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Michael Smith Poem
A cause; much like a child, is always lost.
Until it is sought by the will to seek purpose.
Reluctance to find meaning in so, has shown light upon the world.
For we blindly boast of our blatant adolescence.
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2016
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Michael Smith Poem
Reformation of the weak, into bold.
The implementation of better understanding,
As to stray from repetition. Avant-Garde;
Those who are compelled by the unorthodox,
Seldom find peace alongside those with headway.
All effort applied. Only to regain the same footing.
Monotonous.
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2016
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Michael Smith Poem
I want to be in love with you again.
He searches for purpose, he begs for reason. He does so in a hectic manner, with no ease to the tension in his search. The answer sits clearly above. While he furiously pokes and prods amongst grains and chunks of rock and dirt. Allowing the weight of himself to dig his knees in deeper, creating impressions of each distinctive pebble.
I want to see you smile again.
He has become intolerant at this point in time. With lungs fully depressed, he pushes deeper down into the soot. The hysteria and claustrophobia sends the man into a panic. He no longer recognizes himself, or those who define him.
I want you to feel beautiful again.
Exasperated, the man finds the tips of each finger to be numb. The blood is slow to reach the surface; much like his level of comprehension. The man can no longer acclimate; the inability to adapt to the rush around him spirals his good intentions into a void. Ignorance has exhumed the entirety of his perception.
I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
An absence of light; his consciousness is bleak, a figment of a once good man. The hand-dug hole set upon the cadaver of the man; whom tirelessly trenched until fingers split, served as a bed to the broken figure. With what dirt lay around, had been pushed in by whom had stood over the man in his final failure.
I don't ever want to see you cry for me.
A mound is all that's left. A woman dressed in tears; stood by, long before the man had died. Suffice to say, gave reason for him to dig. If ever she had stopped him, would only incite the man to dig deeper. Harrowing, his tale of being unable to love in return.
I don't want you to be alone.
The man's existence seemed futile. Nevertheless, he carries on a legacy unknown to himself. Much more to her than a child. Through his incessant pain, she realizes her own strength. And from the death of such colossal pain, grows life. A flower perched upon the mound. A metamorphosis from an inkling of negative, to a plethora of beauty.
I want you to be happy for yourself.
Like the child never to be had, she is unable to conceive the remnants of his past. The overwhelming nature of freedom is personified through his death.
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2016
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Michael Smith Poem
To what eyes may be wandering, and whichever ears; pressed on wooden walls to grasp little hushes, may be present. I would but casually invite, as to remove the tension. Which may or may not have been present within the times past, and due to come. It is at this moment, in which the occasion has arisen with such momentum, that I speak upon thee with such subtlety. Take due apology, and please retain the impatience you may experience within the monotonous approach that I impede upon thee. Nor pay heed of overthought to the contradictive hypotheticals I may divulge. Yet I feel if there is no true discussion upon the matter. If we, as minds of many, choose so as to neglect what lays at our harbors. Whom rises at our hilltops with the shining of the world's sun at their backs. We have done nothing less than give in to ill-natured minds of cowards. You have then chosen to rank yourselves within the vast oceans of carcasses in which our brothers and sisters occupy. Stench lay at your feet, rot lay there. Do not let your pride reside with it. The decay and disrespect which so heavily laden the ground. Our backs bowed by the cumbersome blows of defeat.
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2016
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Michael Smith Poem
The wrenching from within me is unbearable.
Hair, all along my arms, raise.
As if static electricity had been the entirety of me.
All the while, the skin grows cold, clammy.
I'm unable to confess my deteriorated state.
It's a sickness unlike any other; inexplicably daunting.
To whom may console me? Alleviate my pain?
I seek release,
from such a cumbersome,
and execrated imprecation.
My 'conflict-averse' paranoia.
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2016
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Michael Smith Poem
I choose to exclude the noise outside when I'm sitting within the confines of my home. The ambience that the world portrays outside of my space presents itself as a chaotic nuisance. So many speak of 'necessary evils' within the world. Yet I find the entirety of it to be quite 'unnecessary.' What evil exists, I find bland in nature. Therefore, if I am correct amongst the presumptions I make; that the world is irrelevant to the word 'purpose' itself. An over exaggerated expression of course. Than to what means do we; or 'I' for that matter, have to believe there is a necessity to coincide with such malevolence? Though I must state, for the record, that I am in no way capable of claiming to be of any benevolent essence.
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2016
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Michael Smith Poem
The inside of my knuckles,
Between the middle and index finger,
Burn like hell.
This cigarette has drawn an ash,
Longer than I could draw a line
Upon a piece of paper.
I'm afraid,
To inch my hand anywhere near it.
This keyboard,
It's so god damn clean.
Is it necessary to create such a mess,
Upon the place my hands work?
While the canvas,
The bright screen,
Remains clean?
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2016
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