Drops of Melancholy.

I just want to write nonsensical shit.

[anondescripted]

||

Some nights I crave release In loosed muscles Over the beaming lights— Polluted city skyline

Standing atop a tightrope Roaming like a minor god My insides disemboweled—  Numbing immortality

I want to linger in apathy No inhibitions, without criminal feeling— Lonely contentedness 

Breathing with intention— Aeolus, commanding wind My soul is drunk Filled to the brim— With hopes and dreams

[anondescripted]

As I exhale upon yellowed pages,

Silent and still, the sunrise bleeds between my blinds

And finally, after decades flown,

The first bud of life unfurled

Blooming from old, somber lines

Tucked ’tween folds of old poetic rhymes,

Murmured utterances from wily Hope

And through all that despair do shine—

A few bright filaments of burning gold

[anondescripted]

Darkened melody

Caressing the lilac patch

You have vanquished me

[anondescripted]

The world suffers

romance-riddled poetry

written by idled,

love-struck hands

Of which

I cannot fathom

Or understand

Is it not tiresome?

What of the warmth

Held in the arms

Of friends?

The ’till-death-do-us-part

Brotherhoods of men?

Ten million wonders

You could exhale

Into ink upon paper—

And you choose

Banal romance?

By god, it’s a sin

[anondescripted]

I checked my tea,

To see if anything

Had died in there

A drowned gnat or two

Is just extra protein—

A small reprieve

To gloomy boredom

[anondescripted]

I stopped writing poetry

And my soul grew sick

With wearying bones

I became danceless,

A shell of a thing

The hollowed-already

Becoming hollower

Waning will,

What do you require of me?

I’m alive, just alive

Like the grass beneath

Stampeding hooves

Poetry wasn’t magic—

Just a realization,

Plainly stated,

Just my tragedies inked

[anondescripted]

Catch me spilling stars

Across floorboards

Like glitter specks,

They dash around

Impossible to kill

You have to wait

For them to dry up

And become black holes

Fuck them anyways,

Useless ornaments

Writers love them too much

They’re wishes,

They’re tears,

They’re hopes,

They’re nothing to me—

I swear it upon my soul

I speak of them

With exasperation

Stars sicken me

Them and their likenesses

Are etched too deep

—They ruin my dreams,

And stop my sleep

[anondescripted]

Endless escapades and

earnest midnight dreams

Haunt the world after dark,

beneath a sad moon’s gleam

A breath taken,

But not a second passes by

—You could bike to the stars

The once taut rope

Loosened and stretched far

There are spirits that come

To fill souls and liquor cups

Gold and flashing dresses

Solid to the touch

What wonders exist

In the corners of night

Oil lamps, candlelight,

Dewed eyes sparkling bright

They all conjure such rise,

These late hours

Swathed in shadow—

Amidst fantastical lies

[anondescripted]

Measure my dreams in grains of sand

A thousand nothing more than

The worth of a single pebble—

In the belly of a ravenous koi

[anondescripted]

The night is illuminated By the blue light Of my computer screen Blazing into my brain Wrenching out my fears Grown hot in the dark

My hair is still damp, The shampoo smell Sinking into warm fabrics Joining the evidence Of other late nights— Quiet nights— By weakly typed poetry

My fingers feel old Tired and worn  —And by four o’clock, They await certain doom

[anondescripted]

[]

Why must I always feel like I am dying The rusted cogs Ceasing to breathe— My conviction Grinding to a halt?

Madness eats  My crime is life A reflection Mirrored In bloody sheen

It’s all too sterile, All too white gray The marked path Traveled by droves of certain men

Without value I continue on Diminished by  My still-beating heart 

For on the rooftop There is a weed Damned be its growth In direct path Of an unforgiving sun

[anondescripted]

I can’t sleep—

Last time I allowed

Whales to dance

Through my brain

But I cannot sleep

My thoughts are running

Like moving water

Where fish dance—

Sparkling river

Leading them

Downstream

Reel all my thoughts

Impale them on sticks

Roasting over flame

Let tomorrow

Burn them all away

[anondescripted]

Warmth emanates from

the singular chimney

Housed within the heart

Of a drafty mansion

It’s where the deer go

To lie upon rickety floorboard

As sparrows acquaint themselves

With the abandoned rocking chair

Preening their worries away

Serenity melded with serendipity

The course of the universe

Ivy stretching over bricks

Decomposition of matter

And the soul

[anondescripted]

How I would love to lay in a flower field

The waving grasses cradling my form

As cold spring air gushes over the hill

Kissed by a lenient sun

- - -

[anondescripted]

An Internal Dispute From Sleep Deprivation

Blatant words befalling blue lips

Smeared the color of sadness

Tri-coated depression

What is art to sadness but apples to applesauce

thefortymillionsomethingpoems

Some statement minus punctuation and declarations of woeful broken love

Gorge upon the sales of music to public ears

I gave my blood, the likes which you’ve never seen and apparently do not want

Pages of fine ink multitudesofwordsmeaninglesswords

The alternative framework lost—

Eaten in the mainstream, some cherry picker we have to thank for this

Poets ought to rip the world to shreds with a pen

Splash ink onto pavement, blacken the world into a deep void

Gross schemes, where the fuck is reality?

I accidentally threw it down the garbage disposal

But the corporations forced my hand

The meaningless throb the echoes of time ticking sand

Mind wrenching melting numbness pain

Contradictory hell

What more is left to do? What more is to be achieved?

Light a metal garbage can,

Set all the books on fire

And all the art as well.

[anondescripted]

Ichor of old gods

Pitter-patters solemnly

Gaia drinks her fill

—

[anondescripted]

.|

Deafened ears  Silent eyes Rippled waters— Reflecting murky skies

What remained Laid in sullened tune —With calla lilies In godless demise

My organs wrung Then clotheslined— Like some common rag

Discarded lungs— Airbags for the worms And my once sharp tongue Sits ’tween teeth Delicately dead

This damp cavern Punctured by  A singular watery tree The branches splay Beams of light Where I lay— Skin haloed  in mossy wreaths