How do I...
How do I begin this poem
When all my intros had already came to their conclusion.
How do I think of words when all that's in my head is composed of delusion
Tell me, how do I put these letters together when the strings of thoughts I used to tie them with are twisted and tangled in confusion.
Help me paint this picture...
How does one scribble down a holy scripture with hands so smeared in sin with a pen that carries not ink but blood within on a paper made from a tree that only grows fruits forbidden.
I'll hand you the pen, write down something while
I close my eyes hoping to see something stunning or surprising, something that'd help my sun at rising.
Something worth writing about,
a vision i could ride around.
To my right,
I see Christ,
frozen and starving to death on the side of the pavement,
Grasping for breath, too late for the saving,
Using whats left of the air in his holy lungs to curse poverty
since he's only sleeping on the floor cause the bank confiscated all of heavens property.
To my left
I see his mother Mary.
Her face was on the paper, stripped in her blood, murdered after seven demons attempted to rape her.
And in front of me,
What a revelation,
The lord that was once high above all nations,
Was hanged upon the entrance of the city, a divine strangulation.
Blessed used to be his name,
But blessings he sent lead to annihilation.
And now that the sun had burnt down and turned to ashes
Mass bombing flashes, death, famine, and plane crashes and nuclear creations,
We proceed in devastation. Driving this truck into inevitable damnation.
And so the lord's name that was to be praised.
Is now often mentioned but barely remembered,
They speak of unity, but they're self centered.
Our faith remains shaken, as we the children...
End up foresaken.
‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’
And so the world goes to an end for not a word was to be heard from the lord
And so the devil said
let there be silence.
I open my eyes, my sweaty palms are shaking, and i'm pressing the tip of my pen on the paper until i cut the paper and i feel the pen breaking.
I look around my room and the ever so impending sense of doom that lingers on the walls
hoping to grasp something, anything,
Anything that i could write at all...
And it hits me,
It's not
How do I ...
It's
Why would I
Why would I say something that wasn't said before,
Just for my saying to be lost in the air and ignored?
If I could've, I would've.
If I could've stay silent I would've stayed silent.
I would've stopped writing when a reckless poem crawled up from the back of my hollow mind and forced its way out of my mouth for the first time.
If I could strip my self of ryhmes, pile em and burn 'em like they did to my thoughts in that mental asylum,
I would've.
And speaking of that,
If I could've maintain my state of mind I would've refrained from going insane.
I wouldn't have allowed myself to recite my insanity into existence.
If I could stay I would've remained persistent.
Wouldn't have moved in waves, back and forth between chilling in cloud nine and stressing my grave.
And at last, if I could believe in a man above
I would've prayed for him to make my love last.
But the nice things in this world,
they build up real slow, just to fall apart fast.
If i knew of some other way I wouldn't have so heartlessly turned myself into poems then abandoned them on the shelves of time where mediocre literature tends to go forgotten.
So tell me, how do I begin this poem when all my intros came to their end,
For this isn't a writer block, it's an apocalypse of the mind,
Annihilated thoughts lay on broken roads as whatever words survived descend.
If I could shout my hopes aloud like i used to, i would've.
But my heartbeats are as silent as a mime.
And in time...
It becomes implausable,
And walking down memorylane seems impossible,
Everytime i try to take steps back or proceed ahead,
I find roadblocks on the timeline and it's a dead end;
What I mean to say is that
I tried writing about yesterdays since my sense of them seemed better, but even my happiest of memories looked dusty and blurred and tasted less sweet than bitter.
So I tried picturing tomorrows but the short sighted pessimist I am couldn't see anything beyond grief and sorrow.
And today? There's nothing to say about it. It's yesterday's disappointing tomorrow and tomorrow's spiteful yesterday and there's no way around it nor a way out it.
I want to write this poem,
And you could ask
if the instrument is mute, whats the point of the strumming?
And I say,
Cause writing used to mean something.
It was the essence to the person I once was and I cling to it, hoping I'll find a trace of him as i dive into it.
Because in the past, writing felt more than milking your dry pen for no other reason than the reciting.
And writing
was the only thing that's exciting at a point in which an earthquake would shake and break the grounds beneath me and I'd go unphased.
Am I crazed? Disgraced? Lacking faith and unable to embrace the good things around me and god's amazing grace?
I am.
But there was a time when that wasnt all that is there to me,
So tell me,
Will I ever begin this poem?
I'm unsure,
But if I ever do,
I think if I look closely between the lines,
I might find a cure.
