what if i’m good and nobody cares?

what if i’m talented but end up being nothing?

if i ask the world a question

will she even bother to answer?

if i have talent and spend my credit

banking on a future that’s already bankrupt

where the fuck then will i be?

do i only have disappointment ahead of me?

death seems like the greatest adventure and

the place where dreams go to end.

if i greet death like an old friend

will he let me live long enough to love who i am

even if i finish the race with

nothing in my hands?

in the beginning,

wisdom left us for sunlight.

young lungs breathe, and scream.

as leaves eclipse red,

the body stretches in defense.

it grows under threat.

will the wind carry

every hope away from us?

we all feel our age.

seasons always change.

from child to maverick -

from summer to fall.

trees are tipped with fire.

an Ouroboros pyre.

wisdom found anew.

when the dark crawls into view

is it the end, or the womb?

lately, i've been hiding.

the world has been loud

and much like a child

i've hidden myself under a table

waiting for the shouting to die down.

though it hasn't quieted for months, now.

voices ricocheting like bullets —

they crack into the walls,

they rip apart the family dog.

they breach every surface until i know

nothing is safe, anymore.

not the table where i eat.

not the history in my walls.

not even the family dog is spared this fate;

and you know that's where a family

keeps its love safe.

so yes, i'm hiding today.

cowering beneath my home, my grave.

while the world crumbles around me and

the table becomes my tomb;

i wonder, again, if it will end soon.

i don't know what else to do.

if the footsteps behind me are mine

echoing off the marble floors in clips

and clops, heel-toe tempo in an envelope

do you think sound travels through time?

do you think the scream i release is

captured by the stained glass windows,

the same way harmonies and hymns once sunk

holy knives into ancient gilded glass for worship?

oh the song of God is a mourning call, as most

people will call out for their Father in times

distressful and hard. could i mail my death-throes

in the same audible envelope i arrived in?

wordless noise folded over and over again

pressed together and sharpened to a blade.

cacophony shoved into every corner and corridor

until the word of God is spoken under the echo.

so would you believe anyone can become a ghost?

since time is an echo and my last memories

tied to this place are a song i never wish to sing again.

since i remember a song i shouldn’t know.

since these halls are empty of sound,

and here, death is the only thing hallowed.

i’d wish my voice to travel far back in time.

if only to guide the people God left behind.

the beetles digging deep in my skin,

they're dyed in crusted, rusted alizarin.

blood or pigment there is no difference.

by the soil that which accepts me

i am become deliverence.

the way my skin melts into the glade

of which, the touch of decay,

sped along by April showers,

pummel the ground to a verdant grave

of which, my body lays down.

though perhaps a windy crescendo shall

herald the end.

after all, what other embargo walls

could the beetles erect in my lost flesh?

they eat to stall a love affair with death.

now, words like blaspheme make me ache.

for this rotting body is in a place

of consecrated ground,

and time will leave no lasting trace

of what these bones used to sing about.

oh, i’m afraid my patience is spent

for the world has too heavy a hand,

and it is the past i’ve come to lament.

old days of sunlit skies and hours content

i am a hungry body aching for love without remand,

but I’m afraid that patience is already spent.

if your patience were a thing of torment

i would recognise it, as the cheek knows the hand

love’s absence echoes, wailing in red lament.

recall the days i’ve darkened your door, bent

half over, swimming in brine and unable to stand.

you said quick - “i’m afraid my patience is spent”

didn’t you? quick to flee, these fickle creatures we pretend

to be; in love and unconditional on demand.

we must become figments to love, i lament. i lament.

sweet, i remember the touch of love once meant

for me, and me alone - though memory is cruel and

i’m afraid my patience is long spent.

such is the past i’ve come to lament.

Hey guys, I know I've become less and less active on this platform over the years, and it's not for lack of writing poetry. I've actually decided to open up a patreon in an attempt to save up and start self publishing poetry and other projects!

There are only three tiers so far, ranging from 3$ usd to 8$ usd, and I'll be posting a brand new poem every Wednesday. I'll also be posting some practice stories I've been working on, along with a wip of a fantasy novel I've been tinkering away at xD There's Q+A, there's possibly a community playlist, and in the future possibly a community discord!

If you're interested, I'd dearly appreciate it if you could check it out!

https://www.patreon.com/user?u=69267600

a corpse lies in my bed.

bathed in blue light, foggy eyes

stamped on an unmoving head.

it's growing fungus along the spine,

colored in reds, purples - fire and wine.

mushrooms lift from the sheets,

painting a skyline of decay, haunted

by that unearthly blue horizon.

light coming off that small device

embossed in still palms.

a simple, rectangular box, metal and silver

a coffin of it's own kind -

but somehow the picture i paint

is still beautiful, in a way.

we all die a little at night,

it's just the way the world turns.

so why not make death just

a bit more sublime?

after all,

we'll be dead a lot longer

than we'll be alive.

so this is where you've been.

so this is where midnight delivered you

after you broke that stupid clock, again.

should i be surprised to find you

lying on the floor, toasting the dog bowl

with your bubbling cider slucing

across the floor like someone painted

a path of disappointment for it to follow.

so this is cold indifference.

so this is why your father made that

ball and chain joke after our wedding vows.

after you laughed and decided our love

was akin to inprisonment, somehow.

at what point am i allowed to be angry,

i wonder.

at what point is my kiss not enough

to keep you where i can see you.

to keep those horns off your head when you

take too deep of a swallow.

the devil's drink burns your tongue and i

actually can't do this anymore.

i guess i'll just turn around

and leave you lying on the floor.

i guess that's all there is of us, now.