The Midnight Forest

Cynical Wordsmith

The midnight forest
Holds many wonders.
Bizarre creations, happenstance beauty,
A history, a peace,
That warmth in the air,
The sounds and stillness,
The spirits and solitude.
Black earth crumbles in my open palm
And I’ve been gone for far too long.

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The Saddest Seas

Cynical Wordsmith

To those who suffer
From despressive states:
I know your base existence.
I share your mental predispositions.

It’s not a constant sadness,
At least not at first.
It’s a cancer,
A living, growing thing.
It feeds off of moments
And it’s not the host’s fault.
There are treatments,
Drugs, and therapy,
But there is no cure,
Just a gentle staving off.
You sail the seas of life,
With natural highs,
Natural lows,
And a plethora of whirlpools.
You start at the brim,
And the winds of fate
Gently push you
In.
The downward spiral begins,
The light seems further away.
Hope slips
And the struggle intensifies.
With water on all sides
You forget how the surface appears,
And all you know
Is the darkest depths.

It will swallow you,
If you let it.
The sea will still flow
As if you never were.
But there is always hope,
Even with…

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Deleterious:

Cynical Wordsmith

Adjective-
Harmful,
Often in a subtle
Or unexpected way.

The light flashed behind me,
And made your tears shine brighter.
They gently traced your cheeks,
As my fingers once did.
Standing here, like this,
Was never my intention.

We had stood in the ocean once,
On mountain peaks and roof tops,
On trolley cars and dance floors.
We had stood by an altar.
With the warmest embraces,
Through the darkest places,
We had stood; and
We stayed
Together.

But there had never been,
Nor ever again would be,
A storm on our horizon
Quite like this.
They said not to worry,
They said we were safe.

They lied.

I take you in my arms,
And hold you close to my heart.
An abrupt realization unsettles me.
This is the end of our time
Together.

The atomic blast
Washes over us,
And we face
This deleterious beast,
Together.

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The Dichotomy of the Imagination

Cynical Wordsmith

When describing a sunset,
The term “red” comes to mind.
But this term alone
Doesn’t capture the sky,
It doesn’t narrow down the shade
Or the vastness,
So I pick familiar words
To bring the reader in close:
Crimson, vermillion, cherry, or
Expansive, encompassing, all-embracing.

We continue expanding, until
I’ve got a rouge, ruby sky
Blended with amber and straw hues
The clouds drift by
Like blades of golden grass with the wind
The piercing sun shines light
On everything we see
And the dark shadows grow longer, preparing for the night.

We’ve got our scene, but here’s my issue:
Do your sunsets have clouds?
Did I just limit your imagination with my imagination?
Or did I just bring something to the forefront
That you hadn’t even noticed?
My imagination is my daemon
Because it is my creative best friend
And my restrictive worst enemy
And it does drive me…

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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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