Tag Archives: emotional realism

Chronicles of the Unhappy

Posted in Poetry English by

This is not a poem about sadness, but about the curse of chasing happiness.

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The unhappy are forever to remain alone,

for that is the decreed nature of their fate

Happiness is an elusive dream they pursue,

and when they fail, it is themselves that they hate

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Each time they are happy, it’s an illusion,

which fades as quickly as it had appeared

Each time they are happy, there’s a rush,

that changes into agony, soon to be feared

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Fear them not, theirs is not a black curse,

for they are unhappy but may dispense joy

With hearts so bitter and eyes so radiant,

they are like the legendary horse of Troy

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But beware, never show them any kindness,

for they assume hope where there is none

Beware, your affection is like acidic venom,

for they assume love where there is none

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For their eternally stupid pursuit of happiness,

the unhappy are pitiable and are to be mocked

And for their constant vigil for non-existent hope,

their doors remain silent and are never knocked

The Autumn Outside, and the Autumn Within

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A season that never ends.

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Outside, autumn reigns with colors of gold and rust,

walking in fancy colors, is really a sad, old whore

Within, the autumn stays forever, heaps of ash and dust,

it was born when I was born, will die when I’m no more

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Outside, there is a verdict, a cruel and harsh judgment,

unsolicited and uninvited, yet delivered firmly in the face

Within, there exists failure, dark, rotten, and repugnant,

it was born when I was born, will die when I quit the race

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Outside, there is refusal, a hard and cold rejection,

imparted cruelly, yet justified and utterly sensible

Within, there exists misery, a bitter and dark dejection,

it was born when I was born, will die as I am dispensable

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Outside, there is warmth, an almost useless affection,

a product of reciprocity, mere courtesy, and manners

Within, there is love - a brightly burning perfection,

it was born when I was born, will die with lowered banners

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Outside, there is sadness, and within it is always blue,

in perfect harmony, the weeping violin and the crying cello

Outside, the autumn reigns, and within, there is an autumn too,

were there when I was born, will fade as the ink turns yellow

A Dialogue with the Darkness (Previously, the Darkenss Within)

Posted in Poetry English by

When the self turns inward, the sharpest blade is awareness.

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I want a sharp knife;

the sharpest of all I have ever seen in this life

A knife with an ivory grip and a gleaming edge;

engraved with obscure ruins, carrying a death pledge

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I want to plunge it into my belly;

slicing it across, all through the quivering jelly

Cutting open myself and savoring the soothing pain;

smelling the oozing blood and enjoying the red rain

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The steaming guts will spill out;

and so will the coldness, without a doubt

I want to confront the coldness under my skin;

I so want to face the raging darkness within

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I want to feel their texture and what makes up my core;

the ice-cold mercury seeping out of each pore

I so want to sense their force, so binding and so freeing;

their powerful darkness vibrating in my being

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I want to question them all, the unanswered queries;

hanging in balance, the forever silent juries

I want to challenge them all, the reservoirs of valor;

forever loud but hollow, the reds masking my pallor

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Why do you reside within me?

Perhaps two despising lovers smiling with glee?

Or are you sent by my respectful adversaries,

not really bothered, and just two emissaries?