On Hooks

Cynical Wordsmith

The title, or first line,
The picture, or font,
There must be a drawing in.
Giving the reader
One last breath
Before changing their life
Forever.
Your bait can tell us
Who you’re fishing for,
With words and tags
For which readers hunt.
But the strength and size
Of your glistening hook
Tells us how big
You dare to dream.

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Write Me a Letter

Cynical Wordsmith

I don’t hear that well.
Not in the sense that
I’m hard of hearing,
Which is true,
To a degree,
But more in the sense
That I hear people say
What they don’t mean
Or mean what they don’t say
And it’s hard
To hear
Truth
When it’s buried
In a vocal cacophony.

I don’t hear well
Because people
Don’t make the correct sounds,
The right noises,
For me to understand
What they mean.

Say it to me
Again
And again
And it still sounds the same.
And I don’t mean to appear
Closed off, but
You still sound the same
As the first time you yelled at me
And I don’t understand
How to unhear
What rage sounds like
In your voice.

Just write me a letter,
Please,
So I don’t have to second guess
Your body language
Or feel put on the spot
Or struggle to find words

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Death and Taxes

Cynical Wordsmith

Mind the times
They tell me.
I do,
But I don’t.

I am eternal
And least likely
To question the normative,
The everlasting emptiness.

We know the kind I am,
Disbarred and depleted,
Like so many kinsman,
So many thoughtful prophets.

We’re all alone,
In life and death,
And I’m just making do
While paying dues.

I need a benefactor
For a destitute soul,
But the endless voids
Are so hard to fill.

Please,
Help
Me
Thrive.

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House of Cards

Thankfully, this is an old poem. I’m curious to see his new poems now that he’s a dad. 🙂

Cynical Wordsmith

If life is a game
And I, a player,
Wouldn’t I know the rules?
Wouldn’t the goal be defined?
This isn’t fun anymore.
This doesn’t feel fun anymore.
The chance and folly,
The stacked deck and two faced coins,
They’re laughing,
Laughing
At the house of cards I’ve built.
The wind rests
Every day and night,
But your breath is heavy
And acrid.

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Feeling Down

Cynical Wordsmith

The depths of human emotion
Are endless.
Lurking in the shadows
Or shining in the light
They exist in all kinds,
All combinations,
Waiting to be felt.

There are moments in life
When each are called.
Sometimes expected,
Sometimes unwelcome,
Fickle minds as their masters,
With idealistic whispers
Or animalistic roars.

We reach and feel down,
Deep into those depths,
Grasping desperately
For that which is needed.
Despair and courage,
Hatred and Love,
All those things
That live within us.

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Globalization

Cynical Wordsmith

There’s a certain numbness
That accompanies globalization.
The worst of the worst
Get the highest ratings.
We can’t look away.
We can’t refuse.
The sadness and misery
Are on an endless loop.
“Well, at least,” They say,
“We’re better off than them.”
So the tragedy is lost
To the annals of Twitter.

There is a larger distance
Between the screen and one’s self
Than simply that space
Filled with unnatural light.

The children we’ve left live on,
Societies still exist in denial,
Both never learning,
Both never remembering,
Until that same darkness
Comes once again.

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Of Men

Cynical Wordsmith

Inanimate bloodstains,
Dust in the tears’ of men.
Weeping willows shade the truth.
Come,
Come again,
Where fields of Love lay
Barren.
Still these wandering eyes,
Still this beating heart.
Fires of passion,
Dear,
Dead,
In the languid souls of men.
Of men, we wonder.
Of men, we scoff.
Of men, we take.
Till only Death remains.

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