Rising from dunes of despair after desert storm of strife,
I gather in the vase of quietude the strewn shards of life.
I am the rot beguiling the saccharine summer hue
I am the self in selfish sorrow, sullying the morning dew
Sickened with the mortal blips of emotion
To fall with the fragility of flesh hipped erosion
Hipped bone beneath browned bandage
Honed the hand hither, 'ncase fickle flesh cannot manage
T'stand aground the mortal vantage
Health t'sickness, worn to wear, not to manage, thy
Breath be dragged'n rancid acid, lipped from the dazed haze of exhaustion
She who had not a gun to brandish, but the naval blade o'self-famish
She who chose to awake, who awoke'n self-loathing
Whose body is irate with the dawned dam break of bile
T'overflow mine own organs, and hinder the words of hungered mind
Breaking the tide of the thrum drum pendulum heart
Shalt th'tounge twist rue th'bile duct of recovery
Drool the drivel of a mere reason 'why?'
And retract the bile of thy sickened mind.
I am to drool the drivel, of love from human kind
Im so tired'f this mortal mortuary
In place of mortal mind.
I am the mind that threatens to die.
And i am the mind, prepared to fight.
Your love flew wingless with the summer wind,
And left me stranded, hopeless, in a pit.
Alone I became too much for my mind,
With my love jailed by your self-written writ.
I was consumed by the flame of your rage,
Yet from the ashes, I arose anew.
I found a heart whose kindness could assuage,
And clean even a faintest thought of you.
Your cruelty bent me but couldn't break me,
I rode the distance on your stormy wave,
Till real love brave the storm to free me,
And polished my heart, making me feel brave.
Each fibre of my heart now flows with love,
At last, your wickedness has fallen through.
Joy walks with me, hand in hand, hand in glove,
Made whole by love thats's steadfast, strong and true.
As the presidential plane kissed the Alaskan ground,
I beheld Putin — the fox, the KGB man,
his boot pressing on soil once Russia’s own,
a chess master reclaiming forgotten squares.
Another jet descended. Trump emerged,
a merchant prince, an actor upon the stage,
his hand raised high over a land America bought,
yet Russia never forgot.
Shadows lengthened over this summit:
Will it weave a ceasefire for Ukraine?
Or shall vultures circle,
Europe’s hollow face speaking only through America’s tongue?
Putin has danced with them all —
Clinton, Bush, Obama, Biden —
and now, twice with Trump,
he checkmates the board with steady calm.
Where is Zelenskyy?
Wise, or merely a fool at the table of giants?
Will he steer his people toward dawn,
or cast them deeper into the furnace of war?
These are not questions for the blind.
Those who pierce the veil,
who read the game behind the gestures,
already know the answer.
History weeps, but power does not.
And in the silence of Alaska,
a cruel truth lingers like smoke:
The world is a stage,
and men are pawns—
until the fox decides otherwise.
There is no excuse you see
I'm neither an R or a D
I think best are spaces
although different places
on things we both can agree.
Why, then such a divide
it seems like the prevailing tide
storms of emotions
are churning our oceans
its time for calming those sea's.
Its best when coming together
changing clouds to sunny weather
don't be tied to a letter
let's all work towards better
I think, we both can agree!
When the hurting speaks
All of the memories...
flood back with time
I've never been taught, how
to handle it right
All the thoughts linger...
in the cracks of the mind
Where no one expects,
or is able to find
Bridge
Where are you going
in this altered state?
Where nothing is real,
and solutions are fake.
Chorus
What will you do now?
Wait in the darkness...
Wait in the darkness...
Until...the hurting speaks
and, tears your insides out
that's when the hurting speaks
Why are they speaking
words I cannot hear
I see their lips moving
but I still live in fear
They've got all the answers
or so, they will say
But they couldn't live,
in my day to day
All that you need is to
take our nice pills
Blues reds and greens will
manage all your ills
Chorus
What will you do now?
Wait in the darkness...
Wait in the darkness...
Until...the hurting speaks
and, tears your insides out
that's when the hurting speaks
and, tears your insides out
that's when the hurting speaks...
John Derek Hamilton
August 13,2023
revised with music and vocals June 26,2025
Posted August 4,2025
sensual touches
sate a need that aids depressed
hearts seeking passion
patches to cover twin aches
worn as scars from rejection
escape needs fulfilled
covers hold two stories told ~
desperate duet
She was too young to hear what she did.
