Taxes

Cynical Wordsmith

I don’t know
Where this fatigue comes from.
Is it the food I eat,
Or the air I breathe,
Or the lack of sleep,
Or simple exhaustion?
Maybe it’s the things I hear,
The people I talk to,
The books I read,
The places I go.

I feel like an IRS agent,
With all the taxes
On my system.
But I can’t quit my job,
I just have to hope
For a promotion,
For something better.

View original post

Bear With Me

Cynical Wordsmith

I’m not the man
That I used to be.
You were my stability
When I was unstable.
Two roles
We never conciously accepted.
And now,
I’m learning to depend,
To rely,
On myself.
I’ve not replaced you,
I’ve not overtaken what’s yours.
I want to be one half of a whole,
Not an entire burden.
Please, I beg you,
Bear with me,
And I’ll learn to be yours
All over again.
And maybe,
Just maybe,
We’ll live and love happily
After all.

View original post

All Aboard

Cynical Wordsmith

Love is a train
That too many people miss.
Endless connections,
Infinite passengers,
Mountains of trash and baggage,
Wake up, get on,
Get off.
The dead are outside,
Thrown freely to the tracks.
And when the loop finishes
We can admire their decay.
Love is a train
Where you can sit with someone.
Holding hands,
Staring intently
As the neighboring compartment burns
And the cliff draws ever closer.
Love is a train
I’ve ridden too much,
But because I see her,
Looking off, out the window,
I think I’ll buy a ticket
To eternity.

View original post

On Stories

Cynical Wordsmith

I write poetry mostly.
Feelings and thoughts,
Days I’ve lived,
Questions and conclusions.

But I have stories,
Some short, some long,
All impactful,
All with a personal touch.
But before you ask,
No,
I haven’t written them.
They exist solely for me.
I need to write soon.
They’ve been circling,
Eyeing my thoughts
Like vultures,
Picking at the tastiest morsels
Making themselves stronger.
I have volition
For the time being,
But I’m lying in a desert
Growing weaker,
Watching them
Watch me.

Some day soon,
I’ll nock my pen
And kill
These bastard buzzards.
Until that time,
I’ll keep my eyes up,
And pen my own feelings
Lest I feel no more.

View original post

Re:

Cynical Wordsmith

There are rules.
They’ve kept me alive,
They’ve kept me sane,
And I don’t remember
How I ingrained them so
Remarkably.

They were specific,
Meant to protect everyone,
Myself included.
Dire consequences
Require
Drastic measures.

But I can’t see for my fingers
At the path laid ahead of me,
And rains wash away
The notes etched on my arms.
Lost is a four letter word,
And here we are, again,
Searching cobblestones
Searching for anything,
Really.

I try and think of what’s changed,
But I’m rarely honest with myself,
So I’ll probably never figure it out.
Maybe only children are malleable.
Maybe I’ll figure it out in a couple years.
Maybe I’m just stuck on
Repeat.

View original post

Sleep Talking

Cynical Wordsmith

All alone,
Am I home?
I feel like I’m lost
In a place no one goes.
Fire’s out,
Full of doubt,
I wish I were blind
For the darkness is so deep.
Undecided,
Well confided,
Bearing the burdens of many,
But my hatred, no one knows.
Silent words
Go unheard
For the dead always lie,
Ever talking in their sleep.

View original post

The Beauty

Such a sad poem

Cynical Wordsmith

A dead man walks
By a river of blood
And his reflection appears
Full of Life.

A pale moon shines
On a young, pallid face
And the blinded can’t see
The Beauty.

A night goes by
Silent, but pensive,
And it’s deafening ears
With anticipation.

We were here, you know,
Hidden away from the world,
And you left me
Alone and hurt.

Tomorrow’s a new day,
But I won’t know it.
Tomorrow’s your new day,
And you carry my hopes.

View original post

Appearances

Cynical Wordsmith

Some say
Lips may shimmer
As roses or sunsets,
As flames or fruit.
I’ve seen every shade.
I’ve seen the natural hues
And the smeared lipstick
And the blinding gloss.
Some say
Hair may flow
As golden locks or darkest night,
As Autumnal fire or fairest auburn.
I’ve seen every shade.
I’ve seen the barren strands
And the roots at the base
And forced crops and curls.
Some say
Eyes may pierce
As oceans or sparkling stars,
As deep and inviting sirens.
I’ve seen every shade.
I’ve seen the vacant stares
And the hungry gazes
And the tired, worn out trances.

But I say
Love lives,
And it’s not found
In appearances.

View original post