deepundergroundpoetry.com
HONOUR OR PEACE OF MIND
HONOUR OR PEACE OF MIND
Don't ask me to take my rights by force.
He may stab me with a tear he drops.
Then l can't forget that tear for years.
It destroys my life and what l write.
Let me lose that round and go back home.
I will find what consoles me in books.
Then my pen and sheet will take me up
to inhabit where the angels dwell.
What's the use of gain; it brings me hell.
Soft defeat, l relish what you yield,
little bruises that can heal in days
are much milder than torture for years.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
____________________________________
Don't ask me to take my rights by force.
He may stab me with a tear he drops.
Then l can't forget that tear for years.
It destroys my life and what l write.
Let me lose that round and go back home.
I will find what consoles me in books.
Then my pen and sheet will take me up
to inhabit where the angels dwell.
What's the use of gain; it brings me hell.
Soft defeat, l relish what you yield,
little bruises that can heal in days
are much milder than torture for years.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
____________________________________
Published 2nd Apr 2020
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Please stab me with
a tear you drop
(while I assume against all sense
that tears are pointed, sharp,
like blades,
and have what they don’t have,
i.e., ability
to pierce my skin
and be the means
to win with my dark wounding
and defeat
a heated, consequential battle that
I haven’t spoken of
or let a reader know that I’m
enjoined within)
Do this now
so I can write some sloppy verse
(that’s ragged in its measurements,
disjointed in its stanzas’ sentiments)
supposedly (but not)
upon the topic of a choice
I claim I have
between my honour and
my peace of mind,
but focuses instead
(and once again)
upon my hope for an ascent
into the place where angles live,
that’s to a purpose
and an aim obscure
and privy now to only me.
a tear you drop
(while I assume against all sense
that tears are pointed, sharp,
like blades,
and have what they don’t have,
i.e., ability
to pierce my skin
and be the means
to win with my dark wounding
and defeat
a heated, consequential battle that
I haven’t spoken of
or let a reader know that I’m
enjoined within)
Do this now
so I can write some sloppy verse
(that’s ragged in its measurements,
disjointed in its stanzas’ sentiments)
supposedly (but not)
upon the topic of a choice
I claim I have
between my honour and
my peace of mind,
but focuses instead
(and once again)
upon my hope for an ascent
into the place where angles live,
that’s to a purpose
and an aim obscure
and privy now to only me.
