Tag Archives: dark

Prisoner of War

The conflict between light and dark rages on
under my skin, in my bones.
Because I try to crawl towards the light
only to be yanked back by the dark.

Because it owns me.
Because I am his.

Forever plagued by the questions
   Like what is the purpose of it all?
   Because lately I’ve been
   acquiringdebttogetaneducationtogetajobtopaymydebt
   and I want so much more than this.

   And does love exist? And if so can it last?
   Because my heart has been scarred and shrunk in search of it.
   And the only place it seems to exist
   is in the fiction on pages of books and screens of theaters
   that we create because we can’t find it in our own mundane lives.

These questions keep me trapped in my head.
A prisoner of war to my own thoughts and feelings,
of my light and dark.
Forever a prisoner of war
as the conflict rages on.

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MISTRESS

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I TRY AND SHUT THE DOOR. I TRY AND I TRY. I STRUGGLE AND I STRUGGLE. BUT I CAN NEVER QUITE CLOSE IT ALL THE WAY.

…damn you…

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All Gallows Eve

The wooden platform towered over those who came to observe the execution. Cheers echoed through the night as the torch’s light merely illuminated the contraption. A masked man stood tall, hands firmly planted at his sides. The elderly snow-white haired man emerged from the shadows with a sinister grin, “who here would like to see a show?” He said with a raspy voice as he began to light his cigarette. The tan coated behemoth of a man stood there with a pickaxe in one hand, slanted on his shoulder. In his other hand sat the shovel, piercing through the soggy earth beneath him. Limping behind the black suited elder was a man with an odd hunch in his back, created a limped swagger in his step. “Master! I feel )as if someone must be the one in this crowd” he said, ecstatic for the turnout. “Ah yes, he will do” the undertaker said, pointing off in the distance at a rowdy young lad who insulted the spirit of Halloween. The grave digger stepped beside both the assistant and the undertaker with his eyes measuring his body. “I have a hole made for the likes of him already…” He bellowed, as he went towards that lad and grabbed him. The undertake then said “so you don’t like Halloween huh? We will show you how it’s done…” Moments later he was being shoved up the steps, heading towards the plateau of the wooden frame. There stood the masked man, who lunged forward with a noose , and wrapped it around the man’s neck. His feet now planted, backhands tied, with an idiotic expression on his face asking “what’s the joke here?” Smugly answering, the undertaker motions the lever to be pulled and simultaneously said “for you to be hung of course…” His body jerks as the trap door panel flies backwards, his body tightens as he kicks, yells, and flails. Seconds later he was motionless like a painting…that was a poetic tragedy

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“That’s Not Who I Am.” (5-7 stanzas)

And so we went

with nary a word into the dark night.

The headlights illuminated little around us

leaving us with a dim understanding of where we were going.

That was for the best,

I tried to convince myself.

That was all apart of this letting go theme.

But was this who I am?

My eyelids were starting to fall.

I looked over at the man with no name.

Saw his silhouette waving in and out of focus,

looking ghostly.

He’d moved onto smoking a joint

and singing under his breathe with the Goldberg Sisters.

I saw shinning tears running down his cheeks.

I wipe away the salty wet from my cheeks

and just as I fall asleep he punched the radio off,

angrily,

muttering,

“That’s not who I am.”

_

_

I woke up when we came to a screeching halt.

My head flung forward and then snapped back.

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

screamed the man with no name.

My foggy eyes cleared quickly, panicking about what could have happened.

I jumped out of the car.

He was just standing at the edge off to the edge of the headlights.

Feet planted.

Arms crossed.

Back to me.

Cautiously I joined peering into the murky darkness the lights tried to pierce.

My eyes widened.

We stood on a precipice of a gorge.

He laughed,

“Marla was right!

You might die at any moment.

The fucking tragedy?

You don’t!”

“Would have killed us?” I yelled, in fright,

in anger,

in excitement.

He winked at me,

“Maybe.”

“That would have made you a murderer!”

He winked at me again with a scary smile,

“That’s not who I am.

