Not a great poem

Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by howsthat, Aug 12, 2009.

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  1. howsthat

    howsthat Member

    Dribbling down his shirt

    sticky,black ink

    tainted by a soul

    tattered and inert.

    Thrusting forward as a blade,

    reaping backwards annual tears-

    a childs scream shatters the mind.

    My fear is inertia, compelling me to find

    the silence I crave --a dark hole in the ground.

    A pod can be found, and blossoms bourne.

    Ground into dust, a life taken-so, torn.

    I'm ready to find a silence in the depths of the sticky black ink.

    Dripping and dribbling--toward its' final conclusion.

    A pen I am not, a tool to be abused.

    A strange fool to be evaluated and penned a prescription.

    I am a child, screaming into the night--broken and shattered and

    enraged and hopeless.

    I am the one who survived and finds no solace-

    I am the black sticky ink that slowly bleeds away into non-existence.
  2. Petal

    Petal SF dreamer Staff Member Safety & Support SF Supporter

    I like it :)
  3. total eclipse

    total eclipse SF Friend Staff Alumni

    Yes it is a great poem thanks it reveals so much the child screams says so much. keep writing okay
  4. howsthat

    howsthat Member

    Strolling through the trees, knats and skeets biting me
    summer sweat misted on the skin
    pounding heart -anxiety creeping near.

    The deer are bounding past the fences
    that separate the free and fenced.
    I see with angry glimmer, little movement.

    I push and pull thoughts away and near
    I cannot afford to break down now.
    Soon the children will catch up.

    The foxtails poke at socks exposed
    the vultures soar on flighty lofts
    Freedom in their souls, not mine.

    I need to escape it now, the thoughts
    are tormenting me.
    Just a little closer to the spot and soon
    my release will be clear.
    Stop, turn around. The children need you still.

    God, and country and soul divide --take away my
    need to end it all with whats left of my pride.
    I want to die, I want to punish. I want to
    say to him, you didn't have to kill yourself-
    In my heart you already died.

    But now it's my turn-the benevolence of your pain
    Oiled by the memories of tortured souls you take.
    Hot, burning pain my brain feels like its going to break.
    Nothing will be right, again. No one will have a pass to
    my heart, ever again.

    We bear the scars of your sins
    We scream into the night.
    No one hears our pain.
    We have learned to scream silently.
  5. howsthat

    howsthat Member

    Drunk again

    The midafternoon blues.
    work is done and kids eyes on you.
    Can't stand it-the anger, the pain.

    Run away! Can't. Damn it. No escape.
    Cornered by duty. Reprisal is silence.
    Awarding a calculated grimace of anger.

    Go through the motions. Make supper and wash.
    Drink while checking homework. Drink in darkened silence.
    I have made my own grave.

    At last , they sleep. I slip out, unaccounted for.
    I find my spot and sit.
    Peaceful slumber for a moment-until

    Reliving the moment
    smelling the angst
    heaving and rolling, eyes awake

    Trudge through the slop, weakened and sore
    arriving again-at homes door.
    Sleepless again-for another 24.
  6. howsthat

    howsthat Member

    Anguished cry into the night - my repetitive dream..

    Black road and white lines. Travelling angry, tense and scared.
    Disappointment threads the air-betrayal slights the fear.
    Rolling down the road, turning back impossible.
    The load is heavy, though many others are empty.
    Black road ops are no place to go, over ruled by higher ups.
    The load we carry is precious. Needed desperately.
    Contact to the front, right and left. Convoy ahead ambushed.
    Marines ahead are there, to escort us. We never should have been
    Alone, on a night so fraught with terror.
    Can’t turn back, can’t go forward. Stop and face the fight.
    Driver not locked and loaded, have to load him.
    I load and hand, then fire on my side.
    Time to stop and guard those down.
    Peaceful sleep against the tire, face up to me
    Blue eyes open. Baby faced. Turning slowly to a noise.
    Kevlar spinning slow and lopsided. A face stares out.
    Marines are shouting-soldiers down, stay clear.
    He stands over baby face, his partner slipping on wet pavement
    As he pulls and pushes a broken comrades trunk to safety.
    The anguish in his voice in the future, I will hear.
    Death lies in this place, on darkened blacktop.
    Two strangers saved our lives and paid the ultimate price.
    The convoy begins to move, we stop shooting and haul on out.
    But I am still there.
    I’ve gotten out of my truck. I’m alone and staring down at those
    Baby blues. Slowly time and details begin to shift.
    In horror I see not a hero, but a monsters face melts into that body.
    A face I knew well, and loved deeply. A face I now fear and despise.
    This isn’t right, I try to shout, and my rage has no limits.
    I jump up, my arms swinging, sweat rimed face and coursing tears.
    How could he be so cruel? Why am I so tormented?
    It takes me weeks, and then I finally understand.
    The anguish in that voice-my son gave to me.
    A permanent reminder of his ordeals, while I was over there.
    I’ll never separate that pain and fear I heard that night.
    Not from my own memories of threatened life, or
    My maternal angst and guilt in protecting my progeny.
    Vengeance I had wished -violence I nearly sought.
    Self control and love for my child, gave me strength for a time.
    Now, I think, the rage rebuilds. I can let it go, at times with
    Great concentration. But the guilt, I can’t—
    I know it is me, who should have died that night I saw a
    Kevlar slowly spinning. My punishment, for abandoning
    My only son and leaving him to be tormented by a monster
    I thought I knew so well.
    I should have died that night, in a gunfight.
    A fitting end it would have been, for me, an incompetent.
    Once upon a time, this dream comforted me.
    Knowing these marines were loved, their bodies
    Returned to friends and family.
    The police kept asking, at what point did you begin
    To believe your son’s story?
    How do you answer, an emotion-vibrant with animal tenacity?
    How do you say, your child’s scream into the night, on a primal level-
    You heard and knew, so well?
    So, for a time I struggled with this question.
    Not able to answer the police or even myself.
    Then this dream came back-one I hadn’t had in years.
    Except this time, the dream was contaminated and no longer a comfort.
    Now it horrified me. How can I possibly begin to apologize to my son,
    For what I have done?
    I am so sorry, Son. God, the price you had to bear, for me to further my career.
  7. howsthat

    howsthat Member

    Do you ever dream of dying?

    How can it be done?

    Do you ever wonder-

    His will or mine?

    Do you ever dream

    of taking someone with you?

    Do you ever wonder-

    right or wrong?

    Do you ever dream

    of things you can't express?

    Do you ever wonder-

    If you are the only one not blessed?

    Do you ever dream

    A chain of events-that leads suicide?

    Do you ever wonder

    How much longer you can hold on?

    What happens when your dreams-

    begin to answer you?
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