My Soul is Tired
Sometimes the darkness can swallow you whole to where there's no end in sight. The soul struggles and fights praying to be guided to what's right, but the darkness over comes and the soul becomes numb to all the pain and suffering you've witnessed throughout your life. Your soul reads like a novel every page engraved of your struggles. You often re-read those pages to make sense of it all praying the ending will bring fire to your soul. The pain, the suffering, the good and bad had penetrated your soul by all you've had. Your soul can only observe so much suffering before tiredness sets in and there is no light only darkness within. The soul must sleep and write the end of the novel of your life from beginning to end.
broken souls and broken hearts,
the sleepless ones who look at torn stars,
the twinkling lights that blink afar,
city lights blurred with blinding cars,
are all befriended by the dreamless faces,
that look like lost and stolen art;
estranged glances and estranged words,
the sound of silence they've always heard,
fragrances of the night that are so absurd,
keep alive the sleepless ones who are lured,
by the dark and scary midnight,
when the sky bears no birds;
fluttering curtains and fluttering wind chimes,
the blazing noise that seeps in from the outside,
sleepless ones try their best to hide,
but Oh! It's already twilight,
the sun and moon sit beside,
while sleepless ones look at committed crimes;
a new dawn and a new day,
it has unwillingly arrived,
another night with no dreams,
another dark time where past screams,
when the moon hears no cries,
it means the sleepless ones have died.
Lost in love,
yet still in love.
Oh, my
I've tried more than enough.
So let the wind take me.
Let it carry what I cannot.
Let me flow
far from my worries,
somewhere
I am free.
honestly,
idk what im doing
im not a poet
nor a genius...
SIKE
LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL
Gotcha!!!!!!!!!
anyways
drumroll please.
...
...
hello?
y'know what?
forget the drumroll...
Fredrick Mitchell's brand new poem...
IDFK
i, don't know...
where to go.
i, forgot,
my way home.
i worked hard, and my brain is mush,
guess i'll black out and faint in a bush.
today was the last day 'til my quota.
my deadline is due,
to bring my poem to you!
i'm tired, and forgot
how to spell the word shew
the thing you put on your foot.
i found my way home,
using google maps
this stupid siri voice, is giving me the craps,
my day has been ruined,
and my day is soon end,
just listen to this voice
"turn down at the bend."
it thinks im driving,
im walking...
this deadpan poem
is getting boring.
and like an old man, im already snoring
i sleepily unlock my door...
and...
my key broke.
FOR FU-
...
ahem,
im too tired for this...
*beep, beep! beep, beep!*
"hey, Frank... can i go to your place. my key broke... again."
...
"yes, i know its the middle of the night."
...
"and i know your on a date."
...
"i've got a key to your house. bye!"
screw my life.
OF DRIED AND TIRED SEEDS
Having failed
To turn
Our vineyard
Into a graveyard
Of raisins in sun,
They now
Seek to pluck away,
Ripe black plums
To grave the soil
With wrinkled,
Laden prunes:-
(Guess
they
failed
the
watermeleon
lesson):
Earthly green;
Blood-red flesh;
Multiple black seeds:-
Indeed, we are
Children of
The Father
Of the sun
And the Son:
Fertilized
And energized
By the
Cosmic spirit–
Resurrecting
Generations
Of dried
And tried seeds–
Germinating
Liberated
Blooming
Freedom flowers
In the sun:
Bouqueting
Thanks
To the
Son:-
OF DRIED AND TIRED SEEDS
Having failed
To turn
Our vineyard
Into a graveyard
Of raisins in sun,
They now
Seek to pluck away,
Ripe black plums
To grave the soil
With wrinkled,
Laden prunes:-
(Guess
they
failed
the
watermeleon
lesson):
Earthly green;
Blood-red flesh;
Multiple black seeds:-
Indeed, we are
Children of
The Father
Of the sun
And the Son:
Fertilized
And energized
By the
Cosmic spirit–
Resurrecting
Generations
Of dried
And tried seeds–
Germinating
Liberated
Blooming
Freedom flowers
In the sun:
Bouqueting
Thanks
To the
Son:-
this actual poem,
that I am write.
finally, an actual poem,
during the day, during the night.
I write this poem,
start to end.
a proper poem,
my mind starts the bend.
as my quill runs out of ink,
I'm so tired, starting to sleep.
my eyes start to drag, I constantly blink.
the final full stop and then I sleep.
(did I really rhyme sleep with sleep, I'm a genius poet.)
With dimming moonlight ebbing slowly,
treading the path to lands deemed holy,
here walks a tired man, an aged pilgrim,
with his frail shadow following him.
He maunders on in search of that bed
where he can lay down his weary head,
and draw earthy sheets over tired eyes,
life's unbalanced sums thus totalise.
Return to nature with final act
what he took: no more, no less…exact.
Inspired by Issa Kabayski haiku poem "a bath when you`re born"
***********************************************************************************************************
warm hands hold new-born
first breath greets the humid air
water cleans the skin
last gasp turns to mist
cold water soothes the tired bones
heavy hearts find rest
in lifetime no heed
when deceased why wash the skin
can it cleanse the soul
A little star blinks in the night,
It watches over you to keep warm,
And gently whispers, "Go to
sleep."
Better if like other dad
Cause they know how to support
Maybe I am that bad
That everyone blames me for more
No knows what I go through
They think I am rebellious
But how am I suppose to tell them
I am definitely not doing well
Everyone have a perfect family
When will I have mine?
Tired of being compared
When will I have my
Perfect family and life?
My heart does ache.
My eyes would like to close a while;
bathe in dark lake
of mystic dreams and erstwhile
memories of images now opaque.
My tired soul
begs the keeper of the mind:
summon that golden oriole,
bid it fly to thoughts that I, purblind,
have sought but never recovered whole.
And in its beak
bring back from realms afar
the comfort I seek
from sacred leaf of deodar,
that trance-like visions I might eke.
O, soul be calm again,
Be-trembled frame be still.
O, heart your pulse restrain.
With bird-like impulse in weakness of will
it dips its steely beak into my vein.
Artist Annie Lee (1935-2014) “Blue Monday”
Sunken soul like setting sun
Inner child no longer smiles
Carmel like skin is no fun
Kissing hungry ribs all while
A wafting wind blows aroma in
Neighbors meals smell great
Decadent food not a sin
Tired of not having a taste
It’s a blessing bills are paid
Really appreciate that fact
Even if I won’t eat today
Do my best to not feel sad
A little brown bear yawned
and crawled into his cozy
cave to sleep.
Outside, the fluffy winter
snow began to fall gently
in the dark.
He curled up tight, dreaming
of sweet honey until the
spring returned.
Tired. Tired of writing my name on a page, a name I don't want, a name they call me to taunt.
I'm tired, tired of pretending, I want to cry and scream but no one listens to my pleas, I want to hit and yell but they just talk, like I'm a joke to tell.
I'm tired, tired of hiding, faking a laugh so they don't see me crying, tired of being lied to, like telling the truth would curse you.
I'm tired, tired of this pain, The razor cutting my skin as I drift away, blood seeping from my skin, my head starting to spin.
I'm tired, physically, mentally and emotionally. Tired of your games, the ones I'm forced to play, until you get bored and I'm left in one of your hoards.
I'm tired, tired of life, wishing to die but in the end...I just cry, cut and write goodbyes that won't happen until another lifetime.
I'm tired, tired of crying, lying on my unmade bed, hoping these tears are the last ones to be shed.
These demons in my head urging me to stop my breath, to hurry up to my death. I'm tired, so please let me rest.
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