Long Emptiness Poems
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Simple in its self esteem
Busted dreams
Production into motion
Brought on by one’s devotion
Hammered into regret
Enamored reject
Multiple debts
Doubt if I can ever get out
Hanged man
On a card
Is my everlasting reward
Devoured
By any means or measure
Forever
Chasing my tail
It’s gone
Off the rails
Pretender
Return to sender
Melting moment by moment
Into slow motion emotion
Cost gone up
Shake me down
I no longer wear that crown
Emptiness
Swallowed up
Broken bruised refrain
Today’s text is tomorrow s pain
Playing out in perpetual motion
One day melts into the next
It’s the lonely mans pretext.
Written May 6, 2020
Tears fall from faces of those touched by death
to be infused into the soul to hide
never will they leave, they'll stay with each breathe
and change the look of the world from inside
the bright daylight becomes a dim-lit light
and night becomes a lonely dark deep shade
wishes and dreams of a loved one take flight
and all the years they never lived will fade
yesterday's vanished and tomorrow's gone
yet, the bloodstream of emptiness will flow
the sun will rise on every lonely dawn
and the face in the mind will never grow
too many empty days of shades and realms
too many empty nights that overwhelms
2/26/22
contest G-Give me a new poem-Death
sponsor Constance La France
Five light years is the average distance
that separates any two stars -
five light years of hydrogen, helium and dust.
It is a l o n g space
of seeming emptiness.
You and I are two stars too.
Now separated,
is there only nothingness between us?
I will show you there is not.
I will shine my light toward you, scattering it through
the dust of your indifference.
One day you will know my absolute resolution.
Slowly I will approach, driven by mad devotion
and drawing you ever nearer to me.
At last, we will collide, becoming one.
Everything dividing us will vanish,
and with a love so massive, rare, and hot,
we will be as unique as blue stragglers,
sparkling night's sky with our passion.
Hollow man
Hollow man, an empty vessel,
lived life with vain abandon
Selfishness and carnal lust
were his constant companions
Happiness was sought, indulging
frantically in fleshly pleasures
Pain was his only reward instead
of priceless treasures.
Chasing worthless endeavors,
enticed by deluded aspirations
Followed the leanings of his foolish heart,
lead to altered expectations
He gulped down licentiously,
every drink that was in fashion
Spent his life in wantonness and
unbridled passions
He spiraled down, seduced into
debauchery's black hole
and wonders to himself, why there
is emptiness in his soul
He seared his innocent conscience,
rejected words heard so long ago
Truth remains even though despised,
you will reap what you sow
Now, he sits, disillusioned and alone,
staring into the cracked mirror
His bleary eyes beginning to see,
the truth ever clearer
Still, he ponders
if these consequences...
are part of destiny's plan...
it's hard to admit to himself,
his own bad choices...
created this...
hollow man.
April 10,2017
Ebony inks the emptiness of space,
highlighting the stars that adorn the night.
And as Luna rises to take Her place
day's shifting shadows morph into twilight:
as the moon and sun attempt to embrace.
Dusk dons a sequined, ethereal shawl,
as distant stars twinkle in the darkness.
And the sound of a chirping cricket's call,
breaks the silence imposed by dusk's starkness:
its lone serenade; heralding nightfall.
Shadows surrender their shape to the night;
like rippling ribbons ruffled by the moon.
And playing hide and seek with Luna's light;
they get haphazardly scattered and strewn,
stretching and shrinking in and out of sight.
Dawn's first light pierces the night's ebon heart,
thrusting through its impenetrable shield.
And fragmented silhouettes fall apart
as darkness capitulates, forced to yield
to the sun, as a new day gets its start.
Dear February they say you are all about love but
you make my head swim , letting my own words make a martyr of me
Im terrified of how they sound rolling off my tounge , so I decide not to speak
I dont know how to be loud enough to be loved
I gave you flowers and you return my gifts with madness
while the devil makes a fool of me hiding under my blankets , painting my face red with shame
He knows I'll never make peace with my own desires , but I'll pretend to be brave anyway
I should prefer the truth to emptiness
I dont know how to explain this to you
the reflection that feels nothing
I turn off the light and close the door
Oh! How I despise dawn’s blushing optimism
and dried hydrangea blooms sepia skinned and papery thin.
Humdrum hands beat doldrums drum.
Why won’t the summer solstice light this darkness?
A gnawing hollow where my heart should be.
Where cinder clouds float in negative space
memories collect like nesting sparrows beneath eaves.
I stray, a waif lost with my armful of loss.
Your death did steal my breath and heartbeat like a thief
while October’s wind trembled aspens like harp strings.
(Ten Poem Titles)
The Corruption Of My Lust For Life
Autumn Side Of September
Mundane Matters Of Mortals
Theft Of My Will To Survive
In Woes And Throes Of Sorrow
A Vanilla Dove
Escape Of The Bluesman’s Song
The Sham Of My Humanity
Death Is The Bane Of My Existence
The Shedding Trees Of Autumn
"There is no outlet for words from a freedom that lets ink flow.
The blood of my pen is imprisoned in the cells of insomnia.
And the tears of awareness of perceptions dissolve the concepts.
