“there’s nothing in my heart, but anger”

There’s nothing in my heart, but anger.
I’m trapped, by parental oppression.
The source of all my family tension,
This hatred festers, like a canker,
And weighs my thoughts down, like an anchor.
I am a victim of suppression,
There’s nothing in my heart but anger,
I’m trapped by parental oppression.

But if you see my mother, thank her
For all the ways she brings frustration,
She never cares to truly listen
It makes me bitter, but I’m stronger.
There’s nothing in my heart. But anger
Will snap this mental oppression.

death can wait

“To sleep
is weak,”
i try to say
so everyday,
and hope that maybe i
will somehow stay alive.
Though i’m more weary than an ox
and i’m but human, without cogs,
i cannot rest until i can complete
the tasks that bring the happiness i seek.

Perhaps i’ll die too soon, too young, too tired.
At least, i may obtain my heart’s desires.
(For,) i could not live a life of sloth,
always a grub, never a moth.
Who could call that living,
Why speak, when you can sing?
i’ll stay awake,
and Death can wait
for me
to sleep.    

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130, the epilogue

The blackened flesh, it rots beneath the sun,
Her life seeped out in rivulets of red.
Now scattered ‘round the bones of ivory dun,
Dark hairs that fell from gashes in her head.
Since nought was pure save for her skin of white,
I struck the shame from both her painted cheeks.
The love she gave that brought my heart delight,
Was false, and like her skinless face, it reeks.
My mistress lied, but why, I’ll never know,
Her lips decay and make no pleasing sound.
She tried to leave – I wouldn’t let her go,
Instead, I dragged my goddess to the ground.
I admit, though her loyalty was rare,
In death, there’s Truth – Beauty cannot compare. 

springtime & slaughter

In the spring when it rains, there are eggs in the nests,
In the dens in the woods, critters wake from their rest.
See the mice, see the otters and squirrels abound,
And in between bushes dart the fox and the hound.
It is fresh, it is lively, this scene from a book,
And you think it is peaceful, but wait, what’s that foot!?
There’s a body unmoving and colder than ice
At the base of the bridge, clothed in maggots and flies.
Do you run? Do you scream? No, you’ll never know how
I snuck up behind you without making a sound.

 

an exercise in end-stops & enjambments

Last night I went to bed at twelve in hopes that I
Could wake to write my poem for class; alas, some god
Decreed it not unjust that my sister arrive
Inebriated, like a sad medieval clod.
And while ‘twas not a strange, unheard of sight, it was,
That I should go to bed on time. And what was worse,
My mother tried to reason with a drunk: lost cause!
I will be late for class because I write this verse
At ten past ten. I could not wake – my sleep was lost
When in the night, my mom and sis, my dreams dispersed!

unstressed, stressed

it’s late, but still i try to write

iambic verse to prove i can

“unstress,” though stressed am i at night,
when rhymes escape a mind that’s blank.



the clock, it strikes the half past two,

and down the hall, a sleeper stirs; *

it’s time to bid my poem adieu

to dream of verses yet unheard.

…my mind refused to lay to rest

until my lines had been reviewed

and one * was changed, ’twas for the best

…now, let us end this mental feud!

feeling like a zombie at the end of finals season

i’m losing speed
running on empty
full of anxiety

and now for two brief
fleeting weeks
of much needed
“freedom” – to eat,
sleep, read and breathe
deeply

feeling weak
with relief
do i laugh or weep?

(or make merry
with my vocabulary?)