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

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

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

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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.
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.

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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.

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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.

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On Souls

Cynical Wordsmith

I stopped writing
For a time.
Not because the thoughts,
The beautiful phrases
And failings,
Had stopped permeating my mind,
But because there was so little
Of my soul left to give
After the day in,
Day out drudgery.

It’s not that there was less,
But more that exhaustion
And emotional dilution
Built up barriers
And barred the baring
Of myself.

Certain people believe
Taking a photo of someone
Steals their soul,
But souls are much more often
Freely given,
In carefully chosen words
And subtle, engulfing gazes.

I can’t define a soul,
But I’m sure I have one,
Just as I have a consciousness
But I don’t know precisely
Where it comes from.

A bit of mine is here,
Myself, my soul.
You can’t control it,
You can’t change it.
You can only look on,
As if peering into an ocean,
And wonder silently
How profound,
How abysmal

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When It rains…

Love the last two things. I’m going to have another grandbaby!!

Cynical Wordsmith

I’m not gone
And I haven’t forgotten
But life has a tendency
To get in the way.

So far in 2020:
Black Lives Matter
Boss died from cancer
Buying a house
Wife’s pregnant

Who knew being 30
Would feel like carrying the world.

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The Drought’s End

Cynical Wordsmith

A storm comes
And the children wake
To the sounds
Of rain on tin
And thunder.

They run to a porch,
And watch the whirlwind
Whip endless waves of water
Onto fields and creek beds.

Their faces shine white
With each thunderous bolt
And their fear is only outweighed
By their awe.

They run to their father,
Soundless in bed,
A full ash tray and empty bottle
Adorn a dated night stand.

The thunder shakes the house
The children shake their father.
Sheets are quickly withdrawn,
And a new downpour starts.

Papers with stamps,
“Invoice” and “Past due”,
Are flung through the air
Sticking with crimson glue.

The ruffle and rumble cease,
And peace falls over the land.
A desperate sort of peace,
Which torments tiny hearts.

A man who couldn’t provide,
Provides a source of pain
And an endless downpour
Of needful innocent tears.

They both will grow,

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