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Black Tears

The most uncontrollable urge
A motionless and numb feeling
A wave of sadness hits me
Laying, looking at the ceiling
A dark cloud curtains my eyes
Shadows chase away my thoughts
All good feelings soon disappear
I’ve screamed and fought

Flowing like a waterfall
Too much pressure
Not able to see the road ahead
The thought of death which still lures
Not caring or worrying
My mind is made up
Tomorrow will never come
The thought of darkness fills my cup

From my mind
To the tips of my toes
I scream in anguish
As my black tears flow
Where am I to go?
I am stuck in one place
Cemented to the ground
Gazing at all of my mistakes
My head down

I look up at the many lights
I know by now it must be late
My eyelids close to think
I know now I must wait
I sit down
Everything gone but one left
I hold on tight
And sink in my first but one last breath
I’ll be all right

Half of my cups full
Half is empty
I have both feelings
But confusion is what I see
I’m blinded by the water
The darkness fogs my view
The undesirable passion for help
Seems to float upon my pew

Where will my life take me?
Where will I end up?
The dark waters are approaching
They fill my cup
The falls take over my face
Tears are unmistakable
The night lures upon me
My heart, very breakable

Everything’s in the open
The pieces deep within
My garden full of rotten things
Yet still blossoming
But what if there’s a different way
A way just lying about
I look to my tears for the truth
But they are too dark to seek out

I seek for help but I fall
On my hands and knees I scream
I’m alive!
I scream
The twist comes around me
The feeling of love comes along
Arousing my mind
Proving everyone wrong

If only to reach you
With fireflies
Just above me
Glowing in my eyes
My pain grows
As I fight it off
Screams fill my body
My blood is heated as it flows

^Interview myself
^Start with a title
^Take a shower

I used these to inspire me to write I also drew a picture of a man screaming with his neck in pain. When I was younger no one really liked me and if they did it was only because it was convenient for them. I had a hard time growing up, not only was I abused but to everyone else around me if you where adopted you where not wanted, that was me. I felt horrible, I was glad that I got adopted but felt horrible that I was treated like scum on the bottom of someone’s old sneakers. I’ve gotten over it all and feel wonderful. I did write this poem a while ago, but used these to write it. A therapist had gave me these ideas, not only to get over the experience but to let it go, but not to forget. It really helps, really!

John: Yes, I agree with Rianon about the mixture of love and worry, which you convey so honestly and urgently.

Rianon: Somewhere else you remarked on having had a fear of exposing yourself in poetry, letting people see inside you. But see – we all do it, comes with the territory. I think truth (which is not necessarily the same thing as fact) is essential for poetry. But we all have many things inside us, and to expose one aspect is not to reveal all at once. In any case, I think that when we see who people are, we can’t help but love them. Who would not feel for John’s concerned provider struggling with the budget, his loving son sitting by a sick mother, his new husband joyously walking the beach, and so on? We can only be who we are, and that’s fine – and it is what we have to bring to our art. (Along with the craft, which can be acquired.)

ANNIVERSARY REACTION

Finding her way,
she was finding her way.

She came on the night blinded
pushing through a doorway,
a door of glass revolving
onto a laneway
and hustled
into her death-car waiting.

We always saw her smiling,
that blue gaze like a laser
full in our faces,
her head thrown back
and the wide laugh.

Screaming into that long tunnel
with a trail of following bikes.
Like billowing streamers –
but no, they were clumped, crowding.

Diana, Diana, Diana,
the wind and the moon
and memory
moaning.

——————————————

I decided to read someone else’s poetry – specifically, to gorge on Lorca for his lyricism, imagery and heightened language. Then this appeared from nowhere.

On the Train Platform

I love men’s fingers
when they twitch,
in anticipation of a cigarette, say,
or before brushing the loose strand
from a woman’s face,
or while waiting to pick up a spoon
once the last soup bowl is served–
to me it seems that men are
the most honest then,
and the most busy, and later,
smoking or making love
or just filling themselves
with good hot food,
their vague expressions
betray a disinterest almost unworthy
of the rapturous optimism
they so recently possessed.

Saul Nadatas last blog post..Where the Twins Are