As my first poetry post, I will share some of my ancient sonnets, written around the time I was first revealed to Shakespeare in my high school English courses. Please, enjoy…
Now violet skies transform from faded yellow,
And your perfect pitch becomes a violent screech.
Tears alone can’t water your golden meadow,
And love is not meant to disrupt your sleep.
I still can hear each pitch through all this noise,
Each one hitting like a symbol in my head.
You can’t claim by the screams the sound is destroyed.
Because in my head it will never be dead.
So come closer now, as all these sounds increase.
And whisper in my ear songs we used to sing.
I’ll sing you those songs, your heart again I’ll cease.
Those chimes we had created will finally ring.
Once more my bass and your treble will combine,
And you’ll sing I’m yours, and I’ll swear you’re mine.
Say philosophers can just exaggerate,
Claim that to realists hope is invisible.
Believe that optimists only overrate.
While pessimistic despair is invincible.
Argue every case, and label every soul.
Show us sympathy but urge us to tell more.
See data to a theory. Fire to coal,
Try to invade our minds just as if a tour.
Hold my hand but only to examine it,
Perhaps play some tricks to see how I react.
What do the results mean, and where may I fit?
Categorize based on assumptious ‘facts’.
But just like there’s one you, there’s only one me.
And no one is ever what they seem to be.
Invade my mind, just like you could before.
And I’ll hide my tears if you want me to.
Guide me off the cliff just to push me more.
Away to the edge where I always lose.
The old me has died, thanks to what he heard.
But by guidance you can resurrect him.
Then once he returns contradict your words.
You attack again but my light won’t dim.
I will guide myself between the extremes.
Without venturing too close to the edge.
Following you only hurt my self esteem.
I need to conjure thoughts within my head.
Stay by my side if you support my choice,
Or differ in thought with a quiet voice.
Grasped hands pull at what we believe we want.
But can only grasp what we think we can.
Try to sort right from wrong while questions haunt.
Every feeling like a blade of a fan.
Confuse, hurt, joy; roll past with each minute.
Yet some say this is pain you choose.
Like salt to a wound, flesh to a bullet,
I have trapped my mind, where it’s doomed to loose.
Away from return, yet far from retreat.
Physically here, but still mentally gone.
Seeing through pressure while trying to reach.
Deciding what is best, and what is wrong,
Still without knowing which is right and true.
I only know this: I hate hurting you.
I’ve learned expression can be contagious.
It’s a beautiful sickness with one cure.
Best when the severity’s outrageous,
Because only then is the art most pure.
When it’s something of pain, so sad and dark,
The cure will be harder to discover.
But when it’s art all you’ll need is a spark.
And something beautiful you’ll uncover.
For all the best stories are tragedies,
The pain is so real and relatable.
The plots present the same analogy,
Human despair is unavoidable.
The best way to cope is just to express.
Once we realize we share the same mess.