Your Poetry Dot Com

To all the broken poets with fractured hearts,
So beautiful is your sadness,
So rich, the cultivated, sophisticated, pain.
The pieces
Cultured over the years,
the sediments
of lost love, and self doubt,
lost ambition,
bodily afflictions, mental addiction,
religious and political conviction,
philosophical contradictions,
spiritual abolition, financial restrictions,
artistic recognition and
not to mention…
sexual inhibitions.
that bind together, their own gravity
pulling them towards each other,
tighter and tighter,
and as they calcify, they only aspire to be with each other,
and like a diamond they get harder,
and harder to carry,
until they eventually collapse under their own density,
creating a black hole ,
a void in the soul,
And the sadness
only becomes stronger with
each
passing
day.

My loves contention for what it has lost,
escapes through
insomniac dreams,
lost somewhere between
intellect and emotion.
Between the realms of reason and faith.
How can I lose feeling after
so
much
pain?
Preacher tells me to keep it real.
Jesus heals ,
but only the saved.
but if I can’t feel than I must not be real,
So how can you heal something that doesn’t exist?
And how can you save what’s already lost?
Uncle Sam said he wants me,
Land of the free, home of the brave,
unless you’re an Indian, a woman or slave.
They gave you freedom, and they take it away.
The same freedom that countless soldiers took to their graves.
For the illusion of losing something that
they gave.
How can you lose your freedom,
when you’re already a slave?

I’m tired of the confusion of this world,
Tired of being a part of the lie.
Tired of trying so hard to live, when I know I’m just going to die.
Tired of asking myself,
“why, oh why?”
I’m tired of feeling this way.
I’m tired of not feeling that way.
I’m tired of feeling my way through life because I’m blind
to the ways of mankind.
I’m tired of my scattered mind,
I think I’m going insane.
I cry out for God to help me,
But I cry in vain.
If you don’t believe in God,
then that’s a God damn shame.
Maybe He is the bane of all that it means to be humane.
Who else is to blame for the endless prophets and teachers,
Martyrs and preachers, and the multitudes of innocent creatures
that were slain in His name.
And maybe God is a concept by which we measure our pain.
The facts don’t change
I need Him in my life just the same.

So listen close to all this I am saying.
Go over the lines again and again.
All this to the poet who stares desperately at a blank page,
All this to the poet who, in his heart is a sage,
And realizes that living in freedom,
Means just living in a bigger cage,
And the only thing there is to look forward to,
Is the coming of age.
And over time churns a storm, enormous in spirit,
verbal thunder born to all those who hear it.
So they read what’s been written
And write what’s been said,
And they will belong to their lives
Long after they’re dead.
The poets who delightfully gave us their view,
into the insightful darkness, so beautiful,
they knew.

Thank You!

This poem is Copyright ยฉ Cannabiskilla