How do I begin this poem
When all my intros had already came to their conclusion.
How do I think of words when all that's in my head is composed of delusion
Tell me, how do I put these letters together when the strings of thoughts I used to tie them with are twisted and tangled in confusion.
Help me paint this picture...
How does one scribble down a holy scripture with hands so smeared in sin with a pen that carries not ink but blood within on a paper made from a tree that only grows fruits forbidden.
I'll hand you the pen, write down something while
I close my eyes hoping to see something stunning or surprising, something that'd help my sun at rising.
Something worth writing about,
a vision i could ride around.
To my right,
I see Christ,
frozen and starving to death on the side of the pavement,
Grasping for breath, too late for the saving,
Using whats left of the air in his holy lungs to curse poverty
since he's only sleeping on the floor cause the bank confiscated all of heavens property.
To my left
I see his mother Mary.
Her face was on the paper, stripped in her blood, murdered after seven demons attempted to rape her.
And in front of me,
What a revelation,
The lord that was once high above all nations,
Was hanged upon the entrance of the city, a divine strangulation.
Blessed used to be his name,
But blessings he sent lead to annihilation.
And now that the sun had burnt down and turned to ashes
Mass bombing flashes, death, famine, and plane crashes and nuclear creations,
We proceed in devastation. Driving this truck into inevitable damnation.
And so the lord's name that was to be praised.
Is now often mentioned but barely remembered,
They speak of unity, but they're self centered.
Our faith remains shaken, as we the children...
End up foresaken.
‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’
And so the world goes to an end for not a word was to be heard from the lord
And so the devil said
let there be silence.
I open my eyes, my sweaty palms are shaking, and i'm pressing the tip of my pen on the paper until i cut the paper and i feel the pen breaking.
I look around my room and the ever so impending sense of doom that lingers on the walls
hoping to grasp something, anything,
Anything that i could write at all...
And it hits me,
It's not
How do I ...
It's
Why would I
Why would I say something that wasn't said before,
Just for my saying to be lost in the air and ignored?
If I could've, I would've.
If I could've stay silent I would've stayed silent.
I would've stopped writing when a reckless poem crawled up from the back of my hollow mind and forced its way out of my mouth for the first time.
If I could strip my self of ryhmes, pile em and burn 'em like they did to my thoughts in that mental asylum,
I would've.
And speaking of that,
If I could've maintain my state of mind I would've refrained from going insane.
I wouldn't have allowed myself to recite my insanity into existence.
If I could stay I would've remained persistent.
Wouldn't have moved in waves, back and forth between chilling in cloud nine and stressing my grave.
And at last, if I could believe in a man above
I would've prayed for him to make my love last.
But the nice things in this world,
they build up real slow, just to fall apart fast.
If i knew of some other way I wouldn't have so heartlessly turned myself into poems then abandoned them on the shelves of time where mediocre literature tends to go forgotten.
So tell me, how do I begin this poem when all my intros came to their end,
For this isn't a writer block, it's an apocalypse of the mind,
Annihilated thoughts lay on broken roads as whatever words survived descend.
If I could shout my hopes aloud like i used to, i would've.
But my heartbeats are as silent as a mime.
And in time...
It becomes implausable,
And walking down memorylane seems impossible,
Everytime i try to take steps back or proceed ahead,
I find roadblocks on the timeline and it's a dead end;
What I mean to say is that
I tried writing about yesterdays since my sense of them seemed better, but even my happiest of memories looked dusty and blurred and tasted less sweet than bitter.
So I tried picturing tomorrows but the short sighted pessimist I am couldn't see anything beyond grief and sorrow.
And today? There's nothing to say about it. It's yesterday's disappointing tomorrow and tomorrow's spiteful yesterday and there's no way around it nor a way out it.
I want to write this poem,
And you could ask
if the instrument is mute, whats the point of the strumming?
And I say,
Cause writing used to mean something.
It was the essence to the person I once was and I cling to it, hoping I'll find a trace of him as i dive into it.
Because in the past, writing felt more than milking your dry pen for no other reason than the reciting.
And writing
was the only thing that's exciting at a point in which an earthquake would shake and break the grounds beneath me and I'd go unphased.
Am I crazed? Disgraced? Lacking faith and unable to embrace the good things around me and god's amazing grace?
I am.
But there was a time when that wasnt all that is there to me,
So tell me,
Will I ever begin this poem?
I'm unsure,
But if I ever do,
I think if I look closely between the lines,
I might find a cure.
