Pure As Soil

In a book, whose title I don't remember, by L. Alcott I once read about a boy who became famous with the help of the devil by publishing a book of poems. But the devil told him his poems of love were incomplete. It was obvious he had never been in love. These are my desperate attempts at capturing the terrible, beautiful, devastating thing that is letting someone in your heart.

Love and Truth

Dread underlies my love,
Because I am afraid.
Place a dam inside,
Blocking off my heart,
The flood overtakes it all.

And I know
Hurt will swim
And I will bleed

There is not a barricade
Not even denial
That will be able to stop
This awful pain of trust

So I love you.
And I wait for devastation.

I came home and saw his letter,
Written on old blue lined paper.
Careful words covered more than half.
Dazed I drifted through unchanged rooms.
All our things were still there.
Only the keys and his clothes were gone.

Good bye.

This leaving hurts.
As can be told by the falling,
Falling,
Falling,
Of tears.

Comfort found through smiles,
And knowing,
That nothing can break forever.
Not distance.
Not trials.
Not years.

The Waking by Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.


Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

I killed myself the other day.
It doesn't matter how.
There was some blood, there was some pain,
But that's enough for now.

What matters was my fatal reason.
It wasn't really sound,
To commit that awful treason,
That placed me in the ground.

I started with that first bleak tear,
That trickled down unchecked.
It's origin was sad black fear.
I knew my life was wrecked.

The drugs had been a bad idea,
My brain wasn't quite right.
After that slight speed overdose,
I knew not day from night.

The age of darkness followed then.
My heart began to die.
Both blade and fire pierced my skin.
My cry was but a sigh.

Through due process my soul was charred,
Methodical and sure.
My mind was fucked, my body scarred.
Not one thing left was pure.

How long has this pool been here?
I have never seen it in this place before.
It has to come from somewhere.
Like a weary sailor washed upon the shore.

The branches may have kept it hidden.
Guarded it from general sight.
Until I came walking through the wood.
On this warm and sleepless night.

I can see the stars shining there.
Between the reflection of the trees.
They play pick-a-boo, the stars.
As the pines sway with the growing breeze.

The water smells dank and musky,
Like decaying leaves on autumn earth.
I am reminded of old cemeteries.
The peaceful scent of heavenly birth.

The moon illuminates my uneven path,
Glinting off of a handful of scattered stones.
A nice round weight that fits easily into my pocket.
They are the blinding white of sun bleached bones.

My feet slide readily into the mud,
As I wade gently into the unknown depth.
Slowly liquid surrounds me in oblivion.
The lift of burden takes away my breath.

As I slip downwards and the sky slips away,
I have a thought so maudlin I can't help but smile.
When next a midnight traveler comes upon this place
With sluggish curiousity to stop and stay awhile,

"How long has this girl been here?
I have never seen her this in place before.
She had to come from somewhere.
This broken body washed upon the shore."

I circumnavigate the room from my chair.
My tears trickle down and form steps in the air.
Step by step I take myself away.
Nothing here could compel me to stay.

I climb higher than ever before.
Taste escape and crave for more.
I leave my seat and take the stairs.
Shed my body and drop my cares.

Now everything is shiney and new.
Covered with sun, sparkling with dew.
The future is bloated with hope,
And there is more at the top of the slope.

The climb is short and the fare is free.
The only sacrifice made is me.
My hand is unsteady, my fingers bleed.
My heart splits open like a barren seed.

Uncertainty pours out like a river.
Shadows fall across my face and I shiver.
Where is the sun? Where is the dew?
It's no longer shiney and I can't see the new.

The stairway crumbles into black dust.
It mixes with my blood the color of rust.
Tremors shake the mountain as I fall.
Everything is gone, I've lost it all.

It's been a while since I've written a poem worth reading. -->Working under the assumption that the others were worth reading. I enjoyed them. :D

Anyhow. The point is, it's getting harder and harder for me to write angsty poems. The present angst in my life doesn't seem poem worthy, therefore I propose that we experiment! Yes, a new form of poem shall be tried.

I stand lonely in a crowd,
While despair invades my heart,
Wearing darkness like a shroud,
Nothing but my pain can part.


