A sonnet I don't actually hate from 2008. I really didn't mean for that to rhyme. I swear.
I am no God, no Raphael returned
To splatter out another chapel’s mask,
No desert king erecting stone to bask
In golden death, no storied martyr burned.
In my hands, stone to man was never turned,
Nor cities walled, nor did a hallowed cask
My blood contain. No artist begged the task
To rend’ my form, by me no trophies earned.
What of my name? Will it to dust as I
Am made, or be a footnote on a tomb?
Will pages pulped in dirt be my remain?
At least with gods I share one sympathy
For though in swifter course my relics’ doom,
In ages’ rough hands even stone will wane.
Just for fun, an incredibly emo poem from 2007. Bask in the glory of its angst!
Paint me an eternity
Of sorrow and desire,
Of eyes that drowned in salt and sweat,
And hearts that drank of fire,
And bitter wine that's lost its taste
From arsenic and gold,
And rope a'frayed 'round demon's necks
And needles wet with blood.
Paint me anger hot like stars
And twisted yellow fears
Dipped on a palette chill with greed
And silver-soaked by tears.
And add the oil skimmed from sin
Kept curdling in the mind
And turpentine from mem'ries lost
And joy from love divined.
Paint me fields of scarlet flesh
With silver bullet stars
Ringed by fatal lovers' kiss
And lonely souls afar,
And childhood hope ripped from its moors
And swallowed by disease,
And laughing secrets tucked away,
And lies borne on the breeze.
Paint me an eternity
Of darkness and despair.
Paint me beauty robbed by time
And silver-dusted hair.
Paint me passion driven mad
And dreamer's thoughts deprave.
Paint all the pain in bitt'rest strain
But paint me not the grave.
As long as we're going back in time (and in the history of my angsty therapy poetry), something I wrote in 2006...in Theology, I believe.
Is there solace in words?
Can they light a soul
Or mend a broken heart,
Or stem the flow of blood—
Cleanse the wound
Before it begins to smart
From the salt of time?
Can a rhyme reach into the depths of Hell
And pull from the flames that twisted corpse?
Can words its agony tell?
Can letters be the balm
For a fallen angel’s scar?
Can they mend the broken wings
Or collect the broken shards
Of a shattered star?
Is there any real comfort
In penning this despair—
In opening the blistered heart
To the prying eyes
And acid lips
That might read its sorrows there?
Is there any absolution
In these fickle bursts of breath?
Do they but herald the soul’s death?
Are words the savior, the saint,
The salve to cure Perdition’s taint,
Or are they but the remain
Of a spirit already lost—
A helpless wretch, in the fire tossed?
Do words any solace give,
Or are they merely shells,
That a dead soul might live?