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Page: Profile: Poetry
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Poem Specs
VxPoem ID: 36282
Category:
personal_life
Posted: June 14th. 2009 9:04:26 PM
Views: 125 |
The Knowing Place...
by gypsymantis
Age Group: Adult
This world is pick, pick picking
my fragile twigs & leaves
I
Cannot assimilate
The majestic Sun (Son)
My flowers thrashed
Filling urns
Of hatred
To be strewn
Into heaping compost
Of putrid cesspools
Of lies
Psalms of penitence
Mocked
In blissful chanting
Of edification
And laws
And integrity
And appropriations
And doctrine
And Love
Of course Love
my colors & sweet fragrance
an abomination
so they
pluck, pluck, pluck
With seething little utterances
From dirty little mouths
Seeping from their
Petty little minds
Grueling for $$$
The only green
They discern
Each tiny little petal
Each tiny little burgeon
And their offspring
Slaves to Ritalin
Slaves to Abercrombie
And their Razors
Shearing
Putrescent Chocolates
They nourish
Their scions
Unable to relish
Unable to cohere
Unable to divine
Unable to integrate
The loving taste
The sweet blood
Their tears
Cruelty unbridled
Unalienable for some
George Washington
Swabbing tears
Each night
Neophytes
To the cross
To the Desk
To the Bench
To the golf courses
To the beast
Disciples
Descending...
My dear children
Forgive us
Our Earth razing
Roots
Straight
To the core
Rooted to the soul
Of the infernal circle
And only some
Like me
Like me know
Have always known
Have always felt
FEEL
The twisted little fingers
On the twisted little arms
From the twisted little lips
Dirty little teeth
Chit chat chattering
Wings unfurled
Dirty little feathers
Prick prick pricking
At my flesh
My mind
My soul
The cruel little wenches
Cruel little imps
Cruel little harpies
Cloaked as you
Cloaked as them &
Cloaked as me
Calling me home
Calling me to abide
To sojourn
My eternal seat
The Priori Truth
The 7th Circle
The 2nd seat
The Knowing Place
Dante's chimera
MY inquest
My nemesis
My condemnation
Your conquest
Prosaic
Plebeian
Disemboweled
Disconnected
Bare
Barren
Cold
.
.
.
.
DEAD
Author's Notes: Written during a very difficult time in my life. Although it seems to work still for many of the issues that I deal with.
I don't quite feel as if I did then, but the "I FEEL DEAD" that you may see as the only unnecessary caps in the poem were meant as a way of saying that I wasn't really suicidal. But rather that I felt as if I was already the walking dead watching this play of "life" and how the cruel, plastic and immoral in the play seem to thrive whilst all that's good and sober find untimely death and pain.
I still feel that pain. I often find the need to shut out the world in attempting to keep the pictures of those who dislike love and kindness and rather lean toward those things temporary and will stop at nothing to have it.
I am a small fragile tree and these winged creatures of mythology (or reality) are plucking away at me and leaving my petals and leafs to be walked on and thrashed.
It's a symbolic reference to the way we as humans use up everything in our wake. Myself included as I reference.
Although the difference between myself and those I speak of is that I feel it. I feel every pluck. Every crush underfoot of everyone, everything I see wrong.
Oh the grief of an empath....
Author's Location: Hobart, Indiana
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