She was too young to see the way you looked at yourself.
She was too young to feel how she did.
Too skinny.
I just need to gain weight to be beautiful.
I just need curves to be beautiful.
Too fat.
I just need to lose this belly and thighs to be beautiful.
I just need to lose this extra weight to be beautiful.
Not skinny enough.
Bones peeking through skin, but not beautiful enough.
Face sunken in, but still not thin enough.
Fingers fit around my wrists but not small enough.
It’s too small.
It’s not small enough.
It’s too big.
It’s not big enough.
Will there ever be a perfect number?
Will you ever love yourself?
Just you, not the number, or tag.
Metaphor and simile have been with the human race for thousands of years. This is my English translation of an excerpt from an ancient Egyptian poem estimated to be around 4,000 years old:
Excerpt from "Dialogue of a Misanthrope with his Soul"
(ancient Egyptian poem circa 2000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death lies before me:
like a sick man’s recovery,
like entering a garden after an interminable illness.
Death lies before me:
like the fragrance of myrrh,
like sitting beneath a billowing sail with a favorable wind.
Death lies before me:
like swimming in the course of a stream,
like a man’s return from the slave-galley to freedom.
Death lies before me:
like the sky when it clears,
like a man's longing to see his home after countless years of captivity.
Keywords/Tags: Egyptian, translation, dialogue, dialog, misanthrope, soul, death, illness, sick, sickness, recovery from, myrrh, sail, wind, freedom, sky, captivity, slave, slavery, soulmate
Am I acting normal?
Am I blinking too much?
Am I staring too long?
Are people staring at me?
Feeling nervous, embarrassed, uncomfortable inside.
Reminding myself to not let the unease show.
Making jokes to mask the nervous thoughts I have.
Laughing to cover up the awkward reactions.
Focusing on the distance to avoid staring too long.
Reminding myself to not blink too often.
Sitting alone, making an effort to not think if people think I’m strange because I’m not talking to anyone.
Wishing I could blend in with the wallpaper, to hide my concerned thoughts that piece my mind.
Began chatting, then as talking.
Talking, to safe haven.
Safe haven, to unfolding the dark tucked away.
Unfolding, to sharing years of distant memories.
Sharing, to unloading your internal warehouse.
Unloading, to tears flowing.
Tears flowing, words stinging.
Words stinging, airway burning.
Relief, haunting at bay for a passing moment.
Healing slowly, piece by piece.
Uncovering layer by layer.
Tear by tear.
One hour used to feel endless, now one hour feels like minutes.
Like meeting a friend, you felt you always knew. All the masks fall, no more camouflage, no more sabotage.
Just healing, growing and learning.
Too hyper.
Caffeine and nicotine, a constant cycle on repeat.
Fidgety, can't sit still. Can't sit still.
Not enough caffeine, not enough nicotine, not enough tattoos.
Can't stand the silence.
Listening to the waves' crashing to drown out the spiral of thoughts racing through my head.
Brain, a constant whirlwind of thoughts.
Maybe just one more drag of nicotine?
Maybe a little more caffeine?
Too hyper to sit still.
You’re trying to hang tough
But your ball is in the rough
Don’t throw a fit
Just think then hit
Forget all that pro stuff
Can't get you to understand.
I already know your kind.
You're really blind.
Maybe, a sign,
to you, will be given.
To make you change,
your way of living.
I'm through with always giving.
It's only your grave,
that you're digging.
The grief I feel is of another kind
Sweeter than holy water
A deeper breath than moorland air to find
The black of midnight, not—
Of monstrous seas, but—
Of restful night, donated cloak
From a kindly gentleman to wear
Wrapped in coolest starlight, safe
Astride a destrier — galloping to water
Molted feather — fortuitously found
New flight, gentle wind in gossamer sail.
Creeping tendrils — nettles wind around
Sentries of roses — silken petal rounds
Shower the lily casket — topped by pearly crown.
I know my grief is not the universal kind
But something softer than the norm
Welcome as a friend, I usher in my grief
And death, his brother, dressed in angel white
Scythe to call its sleepers — lowered in greeting bow.
Farewell, Annie
Newcomer to the under-realm.
With no card of sympathy
Or hearse to see you off
In lonely grief you leave your final hurt.
But, relief of death follows me, ebony puppy
Nipping at my heels, my little black dog
Helps my heart to heal.
Related Poems