To live out in the wild?
To muck about in mud all day
And be a grubby child?
With grubby hands,
And grubby feet,
And grubby little things to eat. . .
Eeeu! Never mind,
It�s supper time,
I think I�ll wait a little while.
Lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my!
Brown paper packages tied up with string,
Frosty white winters that fade into spring,
Young cats with their mittens,
Red yarn with the kittens,
Little Bo Peep and all of her sheep,
Young sleeping Johnny�s soul to keep,
Spoonfuls of sugar to help tonic go down,
Queens with their circlets and kings with their crowns,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,
Sharp shards of blue falling out of the sky,
All these tales and far many more,
I used to devour, I used to adore,
But now they say, those silly adults,
That at this age it is nonsense for colts,
Not yearlings like me, too old for that stuff,
What does that mean, that they�ve filled me with fluff?
Why bother to teach us these nursery rhymes,
If after five years, recitation�s a crime?
Why don�t they read us things at a young age,
Which will mark us in our later years as a sage?
They should teach what they wish us later to know,
Or just shut up about it and let their kids grow.
As you walk down the passage and enter the tomb,
The lack of brilliance lays bare all the tears,
Etched in the tiles and the walls of the room.
Left for centuries and guarded by none,
Yet it seems so much more than the bare, simple cave,
Which it so clearly is, untouched by the sun.
The letters come clear,
�Though leave you I must,
My soul shall stay here.
The pain still is strong,
My heart is bereft,
I can barely go on.
With memories held near,
My Angel of Light,
I love you my dear.�
You stand there and weep,
�Til your eyes then are cleansed,
And you ascend from the deep.
Though the grave was of someone you did not hold dear,
You know in your heart that just as the one wrote,
Though leave them you must, your soul shall stay here.
Hardened warrior, ever young,
Dreaming ashes, battlefields,
Cunning tactics never yield,
Shrouded mystery, fated wild,
By danger is he e�er beguiled,
Inside sweeter, though no less tough,
Its all Deception, but its enough.
Is it loyal or does it spy?
Is it truth or is it lies?
Does it sing or does it cry?
Shadowed illumination,
Brilliant dark,
Wastes are bounteous,
Valleys stark,
Dreams are ending,
Life�s a dream,
Entropy�s pending,
All�s more than it seems.
Traveling swiftly through the night,
Black of pelt and black of heart,
Never heeding fury�s plight,
�Tis the bringer of such pain,
Naught but cobwebs block his path,
Easily broken and easily lost,
Yielding �fore his burning wrath,
Lucifer is he of name,
Being all that name implies,
Hardened, unmarred, tempered steel,
�Tis in the darkness his heart lies.
So crafty, slinking through the darkened shadows,
Here, then gone again--Vanished,
As if borne upon hidden wings away
Through the ever billowing mist,
A semblance of the coming darkness.
Slashing, only to fade away once more,
Like smoke,
And yet, still there,
Surging in, like the crashing waves on the boulders of the shore,
To wreck havoc upon the enemy,
Without leaving a trace of ever having once been there.
Slinking softly, silently along the snow covered ground,
Gleaming in the gentle moonlight,
Yet deadly--how so?
Stalking the unwary prey silently,
A wraith, a phantom in the Night,
The Queen of Darkness.