No earthly thing can make me whole.
Friends they help me not at all.
Only I can take control,
Fixing a most fatal flaw.


I press the blade into my skin,
Warm red blood begins to leak.
Sweet relief sets slowly in,
As joyous tears course down my cheeks.


Harder now I pull the knife,
Deeper are the cuts I make.
Gently seeps away my strife,
Until my hands begin to shake.


Evidence I wipe away,
With a cloth of peerless white.
But the scars they choose to stay,
Jagged proof of guiding light.


Past myself I now can see,
Blesse`d is my short reprise.
Suffering has set me free.
The darkness breaks before my eyes.

I was perusing through one of my older journals and found a short story that I wrote about two years ago. As I read through it I thought to myself, " Well, this isn't too terribly depressing." and came to the conclusion that I should share it with you if to do nothing more than prove that I can write something that's not angsty.
Since it is written in a journal and not my computer I'm going to just post a few paragraphs at a time. I'll have it all up in three days at the most since as I type it I'm trying to improve on it. Trust me when I tell you that it could sorely do with improvements.
So, I give to you a story written badly, yet happily of a knight and a dragon.

The faint red glow of the setting sun sifted between the canopy of leaves that surrounded a small stream. Looking decidedly out of place in such a peaceful setting there knelt a man in bulky metal armor drinking fro his cupped hands as his dapple gray horse nibbled at the foliage of a nearby tree. He finished his drink and splashed water on his pleasantly square face and knuckled at his eyes, trying to rub away the fatigue that came from a week of non-stop riding. ‘Where is that blasted dragon?!”, he thought scathingly. It had Taken three long days to pick up the trail and two more days of constant galloping to follow it back to here. A remarkably large and soothingly humid forest after the long trip across the Aledita Plains, where rain was either non-existent or pouring down in tub fulls trying to drown you. He noted that this was not what people pictured when they thought of a large green-black house sized dragon, but to each his own. He sighed and braced his hands on either side of him, grunting with the effort it took to lift himself plus several stones of tarnished metal. His grey eyes glanced up at the sky as he felt the last bit of light filter over the horizon and give way to the eerily bright moon. As he began to unburden his gelding he thanked any listening spirits that he wouldn’t have to stumble around in inky darkness to lay out his equipment. He lifted down several small saddle bags, half a dozen long leather wrapped lengths, and a large bag made of a rubbery gray material. Lastly he unbuckled a simple but deadly looking broad sword made solely for the purpose of hacking and slashing flesh and bone.
The packets, when opened, contained an assortment of talismans, glittering metal tools, dusts, and flat rectangular rocks. He took care to keep all the contents safely parted. Recalling the last time he had accidentely let the rocks touch the dust he gingerly rubbed his fullly regrown eyebtrows. An hour was spent orgainizing his belongings and gazing at the forest thoughtfully. The terrain was fairly flat, but he would have to avoid the trees where the were overly dense. He had marked out their spots earlier. There was two worrisome spots. One to the south ant the other to the south-east where he assumed that the dragon was keeping the young monarch captive.
That was the reason he was keeping him here after all. No one in their sane mind would hunt down a dragon unless there had been a kidnapping of some sort. This kidnapping had been widely publisized though. It had been the current Prince of Hatia that had been taken. Not just a farm lad, but a full blown prince. The king was paying, strangely enough, a king's ransom for the return of his snotty nosed brat.
When the abduction had occurred there had been a rallying of veterans and military men, and women, of every village to attempt Jaref's rescue. They had all ran off to either the western dessert or the northern mountains in hopes of picking up the trail. Only on eman had thought to look in a lace were it was pleasant and full of easy game.
He snorted with derision. Reall, why in the name of Rewyn would a dragon choose a dessert over an ice forest? With a shrug of his broad shoulders he continued his preperations. The thoughtlessness of the others would just make his task easier and he wouldn't have to share the reward. His thought automatically corrected him and he smiled, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling merrily. There was one person he would share with, but he didn't mind The...errr...person was a critical part of his workin glife after all.

My Beloved Readers,

This is the new home of my collected works of prose and poetry. I have moved my angsty works from 'The Ragged Bookshelf' to 'The Dusty Tome of Angst'. I appreciate all who read my pomes...peoms...peonies..poems!