Peter's Cross

I see the cross and struggle;
His faith, my faith, the same?
By day, I face his challenge;
By night, I hide my shame.

What chain of lies is this?
I only wanted love.
For love, I write my cantos;
For love, I look above.

But love was there, below me.
I thought she'd understand,
We're strangers, now I know.
Bad timing? No, I'm damned.

The venom in the poison
Already taints my veins;
The demon she let loose
Leaves ink and other stains.

I'll die alone, I fear;
My solitude won't save me.
It works for some, not others
I close my eyes to see

That every morning's sorrow
Is strangled in my hand.
I want to smile, I do!
I think you understand:

I can't, I won't, I shouldn't
Be loved, be wrote to cherish.
All madness loves itself.
And in my arms, I perish.

Peter inverted his cross.
Me? I mount my verses.
I'll live, but no one knows me,
In darkness, teeth and curses.

A Poem for the Stage

I don't like most poetry delivered with a live voice that dies on the page. I wrote this poem a long time ago in loving admiration of the poets who can both write and speak. That's not me, but this is where the night takes me.

STOP

I try to write and

stop

my words are like a grain of salt
thrown into an ocean

my brackish tears do nothing
but wrinkle my paper
smudge my glasses
and drain me of fluids

as I write and

stop

with a staccato rhythm
flowing in my head
telling me it's all ok
if i just

stop

and listen with the rest
to unending teenage love songs
that never spoke to me
while i struggled
and purged
and bruised
in pursuit of a spine
to

stop

the pain that I feel
i made for myself
i made for everyone
around me
and in my head, I

stop

to wonder about writing
as I grab the blade firmly
not too hard, not too soft
just enough to cut
just enough to

stop

fooling around and listen
to the voices in my head
instead of those sincerely
looking at me writhe
in the dance of a drunkard
with nothing in my belly
but a pill
and a pill
and a pill

It just makes me want to

stop

smell the roses
feel the sun (cloud) on my face
and feel the tears (dye) in my eyes
as I sit waiting (watching) on a train
to nowhere but suddenly

stop

Broken Victory

My wings spring forth to fly
Away with pretty verses,
But armless, I can't touch
And faceless, I can't see.

For now, I'm Roman marble,
Copied from Greek bronze.
Was I once a pillar?
A caryatid beauty?

I sold Rome's victory;
My armies conquered Gaul.
My peace made men of letters
To read what now is lost.

My strength once martyred men;
I shamed my own arenas.
Eventually, I changed
And stood against false prophets.

But they don't need me now,
I'm useless and forgotten
By those who would now sculpt me
As memory in stone.

My Victory is shattered.
Every line seems incomplete.
I represented triumph,
But now, I am the past.