more poetry crap.
I was in Arabic one day this week and I had an idea for a poem. Its about suicide. The rest is open to interpretation. I like writing poems. Its fun. And I can't write a dialogue for my life, so this works better. Alright, dig it:
Rubber-band Ball
by Tim Conley
What was life like afterwards?
A series of empty gazes,
Across blonde rooms,
Taped up like that forbidden past,
Untouched,
Unloved,
Unknown even by those who had lived its minutes by.
His steps inward,
A reconcilliation with a gift to all that mattered,
Made solid,
Made whole by one last artifact from a last attempt.
Give it a year,
Give it some healing time,
Harrowed inside a stake on one's own life given up again and again.
We'll never know the thought process,
Identify,
One all its own.
Everyone else feels the tremble of death like a quake of the Earth's soul,
Gasping in outer space,
Biding one more life as it spins throughout.
I knew him,
He couldn't see the silver lining,
To him it was all blackened,
Shadowed within his own loss.
A step towards a once coffin-like tub,
A resting place only for now,
And a new keepsake left with every death's glance,
Corroding the frayed edges of his mind.
Bent over to reach that little gift from a younger mind,
One open-wound less experienced,
A grasp on a new item,
The collection grows until he has his way.
Only in this irony can one crack that smile from a visage of the damned,
To let the cool,
Endlessly deep glare set into the treasure,
Findings forgotten by those who don't care.
This is ours.
So few words,
Such little time until the next day of reckoning,
For the burdened one,
The taker of lives all his own,
Living in and out of that hospital bed,
Squirming in the relaxing time,
Building the endless anguish inside.
Tomorrow will never come,
A broken vow seeping through the broken veins of a child.
All he ever wanted,
All he ever received,
The curse covering the scars with keepsakes from each day of readiness,
But a locked door keeps them out for only so long,
Before a rush of fear on their once deadened faces permits a brief care,
Then casted away until safe again.
The gift of death not for those that want,
The gift given,
Taken,
Accepted,
Knowing and loving,
The Heavens take me up for now,
I promise it will all go away until I'm there.
Hmmm....nothing much else to update on. I don't like the winter. Its depressing. It makes me write these depressing poems that no one reads. Maybe I should be an English major. Or not. A creative writing major. Maybe I should quit school and just write, and play music and travel around. Or something.
I need to find something. I'm gonna go to the city this weekend, I think. I'm gonna go find something.
Rubber-band Ball
by Tim Conley
What was life like afterwards?
A series of empty gazes,
Across blonde rooms,
Taped up like that forbidden past,
Untouched,
Unloved,
Unknown even by those who had lived its minutes by.
His steps inward,
A reconcilliation with a gift to all that mattered,
Made solid,
Made whole by one last artifact from a last attempt.
Give it a year,
Give it some healing time,
Harrowed inside a stake on one's own life given up again and again.
We'll never know the thought process,
Identify,
One all its own.
Everyone else feels the tremble of death like a quake of the Earth's soul,
Gasping in outer space,
Biding one more life as it spins throughout.
I knew him,
He couldn't see the silver lining,
To him it was all blackened,
Shadowed within his own loss.
A step towards a once coffin-like tub,
A resting place only for now,
And a new keepsake left with every death's glance,
Corroding the frayed edges of his mind.
Bent over to reach that little gift from a younger mind,
One open-wound less experienced,
A grasp on a new item,
The collection grows until he has his way.
Only in this irony can one crack that smile from a visage of the damned,
To let the cool,
Endlessly deep glare set into the treasure,
Findings forgotten by those who don't care.
This is ours.
So few words,
Such little time until the next day of reckoning,
For the burdened one,
The taker of lives all his own,
Living in and out of that hospital bed,
Squirming in the relaxing time,
Building the endless anguish inside.
Tomorrow will never come,
A broken vow seeping through the broken veins of a child.
All he ever wanted,
All he ever received,
The curse covering the scars with keepsakes from each day of readiness,
But a locked door keeps them out for only so long,
Before a rush of fear on their once deadened faces permits a brief care,
Then casted away until safe again.
The gift of death not for those that want,
The gift given,
Taken,
Accepted,
Knowing and loving,
The Heavens take me up for now,
I promise it will all go away until I'm there.
Hmmm....nothing much else to update on. I don't like the winter. Its depressing. It makes me write these depressing poems that no one reads. Maybe I should be an English major. Or not. A creative writing major. Maybe I should quit school and just write, and play music and travel around. Or something.
I need to find something. I'm gonna go to the city this weekend, I think. I'm gonna go find something.