HE

He once held a blade to his wrist and attempted to splatter paint his vision in crimson burgundy…
He was tired of crying inside
And denying His lies,
And,
He was fed up,
With His
World caved in,
Iced with sin,
Where His manifested projections,
Were the world’s smallest violin
Playing to an audience of insecurities…

Behind His
Femurs of frigid apathy,
Inside rib cages of organs raped of courage,
Wept hidden tears
Of persevered
Guilt…

When did this all get so hard?
When did laughter
Become a challenge?
A sign of danger?
A doubt,
A mask to disguise the isolated island He wore so tightly under hand-me-down clothes that
Oxygen could hardly let His brain
Process a thought,
He,
Never reached His moment of clarity,
When the images tattooed on the inside
Of His eyelids,
Turned to mirrors
So He could see
His ringing thoughts,
So He could fill an empty future,
With a simple concept,
Like stop…

Ambitions of idealism,
Faded to dreams of His own coffin,
His own funeral
With no tears,
And that light ahead
Disappeared,
To a
Less clear sphere
Of ice
And caged birds…

What if He had listened?
And when He was guided,
Paid attention,
What if that first injection
Hadn’t revealed concealed
Perfection,
And opened false trap doors
Disguised as stairways to heaven,
On earth…

Passion cried from His pores,
But the louder the screams
The less people heard,
And His knowledge
Seemed only absurd,
And spoken word
Was still only a sperm
That had not yet reached the womb of His mind,
So though He,
Unknowingly,
Conceived many future poems,
Expression was a lifeless puppet
With missing strings…

He was the blood of forgotten soldiers,
The sweat of fear
And tears of joy
That resonate through war,
He wore,
Misdrawn swastikas and skulls on His sleeve
That His brain
Couldn’t rearrange
To form the hearts they were intended to be,
He
Was dizzy…

Where did the child go,
Who now held a blade to his wrist
But at one time couldn’t fathom
Pulling a whisker from a kitten?
How had He become
So small to His dreams
That He could drown in the puddles He once splashed in?

If life was full of hidden turns,
He kept going straight,
If life is about getting burned,
He was made of slate,
If life is about having concern,
He was hatched from hate
And so irate
At the fate
He placed
On His plate
Of indecision,
That He simply turned His back
On all that He had seen, felt or endeavored,
And when He about faced
That hundred-eighty degrees,
With so much pain
He couldn’t even drop to His knees,
He
Was unpleased,
With that sight in the mirror
With that monster that looked at Him
A little clearer,
And see the blade was still to His wrist
The blade was to His wrist and
Intentions were scarlet,
Visions of evil smashed hope
Like earthquakes smash cities,
And a pity
Filled attempt
Was in deliverance,
When an angel tapped His shoulder
And He,
Filled with confusion,
He,
Filled with the illusion
Of a better tomorrow,

He felt something,

He let images of caskets
Fade to dreams forthcoming,

See that angel told Him:

“You can just be…
You do not exist to live in the shadow of a legacy of anything, you
Were placed here by design,
Part of a grand rhyme
Scheme
A being,
With individual passions and ideas
That create your own character,
You
Can just be…”

And the simplicity,
Of the four word phrase
Compared to seven headed dragons
And five prong assassination attempts,
Shone like orange brilliance
Through the fog

And He
Broke down,
He,
Got on those weak knees,
Took those three fingers
That always pointed back at Him,
And closed them to a raised fist,
And like this,
He,
Stood,
He,
Believed,
He,
Fought,
And He,
Became,

Me…

http://www.digitalpoet.net/poetry.html for more