Angel's Poetry

 

 

The Labyrinth

 

Death is the foreplay to heaven,

And life an anti-climatic tragedy,

Spent in tearful hells and fetal positions.

But then again, why shouldn’t it be?

Birth is introduction to a purgatory,

Where broken dreams like phantoms haunt,

When you realize happiness is a simple plan,

Contingent on getting everything you want.

Every heartache you’ll ever feel,

Every struggle that you’ll ever lose,

Makes you independent and inter-dependent,

On what path you next will choose.

So you build yourself a labyrinth,

From each defeat and victory,

A maze of mortal madness,

From which you can never be free,

And every brick inside was formed,

From your own negativity.

Death is the foreplay to Heaven.

But then again, why shouldn’t it be?

 

 

Reflections Of Soul

 

I am you,

And you are me.

I am who you train me to be.

How ever you treat me on this sacred day,

Expect me to react in that same way!

If you can not respect yourself,

Do you expect I can as well?

If you see your stranger in some one’s mood,

Never let it bother you,

For in the end these words ring true…

You are me,

And I am you.

 

 

Left Behind

(Editor’s Choice Award – Library of Congress 97)

 

Kiss good-bye soft lullabies,

It brings gentle sleep no more,

And pray away those teary eyes,

For Daddy’s gone to war,

Cease this silent suffering,

Of restless soul in wait,

For none have filled my lonely arms,

Since war took you away…

Last night, I heard your mother cry,

In tears no one could see,

“My only son,

Put down your gun,

And come home… safe…to me”

And Christmas goes and comes again,

And I long still to be near you…

And I shall find no solace in…

The fact you died a hero.

 

 

 

Graven Images

 

We widdle away our flesh with fears,

Carving our stone hearts into idols,

We bare our undead crosses,

And pray our inaudible recitals.

We bow low before the phantoms,

Of our unaccomplished hopes and dreams,

But life’s clock winds to a stop,

And regrets turn quickly into screams!

Things undone, left still undone,

So like blackened addercrops do crawl,

And spinning webs of things left unsaid,

Scratch our guilty portraits on the walls.

Death is but the threshold,

A realm were misery lays exposed,

On the other side we shudder to find,

That we were the only ghosts!

 

 

 

Portraits

 

He took those old memories,

Packed them neatly away,

Left his kid and his house,

In that recess of gray,

That tears out a heart,

That eats a man’s soul,

That unravels the mind,

And devours the whole.

And who are you to judge me?

She let her whole life,

Creep out in the twist,

Of a razor’s corsage,

Pinned neat at the wrists,

Suicide’s ugly,

Life is unfair,

But you didn’t know her,

So what do you care?

And who are you to judge me?

He took a life,

And too late he wished,

To erase the knife,

And the drug-induced bliss.

So easy to be,

Holier than thou,

Difficult to see,

The why, when and how.

And who are you to judge me?

She’s painted and cheap,

With no face and no name,

Another red-light prodigy,

They’re always the same.

Five mouths to feed,

In an infested flat,

One more on the way,

Life’s funny like that.

And who are you to judge me?

Look down upon them,

And see where you stand,

Under their feet,

Beneath their command,

In that recess of gray,

That eats a man’s soul,

Unravels the mind,

And devours the whole,

And who am I to judge you?

 

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