Long Heavy as lead Poems
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There's a pounding in my head
My feet feel as heavy as lead
There's no point in explaining
I just keep on contemplating... complaining...
This throbbing in my heart
Might just tear me apart
This horrid feeling in my stomach
Might be butterflies, fluttering in a pack...
There's quite a few skills and strengths that I lack
Just allow me to see right through the pain
Bite the bullet and catch the midnight train
It might be because I'm going crazy already
It might be because I don't feel at all ready
I'm in awe as you decide to leave me behind
I'm disappointed in you and you don't care obviously
I guess you don't notice me in shame - you don't mind
I'll just be happy and mask this hurt inside I see
I feel horrified by your heartless decisions
I'm still able to accomplish my missions
My ambition has faded away along with my confidence
I'm still waiting patiently for this sweet deliverance from evanescence
I'm disappearing...I'm vanishing...
You're so not endearing...in agony, diminishing...
I'm enduring this tribulation
Feeling sudden grand sensation
Brewing away the muse of lamentation
Pushing away the feelings of frustration
Life lost meaning. She had hated that war since it first begun,
Now the worst thing of all, disbelieving that it had taken her son.
She wore his dog tags and his medal for the valour they implied.
Her heart was aching, sorrow engulfed her, she felt torment inside.
The misery that her loss had created, proved to be all too strong.
She was unable to sleep, she just cried all day and all night long.
Finally, weeks later some sleep befell her and she began to dream.
There in the distance was her boy, alive and well, or so it would seem.
He was with other young soldiers all marching up a very steep hill.
All had packs upon their backs, but her son was standing quite still.
He was struggling hard to climb as his pack was the biggest of all.
She asked him, "Why is your pack so large and the other’s so small?"
"Most of the guy's loved ones, have happy memories of their life,
But all I have left you Mother, is tumultuous sorrow, grief and strife.
Our packs are full of the tears that our loved ones all have shed,
All the tears you have cried Mother, make my pack heavy as lead."
When she awoke, she thought of good times with her son, galore.
The happiness he brought to her life, and she didn’t cry any more.
Hole in the Wall…
I feel like crawling back into the hole
Back in time, back in space
Into realms of no emotion
When feeling is lost on an expressionless face
I want to run, just never stop running
Away from here, anywhere
Anywhere away from this place, nowhere at all…
We are bound to live sacrificial lives
But isn’t everyone who lives and breathes
Like lambs to the infamous slaughter
We are falling to our knees
But I am speaking in a singular form
Speaking only for myself
My love, my longing for life
Goals I have set
Plateaus far from the norm are so hard to reach
I have often fallen short, fallen hard
Like now…
I am losing sight of distant visions
Storm clouds obscure the sun and the haze clouds my head
Uncomfortable feelings deep within me
Weighing me down, they are as heavy as lead
Calling out to me
I respond without caution or care
Never stopping to realize
In the dark; waiting, you must constantly be aware
You cannot afford to compromise your beliefs,
Or your strengths for anything, nothing at all
All of this, through the hole in the wall…
I wish to break through, to heal my soul with the whiteness of words,
But they hide in my shadow like shy animals.
My story is a forest where the echo of footsteps has been lost,
And my pain is the thin river that springs from the underground.
I could tell you how each moment has engraved storm carvings in the stones,
How the same wind that brings leaves in flight has stripped my trees bare,
I could weave before you the tapestry of bitterness, of helplessness,
To see your gaze skimming over the water of my story, not reaching the bottom.
I want to open Pandora's box of my heart and show you how each feeling is a myth,
How my gods and monsters fight in a bedding that does not sleep, a struggle smothered under a smile.
The unwritten story bleeds onto invisible pages, but the heart beats in a language foreign to the world.
It's an ocean, and each of my waves breaks the solitude of rocks into unheard whispers,
But you do not hear the symphony of the waves, you do not read the poetry of the rocks,
My horizons are aurora borealis on a sky too foreign for your eyes.
Here I stand, with a treasure of emotions drowning in my heart,
Sunk beneath the silent sands of my inner desert,
In search of a soul explorer, someone willing to unearth the relics of feelings.
