Psyke.org

Richard

The poetry on Psyke.org helped me get through many dark times, so I think it is my duty to post my own, to help others.

A Tortured Soul

Copyright, Richard

My head aches with the pain of realisation,
I am trapped.
What you think is you,
Is just a vessel.
It matters not.
For it is but a cocoon,
A passing phase.
Your body is animated meat,
The soul is the individual,
The essence,
The everlasting,
The real You!
And my soul hates its body,
My consciousness wishes to destroy it,
Oblivion and continuation.
From Cocoon to Butterfly,
From Human to Soul.
The eyes are the windows of the soul,
And mine are flooded,
Tears of misery,
My eyes reveal the pain of a tortured soul,
Trapped and confined in a mass of flesh and blood.
Blood is the life force of the body,
I wish to drain it.
I wish to rip into my chest,
And tare myself free of my tomb,
Life is a struggle that is true,
But the struggle to be free is the real struggle of man.
People have fought for it only to have hollow victory,
Because war is a catalyst for the truest freedom of all,
Death.
Many people can’t feel the claustrophobia of the spirit,
Or they choose to ignore it,
But I feel it and engage it,
Committing suicide is the only way to get out,
I can only hope success follows this.

Angst

Copyright, Richard

Sitting on this beach alone
I watch the waxing, waning waters
Look out to the dark clouds
That seem to fold the sky in two
Creasing the horizon into a void of black

So now I watch the sun full rise
Not like the moon, who’s crescent shape
Seemed like a scythe in the sky
Cutting down huge swathes of souls
I think of it all
The rise and fall of every sun
The grown and ungrown shoots
Swirling galaxies, swooping spheres
The distance of time and light
As if they both were intertwined
Like lovers in the night

I think of death, and life
And much more morbid topics still
The span of my palm
As I cut it in two
Like the sky is folded
Blood is life
And life is hell

I Imagine

Copyright, Richard

I imagine my heart is open
For the world to see
I watch it quietly
Watch it palpitating wearily
And now I think on ‘Hope’
Imprisoned in a rib-barred tomb
He sings sometimes
His song a tender warble
His tears making damp
The cold stone floor
So within my drowsy chest
Coated with the red wax seal of wine
Hope is to be kept
Fluttering from time-to-time
Like a butterfly in my stomach
Making me unwell as punishment
Because there were no farewells
No gentle uttered goodbyes
The echo of sorry
Left taunt on my lips
Caught there
Held for some long while
Now I look to my reddening eyes
In the black cracked blemished mirror
Steamed up with my breath
Wiped with a smear from my cut palm
I ache
What else is there to know?

 

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