The Mirror

It stares back
And haunts my very being.
The image portrayed
Kills a part of me
Each time I look at it.
It shows perfection
Its too smooth surface
And perfect reflection.
It doesn't show the scars,
Won from battles,
Badges of honour.

I bring my fist up.
Too hard, too fast.
And all shatters to the ground.
Slowly,
& painfully,
I bend to collect the pieces
And place them back
To where they once were.
But it will never be the same,
As the cracks spread in all directions.
Mapping something that never existed before.
And I am content with what I see.
Happy even.
Because it is real.
Imperfect.

Poetic Perception

Is my perception of poetry jaded?

That I cannot truly see what lies beneath the words?

Is it that my emotions are so over powered by the form,

That I am blinded?

Is it what makes it so beautiful that it sears my soul with its white-hot touch?

But how does one perceive poetry?

At face value?

By layers?

-excavating what lies on the page until we unearth what we want?

Do we find only what we want to find?

Turning away to what the truth may be?

That it may be too much, too little, or even both?

That maybe what we believe in is lacking?

But you see,

Poetry never does that to one,

Allow them to find what they search for.

It gives everything or nothing at all.

Sometimes even both.

Leaving you worse off than you started 

Or better off than you planned.

Never blame the poem,

The poor messenger,

But the poet.

Summer's Song

Summer
The time of liquor
and booze
Of pool parties
and old friends
"no new friends"
sorry, I oppose.

Fun
Fabulous fun,
In more wicked ways than one.

Too much time
And overthoughts.
Of what you did,
What you sought.
Solitude in someone's arms
Comfort, "love"
and all those ill harms.

Bless my soul
If I am wrong.
Maybe its just summer's
Sweet sad song.

INK.

My palms
Covered
With this morbid liquid.
Spilling out of my soul
Onto the ground.
My knees hit the ground.
Bones
 -shattered.
Warm streaks
Reconstruct my face.
Making it a mask of what was.
The deadly wound
Gushes
And washes everything out of me.
A purge.
The ground
 White as snow.
Is now filled
With the contents of my being.
                                                              As I bleed ink.

A poem dedicated to darker times

I would tear myself to pieces
Saying
-Im not worth this..
-Im not good enough for that...
I ripped myself
Until slowly but surely
My existence started to vanish.

Then I stopped,
Living and existing.
I was just
There.
Occupying space.

Then I stopped.
And gathered myself.
And bought myself a bottle of glue.
And began to put myself together.

Its a slow process.
And all the pieces might not be where the should be.
But its coming together.
Maybe I'll look like a Picasso in the end,
But I'll be solid.

Ive been gone for a while, my sincere apologies but you see the thing is, a lot has been on my mind and I'm just trying to shut it up. I don't feel... actually I feel too much and that seems to be the problem. I've been over-analyzing a lot of things, and I'm trying to stop. Maybe I should try and channel it into something creative but I know that I wouldn't like how it would turn out. I want to be done with angry poems, maybe even the emotional ones too, but the emotional ones are my strong points really so I'll hold on to those a bit longer. Long story short, I'm purging. I'm just typing endlessly so this may or may not make sense. Hopefully I'll post a poem soon.