Old Poems Once Treasured, Now Trash

I wrote too much on one person. She was important, but not as important as the time I spent writing her. Like everything else in my writing, she became something completely different than reality. I thought I'd ended that style late in 2003. I thought my writing graduated from its infancy. I was wrong. This is her:

ODE TO A RISING SUN

My days are spent deceiving
A love I couldn't be
A brightness that revealed
The light I cannot see

I knew that you were watching
Your eyes were wan with tears
A path to you was open
But blocked by petty fears

Regretting all that's given
With eyes not made to hate
A starboard wreckage plundered
A leap that came too late

In flying towards the answer,
The answer's turned away
I wrestled with my devils
And lost you in the fray

To love, to love my monster
While raging at the night
I wrestle with the wicked
Who struggle with the light

My nature has betrayed me
I howl at the moon
In high school, when I knew you
I dreaded every June

When waiting for September,
The summer Sun was grey
I cried July and August
To drown my days away

I know I knew I nothing
In wanting not but you
Whose soulful eyes avoided
The wickedness I knew

I smell my thoughts inside me
The residents in mind
The logic of the mad
The visions of the blind

I rage without protection
From time I let slip past
My anger buys me nothing
But memories at last

With tears of mercury
Reflecting on myfire
Of cinnabar and roses
Immortal in the mire

I thought I had more time
To deal with my madness
I see you with my visions
Through all my hate and sadness

With my own pen I scribble
The truth that I avoided
Our time was swept away
My cowardice destroyed it

I raged within my tempest
My eyes, I drowned in dew
I sat alone withdrawn
Away from what is true

I tried to pen a line
To dawning over lea
The way I wish I acted
And what I want to be

In iambs I have wandered
In rhymes I took a drink
Of time that I have squandered
Not knowing what you think

I wanted to approach
And rend my eyes to view
I lost my soul to fighting
And found it next to you

I want to know I loved you
But now I'm not so sure
I've squandered all my thinking
And thrown away the cure

I thought if I retained
The sorrow of our parting
I'd never be without
The madness that was starting

With thoughts that I could reach you
With thougths that we could fly
But reason in my wingtips
Absconded to the sky

In shame I had to crawl
Inside my own debris
A leap across the water
A drowning in the sea

The thoughts of light persisted
Unbreaking solar form
So blinding was your virtue
Unchanging in the storm

My view to you was fading
Inside my cage of pride
I stared into the ocean
And turned away the tide

I loved you in the morning
When I could see the dawn
I wished to crack the bars
Instead I sat withdrawn

I loved you in the evening
But strength was on the wane
I wandered in the grasses
While lost inside my pain

The bonds were cracked with feeling
I shed them with my blood
In taking up my armor
I swam into the flood

I caught you by the shoulder
Your face was bathed in light
The time was ripe for movement
And soon there would be night

I gathered up my anger
And set away my pride
I sat by you intently
And waited for the tide

I saw the new wind coming
And blowing towards the west
I knew that you'd be leaving
And never would I rest...

Goodbye my love forever



Bare sentiment can't hide my flaws as a writer and a person. Over a hundred lines of drivel, and all anyone can find out is that I can't write. What I thought was special was common. What I thought was exalting was simply pedestrian, and chiefly useless. I turned her into the object of two modestly sized epic poems: one I named The Amber Eye (go figure), the other I named Stitches. Stitches works, but it's a later work. I know my feelings are garbage now in Stitches. I've adjusted it similarly. I can't quite pull the trigger on a purge of my first epic: it has some gems in there. I fear my feelings will be largely garbage no matter who is the apple of my eye. My love inspires lies about the quality of my work, and the qualities of requitement. The pursuit of happiness for me seems to end up with me alone, typing cantos, correspondence, and this blog to an audience that will eventually see my flaws, and only my flaws. I know people get sick of me quickly, but I still have virtues. I'm faithful, kind, honest, and truthful. Truth is above all virtues to me. I'm also persistent and patient: I keep writing this type of post and this type of poem. All the posts are the same, and so are all the poems. All words from my pen only differ in proximity and scale. Only two questions remain. Who will spark my heart next? How long after the certain end will I hold on?