It's Poetry

It's not history.
It's not past.
It's not tired.
It's not gassed.
It's not old.
It's not tainted.
It's not fading.
It's not fainted.
It's not useless.
It's not non sequential.
It's not unimportant.
It's not inconsequential.
It's more than all.
It's words of fire.
It's passion outward.
It's burning desire.
It's a confession.
It's a venting.
It's a pouring.
It's much needed lamenting.
It's all needed.
It's all healthy
done by all
mentally wealthy.
It's poetry.
It's humanity at it's best.
It's the human psyche
put to the test.

The Hard Road

Oh to flash back
to the days of old
before I knew brash,
before I was bold:
if I could use
the knowledge possessed today
in that setting then
it would've gone my way.
I would have had
almost all I wanted
except for the dreams I did
that always haunted.
I would have had
the life I craved
in such a sickening fashion
it would have eaten away.

It would have eaten away
at drives that started
form being denied goals
that were not quickly departed.
I would have been so
consumed in my greatness
that potential lessons learned
would have been wasted.
I would have been so
engrossed in my life
that I would now have no
capacity to deal with strife.

If it would have gone
my way all along
there is no possible way
I could be made this strong.
I would have collapsed
from pressure applied
for which I was not
prepared to survive.
If I had not
gone through the trials
I would forever be
full of that guile.

I could not be more
pleased with the past
for the man it made me
become so fast.
I am thankful each
and every day
that I had to travel
the road on which I was not led astray.

As Text from the Past

You hand me a letter
of what I know it contains.
It is full of heartbreak
and unrequested pain.
It tells of the reasons
and explains the excuses
of why we should run
away from the muses.
It expressed the feelings
in words unworthy
so a face-to-face encounter
full of controversy
won't have to occur
or happen between us,
as the easy way out
is your preference of choices.
You hand me this paper
and stand before me
awaiting my reading
that will not happen quickly.
I put it down
on the ground by my side
with intentions of reading
when the pain no longer resides.
I'll let you walk away
without my knowledge of the contents
where explanations arise
that are nothing but nonsense.
I'll read it in the future
as text from the past
because it's too hard in the present
that came to be too fast.

The Never-Wrong

He is never wrong
and always talking.
He always has a story
for a passer-by walking.
He speaks of the past
and the show of grandeur
full of life and experience
and the glitz and glamour.
He tells of the glory
to hide signs of scars
from opportunities lost,
buried in the past, so far.
He tells of these happenings
to dwellers of the slum
that surround his inhabitance
in which his home has become.
He tells of the heights
to cope with the valleys
as he prays to awake
from what has become his reality.
With hauntings of mistakes
and a fabrication assisting in the delusion,
the denial of the past
is the only way to live and continue the illusion.

When the Past Becomes the Present

My fingers are bleeding from feelings untyped.
My mouth is sowed shut with the regret of inaction.
My soul is overwhelmed with unfulfilled promises so hyped.
My body is weak from being part of the different factions.

I thought I had a way chosen
and I thought I had a life to be
but now my knees are weak and will is frozen
and I'm left at the crossroads by she.

With issues so unresolved and love so unreciprocated,
my heart has nothing left to believe in and therefore nothing to give.
Maybe due to my own inactions, this fate was precipitated,
but it doesn't change the fact my insides have no more reason to live.

With knees so weak the body wants to fall,
the legs so disconnected from reality,
my back must lean against the wall
to prevent the floor from gaining a collapsed body.

The finish line so passed
and yet the race so failed,
the memories are trashed
and the dreams are bailed.

So much negativity left in a brain so otherwise drained,
the heart, head, and heels all stop without direction.
The body goes limp with inordinate amounts of pain
as the thoughts of past scars begin their resurrection.

Some may call this a phase or maybe even a bout
but those who have been in the eye of the storm before know better.
The agony that has a hold of my emotions is on a rout
and every part of me, mentally and physically, is again bound by this fetter.