Poems

Chaos of Change

He looks too young to understand, 

too many wonders and awes fill his eyes,

far too privileged to begin to comprehend my words, 

He looks at me with the delusion of similarity.

He sees my emotions as play things, 

not as warning,

not something to be frightened,

but only as something to be studied. 

To him, I am but an idea,

I am an example, not the chaos of change.

I have carved a way up, 

with my own hands, mine alone.

And he sits up here congratulating me,

as if I have won a medal for my bravery.

As if fighting for the people I founded is unexpected.

As if fighting against a horrible way is a surprise.

He looks at me as if I am a spectacle, 

he doesn’t seem to understand. 

I do not require him, 

but he sustains himself with me. 

For his ideas are mine told again.

He looks at me expectantly.

Does he expect me to applaud him?

For his hard worked words are my leached meanings.

He distorts them revoltingly.

He is a parasite, while I am the foundation.

I do not blame him, he doesn’t known better,

I blame the place that raised him.

For he is only the product,

the product that holds a vise me,

while I cross chaos he wouldn’t dare to join.

For I am the chaos he so dearly needs to change.

A Writer’s Adventurer

The old writer’s quill had gone dry,

He told himself not to cry,

For old things tend to go, 

Even for people wielding bows.

Withered armor gleaming in the casket,

Damp eyes trying to mask it,

Old paper left to tell tales of arrowed adventures,

But instead forced to tell ventured kin.

Letters left to say that she finally dead, 

The old writer was filled with dread,

He best friend gone,

He could only be withdrawn.

Her dangered tales filled his bar stories,

For she always hated the glory,

She always told of his exaggerations,

Making sure they all knew of his collaboration.

For she never worked alone, 

Even if the short writer was not shown,

They worked together,

They made the other better.

One without the other,

Never to find another,

She left,

Only to leave him bereft.

Old Warriors

Clicking of joints, 

Silver hand searching for disappointment,

Many battles had won, 

The work had only begun.

For old warriors never speak of dreams and hopes.

Words kept quiet and sterile,

So no thought could go feral.

Quiet hums come close to letting them escape,

But allowed lips to reshape.

For hopes are never given word,

Because people begin to stir.

They extinguish it with a simple “that will not do”,

Crushing any idea to pursue.

For old warriors do not whisper their wants,

Only to feel what daunts,

Words are to easy too crush, 

So please do not rush.

For dreams and hope are too precious,

They do not want you to turn reddish.

Words are too forceful,

They don’t want you to feel remorseful.

Words push too much,

Replace speech with actions and touch.