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Arthur Stansen Poem
Imagine a boy whose heart you've broken.
Picture him there, crying, sulking.
Hands grasped around those fatal tokens.
That you had left, much like him, broken.
Now listen to his dying monologue.
For these words shall never again be spoken.
"It was here on this bed I lay,
Where you said all you need to say,
As you packed nearly all your things and ran away.
Leaving me there alone, that tragic day.
Left me kicking, screaming, crying, in a fray.
You left me in this never ending state of dismay,
When you left me that way.
Preaching to a newly understood god,
'Someday!
Someday soon!
Someday Maybe!
I don't know, just someday'
What more is there for me to say besides someday?
For you could not sooth this wounded beast at bay.
By simply saying,
'I will stay,
End this foolish disarray,
And continue that cold harpening music that we had once played.
Just to save you from sudden decay.
Someday I'll be your forever.
Someday never!
Someday-'
'Stop! Stop! Stop!'
I'll say. And,
'Would you do me one last favor please?
Before you come return for these last few things and leave,
Kick me while I'm on my knees,
Deny every last one of my final pleas,
And rip my heart from about your sleeve.
Would you do me one last favor please,
And grant this wish,
For a have scaffold through many a dark abyss
Of my sub conscious,
But still have gone a miss,
In search of that fatal kiss.
A kiss I had once wished to share with you.'
What more is there for me to do,
For you to do,
For us to do.
We are now dead!'
Just as he is dead.
Stuck in his own head,
Because of the words that you had left unsaid,
The love that you had left unfed.
He is now dead,
In his own head.
Copyright © Arthur Stansen | Year Posted 2013
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Arthur Stansen Poem
If my soul is to be contained,
Within the binding in which this book is bound,
Then I would accept this fate.
For although within my soul,
Strength and goodness may be found,
I would always rather hate.
But, when it is between these pages,
That my heart is destined to be drowned,
Then this acceptance shall abate.
For my heart has left something in this world,
Something yet to be found,
It has yet to find it's mate.
If my heart,
Is to burst,
When cast upon it,
Loves first curse,
At least I've died a happy man.
Yet, when my soul
Is riddled to rot,
Finding not,
That which I have always sought,
Then I shall too rot,
My bitter plan.
One's heart n' soul is but his constraint.
For in good session, oh the magnificent colors they will paint.
Yet, when our hearts and souls begin to faint,
Their tales shall tell of goodness's taint.
Oh us, and our internal constraints.
Copyright © Arthur Stansen | Year Posted 2013
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Details |
Arthur Stansen Poem
"Distance," she cries, with her natural complexion held.
Seemingly still, yet she's silently weeping tears.
Speaking with caution she began her tale. She telled,
"Thousands do separate weak and unworthy fools.
Here I sit glad to say 'Together we have gelled.'
Once again, distance falls freezing the fields too soon.
Miles do hold us, but together we will dwell."
Seizing his moment, the boy replied so gently,
"I love you."
Copyright © Arthur Stansen | Year Posted 2013
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