Ramblings

[gloomyMoron]

I may or may not post past poems posthaste or construct current conscious currents into compositions. Congruity; a premium. Coherence; dubious. Creativity; debatable.

Anyway, the following never got posted anywhere and was written for/in a group therapy session almost 5 years ago. I figured I might as well transition it from an old notebook to the everlasting maw that is the internet. It never had a name before now, just a date.

Wilting​

Wilting;
Wounded worried words wonder.
Whether weather withholding
Wonderous wild worthiness.

Or:​

Resounding emptiness;
Nestled in nooks and nothingness,
Of heart and mind: Resilience.

Small rooms; large thoughts —
No room; life halts —
Mountains of minutia,
Maddening memories of dubious

Heartstrings​

Chaos
Carefully contained in coronations of;
Disgust, self-hate. Defeatist foundations shove
Self.

Withered wilted wonders within,
Resounding recriminations reemerge;
Maddening memories maul and maim.
Chaos churns, crushes, consumes.

But yet I still persist
— Why?

---

 

[gloomyMoron]

Two very old Haiku and a Senry.

The Moon (Haiku)

The Moon in the sky,
Free and ever floating.
Comes to me again.

The Stars (Haiku)

The Stars so faint,
The Stars glowing bright.
Cold in the night.

Emotions (Senyru)

Emotions instilled,
Into your soul and being.
Shown from dual orbs.

---

I realized I didn't really leave room (or ask) for comments, critiques, suggestions, or submissions. Feel free. This is mostly just a threat (Edit: This is a typo, it's supposed to say thread... but I'm leaving it. I'm threating to ramble at you all!) to ramble and post errant thoughts in (or out) of poetic form.

 

[gloomyMoron]

Love isn't Blind, Its Deaf​

Love isn't blind, as people say,
It's deaf, from what I heard today.
Deaf to all those who cry out in pain;
All those who wander lost in the rain.

Love is deaf to those who suffer in its name,
Love is death without the glory or fame.
Death and Love its all the same,
Because of those that take it falsely in name.

People die for Love by there own hands,
And yet no one truly understands.
It's all pointless in the end:
Neither Love; nor Hate; nor any preference; can mend.

Mend the hearts of those in pain
From the simple word: Love; which, in itself, is vain.
Only a few words caused more grief and pain but good poetry,
Such words are: War; Death; Loss; Poverty.

Love maybe blind, as people say,
But it's also deaf, from what I heard today.
Deaf to all those who cry out; in agony and pain,
All those who wander lost in cold, dark rain.

---

Another old poem (that I tweaked very minorly and fixed a few "its/it's" problems). Also... bluuuhhh. That forced 'rhyme' between Poetry and Poverty and simple AABB rhyme scheme. I wonder if I could rewrite this to be better but, at the same time, leaving it as it was is probably purer to the sentiment from which it was written.