I'm a second year university student in Manchester. I don't really fit the 'poet' archetype, but then again I never really have been classifiable. I spend too much time working, too much time writing and too much time playing music. I guess it's because I never learned the meaning of 'slow-down'. I have more scars than I wish I did, but sometimes I feel like there aren't enough. My poetry is the only insight that I ever give into how my mind works and what I feel. I'm not a pro, and I don't have a vast repertoire but I love the feeling that I get when I write.
My poems are really meant to be heard but if you're clever enough you can get the idea... Driving Past Perdition By Gildae I close my eyes and try to see, But the thoughts swimming in my mind won’t appear, Won’t disappear. I feel bound, weighted down, But I’ve already shed my skin, bathed in my sins; I’ve stepped out of every dream by writing it down, Absolved myself of self-inflicted guilt, Washed my hands of the whole bloody mess. I’m now but a vessel, a pitcher waiting to be filled. So I’m sitting in my car, revving the engine, Tyres clinging to the road, the whole world braced for the fall, I throw it in gear and floor it, And if the passengers look out the window to the right, They’d see Perdition. But I’m blowing past it. The torment of nine circles is but a taste, A sip of spoilt and bitter milk that precludes the nausea, I cannot face those nightmares again. The signs of life dwindle and as the tension presses in, I press on, Losing wings faster than inhibitions, losing anchors, breaking mirrors, Still I drive alone, burning up the bone-paved streets of the Rue de Chagrin, Because who am I if I am not myself? Still these thoughts dance briefly on the stage of my mind, Flitting in and out, pulsing like the walls As I explain Durkheim’s musings to an empty room. Still the words I read hold less meaning, The words I write carry no currency, Do nothing to appease the fallen king. Not even my dreams are cathartic anymore. What have I become? So I’m blaring past Perdition, Stereo volume tending to infinity, My forehead on the horn, Racing to a place that I do not know, But cynicism assures me that it’s not somewhere I want to be. My vision is blurry; my eyes might have cataracts, Or it might be because I painted them black so no one could see. My tears are the same colour as the neon lights that lead the way, They, blessedly unaware that most narcissists are self-hating, Unaware that people who alienate ruthlessly are just looking for the one who can’t be. Now, friction slows my car to a halt; I get out and push, The way is littered with those who have failed and are now eager for company. Still, I must not fear, must not forget my purpose. My errand is urgent. A star has gotten lost in the shadow of itself, And if I am the only one that knows, who else can care? So I’m flying past Perdition, hitting hell and beyond, Hoping; hoping, dreaming, wishing, praying that I’m not too late. But hope and faith are intertwined, and past Perdition neither can help me. No Name By Gildae I meet a man who is lost in the woods. He’s been lost ever since he forgot What the word home means. His eyes are onyx And he has hair that seems to go on forever. It drags behind him like a veil, radiating darkness, Caught in it are things that are from the places he walked in before. As he moves toward me, A path clears on the forest floor That passersby will be too afraid to walk in later, So instead they’ll go around for miles, into more difficult terrain. In his raven net he has the leaves of twin Autumns’ sighs, Sweat from Summer’s heated touch, And scattered snowflakes from Winter’s kiss goodbye. He has never seen the spring. A small cat is tangled as well, Doomed to play with false yarn until death comes, Most likely when the milk and berries That fall off the man’s soul run out. His footsteps are heavy and come in fixed intervals, Though he wears no shoes his feet make a clear sound As they strike the dirt. Thud, thud, thud, thud, Like the beating of a heart, Filled to the bursting with joy. His breathing is shallow. He inhales dreams and exhales fog, Clouding his own vision. He can speak in tongues Even though he doesn’t have one, And find silver nuggets in the dirt That were not there before he started looking. He opens boulders like doors With his fists, Then picks up the pieces and uses them to build peace, Which magnetically draws quiet, So that he can use the two of them to make a shirt Whose colour I cannot discern, But it reminds me of the sheets that lined my brother’s crib And the mugs of chocolate That I make myself when nobody’s looking. He wears mystery like a hat, One that is too big for his head, And in his teeth are the bones of the things he ate to survive. He listens to the whispers of the spirit of the forest. He feels the emotions of the trees that he passes As though they were a blanket. One that he might wrap around himself, Like a lover’s arms, While he sleeps under the eyes of tigers. While he dreams of clear blue skies and gentle rains That enrapture his spirit. And though he always has company, He sometimes feels lonely, And even a bit hungry, But his hunger cannot be satisfied, Save through memory. When he gets bored he fights bears, And when he wins he uses their hands as salad forks, Only he doesn’t really like salad. He stirs freedom into his morning mug of river water And drinks it until it pours out of his tanned and dirty skin, Cleansing. He finds that words aren’t really needed anymore, That some things are better left unsaid. So when he raises his hand in greeting, I find that I do not know the answer. He has no name and cannot remember why. I find that that he and I have a lot in common.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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