My words get stuck, a melody in the throat that cannot find its way out,
It hurts in a murmured crescendo, a concert for which all are afraid to buy tickets.
And I sit - a library burning silently, its shelves unstudied, its flames unquenched.
I remain, with my story heavy as lead, waiting for the brush,
To draw upon the canvas of silence a fresco of understanding,
I am the source of a hidden river waiting not to dry up for the mouth of the sea,
I am a poem born in the twilight of a world that refuses to hear the magic of wise words.
I thought I was dreaming when my wife said
"Darling a monkey you've got on your head"
I laughed and I said" Have you had a tot"
"I'm not joking" she said "And no I have not".
We had a few stares as we walked along
And thought to myself that something is wrong
My head felt so strange 'twas heavy as lead
Seems there was truth in what my wife said.
Then a laughing young girl came up to me
Her Phone at the ready for a selfie
"Smile please" she said and a picture she took
And said that the pic was going on Facebook.
I told my Doc there's something wrong with me
Looked at my head and said "Yes I can see"
Gave me pills and said "Take three times a day
Your monkeylitus should then go away"
Next morning I woke up and sat up in bed
The ape from the rock had gone from my head
If you're thinking that this story's not true
I've added a pic to prove it to you.
Written 15th June 2019
The world below is a tangle of green and gray,
Where the two rivers meet in a braided, liquid knot,
Their voices a low, distant hum that fades away
As I leave the soft earth for the wild, forgotten plot.
There is no path here, no boot-worn ribbon of dust,
Only the moss-heavy logs that I step across,
Sinking into the damp, decaying crust,
Where time is measured in layers of velvet moss.
Higher now, where the timber begins to thin,
And the alpine line draws a boundary of bone,
Where the breath grows shallow and cold begins to win,
And the world is composed of nothing but wind and stone.
The granite peaks, they carry the weight of ages,
Weathered into faces, etched by the frost and the glare—
Old, silent watchers, turning their stony pages,
Staring into the void of the thinning air.
A Clark’s nutcracker spirals, a flash of white and black,
Its harsh, raspy kree-aaaa echoing off the wall,
While a mountain chickadee, fearless on its track,
Sings a thin, sweet dee-dee-dee that seems so small.
The wind is a ghost that whistles through the scree,
A sharp, biting breath that smells of the coming snow;
It carries the secrets of places that never were free,
And the silence that only the highest summits know.
My lungs are a furnace, my legs are heavy as lead,
But the summit beckons, a crown of jagged light,
Where the clouds are snagged on the peaks like cotton thread,
And the world drops away in a dizzying, beautiful flight.
I scramble the final ridge, a desperate, reaching hand,
Until the ground levels out—the pinnacle, the goal—
The vast, sprawling ache of the wild and ancient land,
Reflecting the quiet, final truth of a searching soul.
This was the climb that defined the map of my days,
The summit I whispered to in the dark of a younger night;
Now I stand in the stillness, lost in the sun’s gold haze,
Caught in the reach of the peak, and the blinding white.
When wracked with suff'ring even more,
I all alone bemoan my fate,
as one who drowns in sorrows sore
which harm, harass, and maul his state.
Aggrieved for what feels like forever,
I trouble God with bootless cries
as I endure my manic fever
with tearful, red, psychotic eyes.
The minute hand lands on midnight!
I can't find clear words to express
feelings of falling a headlong height
b'neath heaven's reach 'yond grief's excess.
Inside, I feel the Reaper’s scythe
as I think out my mordant plan:
razor, pills, or a kitchen knife,
a way to end it by my hand!?
Like Sylvia Plath, if I can
plant my head in a GE gas oven,
then it’d be painless!? (But why plan
a death so cliche, and unproven?)
I think, too, of Virginia Woolf,
how she drowned her life in a lake;
I, too, feel swallowed in a gulf
of swirling misery that'd take
me to my death! Why do I feel
forsak'n, and heavy as lead now? Am
I so hopeless? Why do I feel
so worthless, and so so dead? How am
I to end my life (to kill myself)—
if all loved ones were then to miss me?