Who are you?”

_

_

Walking toward the car, he let out a barking laugh.

My vision went funny and my body began to ache.

Then they came in big billboards

that passed me on this stagnant road right by the ledge.

I saw Lowell being built in the Industrial Revolution.

Flashing before me I witnessed Kerouac sitting at his typewriter,

my parent’s pointless mundane lives,

the banking job I had,

the kids poking fun

(that pain still burning).

Showing me fully connected to the social media of the day-

Showing me a slave to the entirety.

I felt sick as I fell to my knees covering my eyes.

“Why is this happening?”

“Showing you a Jack’s wasted life.

“But

“That’s not who I am.”

He winked again with that scary smile.

Walking toward the car, he let out a barking laugh,

“That’s not who I am!”

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“That’s Not Who I Am.” (1-4 stanzas)

There once was a man who hated his name.

Reminded him of his folks back home

in Lowell, Massachusetts.

He told me this that night.

“That’s not who I am.”

Then he lit up his cigarette

took a few drags

but before he could be asked to put it out

he angrily twisted it into the wood

threw down his money

(but no tip)

muttering,

“That’s not who I am.”

 _

_

This intrigued me so I followed him out.

I knew he would have an interesting point of view.

He didn’t seem to mind

though he didn’t seem to care, either

and continued to talk as if no one was there.

“I’m not a factory worker.

I’m not the Kerouac.

And I’m not a Southeast Asian.

So I hit the road, in search of a better name

or a meaning for my name. “

 “So you are a traveler?”

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“That’s what I do.

That’s not who I am.”

 _

_

The repressed anger in his voice crackled

and I would never assume what he was a again.

He said names are just tags,

tagging you to long dead pasts.

Jobs are moneymaking limitations,

limiting you to a mediocre level.

Race is an automatic stereotype,

Stereotyping you into some sort of demeaning joke.

He could go on but he would always stop,

stop before his words became to convoluted and say,

“Unless you like being defined by those sorts of things

but I don’t drink that Kool-Aid

because

that’s not who I am.”

_

_

He left the passenger door open to his piece of shit car

and I climbed in hesitantly.

This was a man that I really knew nothing about

except for the small fact that he was from Lowell, Mass.

But there was this real adventure he promised

by way of casting away everything you had

searching for who you really are.

“You can take the fast lane to death,” he said turning onto the high way

handing me a razor and some powder.

“Or you can take the slow road.”

He paused to watch me fumble with cutting.

“But

that’s not who I am.”

His foot slammed down upon the accelerator

throwing me back

and the coke twisting and spiraling out the windows into the jet black night.

I coughed.

He laughed,

“That’s not who I am.”

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April Fool Questions (Inspired by the man on the radio)

The first of april…

A day for fools.

Are you playing a trick on someone today?

Are you planning on pulling a prank today?

Is the trick a classic?

Like putting a whoopee cushion under a chair and waiting for someone to sit down on it-watching their embarrassed faces since the believe they farted?

Or giving out a snake-in-a-can?

Or going to the McDonald’s ordering but drive away without paying?

 

 

Is the prank a classic?

Like running into the house with a clown mask on, waking everyone up in the early morning to give them a fright?

Giving out something that looks like chocolate but isn’t?

Wanting a fake divorce from your newlywed partner?

Is the plan to do these just to humiliate someone?

Have you been trying to fool yourself that you like yourself?

Is this the way you show you don’t?

How do you know when you’ve crossed that line?

When things go from fun to mean?

From fun tears to upset tears?

From fun tears to upset tears?

Is this all just a way to get away with how you truly feel?

If so…

how will you cross that line and not look like a fool?

A day for fools…

The first of April.

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Black Widow

This intricate web you’ve woven
Over swollen with ; tasty morsel for tonight’s never-ending stream of gore and dreams
Fangs of the infamous have reared its head
Prepping for the consumption of the tendons
My my, aren’t you satisfied? Take it’s heart as you feast!
Good evening to you seductress…

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