Knives of greatness slaughter my sensory nerves,
And kill motion in the rhythm of continuity."
"Eyes feed on fragments from the sting of a memory of ecstasy.
The scene of the idea is a link between time and gravity.
And the positioning of the moon suppresses the age of my watery senses.
The places suffocate, they sweat, and the dates burn.
There is no stranglehold on meanings from the slavery that freezes war."
And whenever that barefoot voice was narrowed,
It swallowed gulps of old music,
And cast the shreds of its deformed thoughts into a dump.
And stanched the bleeding of its heart with a knife.
It roamed the emptiness of the hollow city,
The muddy alley of the neighborhood, and drew its lungs as a chimney,
And kept gathering the smell of corpses of its words,
And piled them in a soak.
It is after noon at night and at dawn.
If he obeys and comes, he will soon approach sunset,
And the darkness will extinguish.
But if he refuses, the bleeding of my mind will continue,
And the flowing of words from me prolonged,
And silence will keep striking my hearing and tearing it apart.
Fires will be burned in my soul and ice frozen in my heart.
Then the stone slides into the river of our garden,
Breaking the water, shattering the air,
And trespassing on the laws of physics,
Where butterflies sprout and blossom,
And roses swim in our sky, from butterfly to butterfly.
There we listen to the calm chirping of branches.
On the wings of the birds of repentance,
we watch from beneath the mountain’s summit
The stars of our earth, how they fade while shining,
And the darkness will not extinguish.
In this world of ours, armies practice love instead of war.
They exchange showers of perfume and bullets of kisses.
And when they attack, they dance, and win without fail,
To rejoice in drinking music by night,
And consuming books by morning.
My mind is a puzzle of cryptic metaphors.
whilst searching for my sanity,
I've become my own worst enemy.
In this cauldron of despair,
time is like sand in my hand -
an oxymoron poetic
paradox of cruel compassion.
Sadistic green eyes bring my demise,
as my sighs are captured by the wind,
slowly morphed into madness and travesty.
I sit alone on the throne of midnight illusions,
cursed by dark imaginations
lingering like mouldy air,
as vivid flashing images
engrave inkstained imprints.
Dripping lament from a
palette of black and white,
colouring in the emptiness of my sensitive soul.
In echoing whispers of weeping violins,
whimsical vibratos from wooden wind-chimes,
steadily orchestrate instrumental sonatas,
ringing through my strained metallic heart,
whilst I try to strum strangled strings,
harmonizing an inconsistent symphony of a tragedy.
Fate has me stranded within a monotonous loop of uncertainties,
for when twilight’s last breath piercingly eclipsed over
lyrical edges of my insomniac shadow,
it awoke restless beasts of nocturnal nights -
in nightmares I wondered does no one hear my screams?
i can see dazzling dusts of black diamonds,
drizzle manuscripts of maniac irony
translating dialects hidden behind unshed tears
that gleam like shooting stars,
as i sing mystical moonbeams,
sewn with silver sequins of euphonious memories on refrain,
chorused from nameless tunes of timeless tomorrows,
as the magic of the maestro,
residing in the highest bridge of sanguine skies,
guides these electric fears, trapped between
synchronized layers of my unsettled skin.
I'm tired from intangible tears in the mirror,
slowly sinking me in swirls of sorrow,
like a bruised creature
seeking shelter in a silk cocoon,
so this aurora's smile is no longer a masquerade.
I hunger for rays of sunlight to paint my skin
in a plethora of pastels,
so this golden bronze queen,
can once again glitter
in a crown of illuminating heartbeats.
They say life is grey
a quiet meeting of shadow and light,
a thousand shades of almost,
where nothing is wholly lost
and nothing entirely bright.
But mine- was never grey.
Mine was pitch black.
Not the kind of darkness
that comes with night
and leaves with morning,
but the kind that settles beneath the skin,
where even the light forgets your name.
There was nothing to see there—
no horizon,
no doorway,
no distant star
to promise that somewhere,
something waited.
Only emptiness.
A vast, unending room of darkness
inside a heart
that had forgotten
what it was waiting for.
So I tried to wash it away
with tears.
I wept until my eyes were rivers,
until sorrow had nothing left to give,
until every drop I carried
had fallen at my feet.
But darkness does not drown.
It only learns
how to breathe underwater.
Then I tried colour.
I gathered every shade I could find—
the red of old desires,
the blue of distant skies,
the yellow of borrowed laughter,
the green of things still growing.
I painted my walls
with all the colours of living.
But when I stepped back
to admire what I had made,
The darkness remained.
It swallowed every colour
without leaving a stain.
Perhaps that is what no one tells you—
that sometimes the soul
is not a canvas waiting for colour,
nor a wound waiting for tears.
Sometimes it is simply
a sky without stars,
A sea without a shore,
A page so deeply black
that even the brightest ink
looks like another shade of silence.
And yet—
Somewhere beneath all that darkness,
beneath the tears that could not cleanse it,
beneath the colours that could not reach it,
Something still remained.
Not hope.
Not yet.
Just a small, stubborn pulse—
Quietly insisting
that emptiness itself
is not the end of the story.