“Help yourself!” I then heard. "Heal thyself!"
I hear aloud. As angels kiss me,
I thus then found comfort in this:
that family and friends all care,
and if I'd died I would be missed;
so, I war 'gainst profound despair.
And then, Hope dawns! And soon comes peace…
And in the morn, I wake arising—
Joy breaks in, and I have new lease.
And then my state I cease despising!
On nights when sleep flees from me like a shadow scared of its own existence,
I wonder if we are cursed or blessed, we who think beyond the edges of reason,
For "bad" is too simple a word for the complexity behind our perpetually awake eyes.
We are the architects of our own mental labyrinths, builders of castles from layered thoughts,
And if you look closely, you'll see that beneath every worry lies hidden a profound form of love,
For no one loses themselves in infinite thoughts if they don't care to their soul's core about everything they touch.
At midnight, when the world sleeps, our minds race at the speed of light through parallel universes,
Constructing perfect scenarios, unraveling and reweaving the threads of reality into ideal patterns,
While seconds drip heavily in the hourglass of insomnia like mercury tears.
We want each day to be a masterpiece sculpted in ephemeral time,
Obsessed with details like painters dedicating their lives to a single painting,
Trying to capture the essence of life in the fine net of our hyperacute consciousness.
But the price of this infinite attention is heavy as lead in tired bones,
Temples pulsate under the pressure of thoughts like drums in an endless ritual,
And eyes burn from tears shed for the perfection that always slips through our fingers.
With all scenarios calculated to the last comma, with all plans woven in silk threads,
We end up exhausted, with souls heavy from unrealized dreams and bodies drained from the perpetual dance of the mind,
You, who read these lines, know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you?
And yet, in this beautiful madness there exists a kernel of greatness,
Because we love life so much that we refuse to be mere spectators in our own existence,
We choose to feel every second to the marrow of our bones, to live consciously every breath.
In this hyperlucidity there is a strange and painful beauty,
In the way our mind constantly dances between reality and possibility,
In the way we refuse to accept the superficial and always seek deeper meanings.
There is beauty in you, restless thinker,
In the way you carry the universe in your mind like a precious burden,
And each thought is a star illuminating the darkness of the unknown.
As I look down upon my body dead,
I have this fear in me as heavy as lead.
Have I done wrong in my life past,
or am I happy now, happy at last.
I look to the skies the heavens above,
I say to myself, remember the love.
God gave us creatures some big and some small,
he cares for them, and love he does all.
What should I fear, nothing I should,
I'm one of Gods creatures, I know this is good.
I look to the skies once more again, as I say aloud,
"Lord I know I have sinned, will you forgive me Lord,
and let me in to your sanctuary of love and not of sin."
"Is it to late to say what I've said,
now that I'm gone, now that I'm dead."
"Its never to late", I hear from above,
"come into heaven and feel all the love."
Could the air we breathe be seeds of anxiety?
Winter flowers bloom in diamond breeze.
Watery eyes searching for handout charity.
To form a habit with the cold and sneeze.
Bittersweet social scene for this moment,
when we are forced to suspend activities.
We couldn’t have predicted this torment.
Like a box of chocolates virtual celebrities.
We wind away hours on our backs and bum.
Going cold while conspiring with a friend.
The state we are in has gone hot on Instagram.
Arguing in whispers and chuckling to the end.
With power ensconced stuck at the head.
Social life has a new brand of epicenter.
Making us feel drained and heavy as lead.
The likely place to rest with an isolated fever.
Sat in our little green space, a vibrant escape
Some have never left the tonic for daily life.
And a chance to let the stress incubate.
Dissolved in the air to another greater site.
The lengthy, the brief, the confounding season,
the engraving; reminds me of sad memories.
Where obscured plaques enter without a reason
Look out for inscriptions but find only stories.
For the first time in years, life is sliding dossier.
That takes place almost entirely in the home.
The anonymity we have forged together.
Becoming clowns with no safe salary to come.