E
There is so little hope for me this night
What little is past prayers enacted
In hope that my treachery does not negate them
Will anyone console me this night
When even the beautiful music that so settled my soul
My ears now mock
As if they never had any right to enjoy
When everything is symbolism
And symbolism is nothing
My tears fall
But I care so little to remove them
For fear they are the only thing that is real
And their dissipation in my fingers
Is as much as wiping myself away
I barely have the strength anyway
Please
There is something between me and the fear
It is so dark
I can not even tell if my eyes are open or shut
I can not even write this night a goodbye
To the people I loved
To the me I wanted to be
No beginning to return to
No light to go to
No me to be
No final heroic action
Nothing around the bend but a fading end
With just enough strength to walk
I do not look up for an angel to greet me
Or for my true love to meet me
No happy ending here
Just legs walking almost independently
Of a heart barely beating
And a plea to those that thought they did or now
Understand me
You were wrong
And now that I am done with that poem
Maybe the dawning of the sun
Will bring to me again the fantasy
That I can write and not feel
Ignore the scars, as if they are not real
As if this fabrication of finality for the sake of myself
And of art
Is not black and white
But always painted in grey hues
That a light will somehow guide me
That my love will find me
That my hope in writing is real
That one day instead of writing
I could have the option to just
Feel
Meaningful, Peaceful, Happy
That the reason I am a poet by default
Is not simply treason
To a possible better, harder working, much simpler person
What little is past prayers enacted
In hope that my treachery does not negate them
Will anyone console me this night
When even the beautiful music that so settled my soul
My ears now mock
As if they never had any right to enjoy
When everything is symbolism
And symbolism is nothing
My tears fall
But I care so little to remove them
For fear they are the only thing that is real
And their dissipation in my fingers
Is as much as wiping myself away
I barely have the strength anyway
Please
There is something between me and the fear
It is so dark
I can not even tell if my eyes are open or shut
I can not even write this night a goodbye
To the people I loved
To the me I wanted to be
No beginning to return to
No light to go to
No me to be
No final heroic action
Nothing around the bend but a fading end
With just enough strength to walk
I do not look up for an angel to greet me
Or for my true love to meet me
No happy ending here
Just legs walking almost independently
Of a heart barely beating
And a plea to those that thought they did or now
Understand me
You were wrong
And now that I am done with that poem
Maybe the dawning of the sun
Will bring to me again the fantasy
That I can write and not feel
Ignore the scars, as if they are not real
As if this fabrication of finality for the sake of myself
And of art
Is not black and white
But always painted in grey hues
That a light will somehow guide me
That my love will find me
That my hope in writing is real
That one day instead of writing
I could have the option to just
Feel
Meaningful, Peaceful, Happy
That the reason I am a poet by default
Is not simply treason
To a possible better, harder working, much simpler person