A brief prelude: pain, in truth, is a non-existent thing...and I suppose the fact that we feel it points either to our forgetting of our existence or to our obsession with affirming the unreal, or both...at any rate, sometimes it's good to just get it out there in one form or another...and this was my "getting it out there" poem when around my upper teens to early twenties, i think...but i send this now because i haven't really quite released my pain and it crops up here and there with a good enough strength to take me partially, if not fully, out of my day; to take me out of fully enjoying the joy in the day...and so i wrote and i write and i share of me, or at least who i perceive is me, or a part of me...honestly, if i were to let go of my pain this poem would probably be a non-issue and wouldn't have had to be written at all in the first place...but perhaps there's something to be said for creative expression, in all its forms...especially, if someone could relate on a similar level so that we both could ponder long enough not to dwell but to examine pains origin, our origin, so that we could be honest enough and then brave enough to let the pain go, so that we Know, that all that remains is freedom itself...in love with you all, mike:
How shall I speak of my pain?
It runs through my being as a great flood crushing all in its path
It is deeper than the deepest of oceans
Stronger than the strength of a thousand men
It deadens my senses to the day
Rendering me sightless before the light
Deaf before the song of a bird
Numb to the touch of my beloved
How shall I express in words that which makes me want to cry?
To know the secrets of my tears perchance one need question the day unto the secrets of the night
I would let you touch the pain in my tears but they have long since dried
Leaving my heart an empty well residing in an empty being
I am caught between facing reality and escaping in a dream
Between standing erect before my soul and losing my self in its shadow
And I would not even speak of love
For this is a creature I wish not understand
It holds me to the sun
Wiping me free of cares and fears
Only to laugh at my honesty and clothe my nakedness
And though it may not be pleasant on the ear
How shall I speak of that which makes my want to die?
Am I a river longing for its greater home, the sea?
A bird too fearful to learn how to fly?
Or mayhap just a boy who is tired and would rather laugh than cry?