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Best Poems Written by Samuel Lee

Below are the all-time best Samuel Lee poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

Sing, Goddess

Sing, O Goddess, of my petulant wrath.
That which I’ve failed to address for so long.
Speak and guide my hand to express
The words of extremity needed to voice:

Passions of violent nature performed.
I have such strange verses to bare.
My hands are quaking with unrealized strokes
Of genius that may yet flow forth from I

My tongue is wet with wanton wanting,
Breathing, believing in all I deplore.
I forefront this painstaking proclamation
With pretenses of seduction and sweet
Manipulation.  I hope you get my meaning.

I have strained and sullied my own name
To achieve a stage of pure expression.
I pray to the goddess of art and music
That she may pluck my strings as her
Kithara, her disclosure, her discord.

Perhaps this line will liberate me.
I could stop this senseless seduction
Of myself to share my mind in this message
Of either vindication or virulent codependency,
With either pretense my name is upon
The dotted line, cosigning this dissent.

It matters not where my influence lay.
Who listens, and who may do as I say.
My only concern I to briefly appeal
To some vague aesthetic ideal that I feel.

And I think it may be important.
Because I feel it.  And it is so alive.

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

To You, Crocodile

The river dragon of crimson streams
Swiftly swimming to bring my end
As I’m standing alone at the silent shore
The beast from this murk suddenly ascends.
Gripping my face in her flawless jaws
The teeth latched efficiently into flesh
Pulling me quickly into the depths
Dragging me into the shallow grave.
Surrounded in filth, drowning in the banks
The apex predator’s grip never relenting
All I can do is break, bleed and decompose
Hoping for some relief in the pending death.
I find some comfort in this prolonged pain,
Because I haven’t felt a thing in ages.

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

Sonnet - Midwestern Lethargy

I am deprived of my old sweet relief,
Turning the page but turn to the leaf.
I spill out myself to sanction some space
To which I can return, try to compensate.
Contemplate and complicate my own design
I find this a fate to which I cannot resign.
Soaking in the petrichor of each night,
Of every solemnly forsaken fight.
Each decision and each disappointment
So boldly displayed in my temperament.
I need this safety net below me always to move
Even one step forward toward what I pursue,
Simple answers and the life good enough
Hoping life itself does not call my bluff.

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

The West Is Burning

Glory goes to they who blaze
Their own trail upon the west.
They will be, if nothing else, remembered.
Their morality ambiguous
Scruples questionable.
At best, an antihero to be scoffed at and spit upon.
In fear of the fiends in the tall grass
They are burning every acre of the field.
The children search for the bodies
Of their parents for approval
To praise their newfound freedom.
Free from being dumb and useless.
Fleshless carrion bakes in the noon sun.
There are footprints in the ashes
Inhaled into our lungs, all due
To the sick remorseless reasoning
Of one sick individual.
Do we blame the match? 
Or the flame it started?
Or the grass that lit
Too easily ablaze;
Or the fingers that clinched
The matchstick 
As it dragged across
The red phosphorous
And the powdered glass;
Or the eyes that beheld
The light of the flame
Before it was thrown 
Upon the scenery;
Who can we blame?
Rhetoric is useless
Language is a luxury
Vocabulary grows best in a vacuum.
Land is only valuable
To those who walk upon it.
We must realize how truly insignificant
We are to the vast expanse
Of the landscape beneath our feet.
Footprints disappear.
We can burn the farms and prairies
But we cannot pretend that we
Will outlast this dirt, outlive
This earth, or understand this universe.
It is all but a blaze and then a blur.

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

Sonnet - of Knives

They say that success is a sharpened blade,
And I whet mine each day so carefully.
In the steel my reflection ever ablaze
My eyes glint with blunt functionality.
Slicing precisely—a delicate process
of practiced strokes sliding back and forth 
each gesticulation into the pith causes
the blood to gush under the traumatic blunt force
and to splatter upon—ever so faint
the bleached cutting board, collecting the bloodstains
and the inscriptions of countless knife strokes.  
Relics of the grind—the daily rituals—
—Wherein I often lose myself, and become like this blade
 more and more dull with each passing day.

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

Sonnet - To Punk

Punk is not dead. It was never alive.
We stitched it together from mangled parts
with contents we poured from inconstant hearts
in our basements during bleak nights.
Finding in art the best ways to survive
a world beyond our vague comprehension.
Some wounds will never taste restoration,
some demons may never be exorcised.
We crafted this monster with filthy surmise,
with minds obsessing on rebellion.
Eyes that deny beauty in convention,
and hands craving vengeance and patricide.
With all of our collective contentions,
this lifeless cadaver is galvanized.

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

Lines - On the Amorphous and Malleable Nature of Gender

He has found himself much happier
In a life which no longer dictates
That he must be “himself”.  She would rather
Go by a more feminine name, and I know 
How much more comfortable she is in her
Newfound skin, the one that happened to have
Always been there.  And in every movement,
As she swirls around her girlfriend, like a storm;
The woman who has accepted without question
Every stage of the transformation of her boyfriend
Into her current girlfriend.  The idea of gender
Suddenly does not matter to her.  To either
Of them.  Because, I know what happiness
Looks like, and this love looks exactly like
My very own, the only kind I’ve known.
Because, I also know how often the children of
My generation have found themselves in
Defiance of their parents’ preoccupation
With providing their kin with a better life
A life on their terms of decency and familiarity.
I find we are all much happier
Providing our own definitions
Studying nature as it develops, naturally,
And finding happiness on our own terms
And based upon our own definitions.

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

Waiting For Dusk

The sun has become the source of such anguish
I wish it would obscure itself behind the clouds
I long to see that lively flame extinguished.

It is always there. I feel it burn through my pride.  
Reveals the ugly features I am trying to hide.
The sun has become the source of such anguish.

The mocking star that rises in morning
Overstaying its welcome long into the evening.
I long to see that blinding flame extinguished.

The fervent day borne in moistened malaise 
Swelling over my sweating skin.  Lately,
The sun has become the source of such anguish.

I dream of blackening the sky that holds it afloat
Snuff out that light with no hesitation.
I long to see that joyful flame extinguished.

I sit alone with paranoia, beyond its stare, 
The shades drawn—hiding my face from the glare 
Of the sun that has become the source of such anguish.
I long to see that flame extinguished.

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

Sea of Trees

They are silently screaming under the canopy
Of the hundreds of branches breathing aloud
Baying for the sky, the sea of trees
Beneath their veil lingers not a sound
Nor earthly remains of a thousand spite
Suicides—who may yet wander west
Through these woods, without respite,
Step after step in purgatorial debt
To the trees which they tainted with broken necks
And minds numbed in narcotic delight
As their veins became too polluted and wretched
And left themselves to decay in the daylight
Aokigahara, mother of permissive relief
	May your black trees shroud their endless grief.

Details | Samuel Lee Poem

Ode To Painkillers

Slow released relief from powder coated tablets.
To an ache which seems to never go away.
When I’m fighting to survive each hour, each day
I will take whatever comfort I can salvage.
My veins once rich with vital fluids
My skin once not so deathly in complexion
The recipient of my fixation
Turned inward on what I’m consuming.
For a few moments of brief relief
I’m condemned to greater sufferings.
There is a line you should not cross, and I
Have recklessly passed it countless times.
For what little anguish I have staved
Away, I have matched in dirt for my grave