Looking at trees
that line the drive
while long in perdition
my heart it cries
Enclosed in its wounds
her visage it lies
the inside is dead
not but skin left alive
Am I the same
a husk that still strives
pretending to live
as slowly it dies?
I’m looking at trees
for the end each supplies
for the time to arrive
I was not sure whether to publish this poem, due to the dark nature of the content. It was finished April 12th, 2013 at 6:15 PM ET in the Cleary University parking lot. It came out, as is, after a difficult day and a long, emotionally exhausting ride home.
During the drive I was “looking at trees” on the side of the road. Looking at them in much the same way as I had done so many times before, as an out, an end. This time it was different. I am no longer depressed. No longer looking for the end of this life. But I felt that this time, as I revisited those memories and felt those feelings, I would express it, get it out.
I have found that if you talk, or write, about something that hurts or scares you, things you fear or are ashamed of, you are able to move past them. In this case, I have.
I will not look at trees in the same way as I had before. But I have peace, knowing that I have left that chapter of life behind me and moved on to a place where I have hope.
Let not the darkness consume you,
nor live in a world without hope.
For trying to live such as they do,
will leave you to suffer alone.
Though their masks may hide for a season,
the pain that they all feel inside.
Look closer and you’ll see the reason.
The mask is a symbol of pride.
So judge not yourself by their standards.
In doing so, surely you’ll fail.
Though they wear the mask of a braggart,
the face just beneath has gone pale.
Our fear and pride keep us hidden,
down deep so that no one’s aware.
The darkness is found in our secrets,
those we’re unwilling to share.
So look to the people not wearing a mask,
those freed by His glorious light.
For they know that hope is the answer,
to the burden of darkness inside.
The hour has come for the mask to remove.
Let it fall there to the ground.
When you do His mercy will prove,
that in Him is where you are found.
Let us begin to write with colour.
Measuring beats with the stroke of a pen.
Not all are meant to share with another,
but help us recall lost moments again.
‘Tis through this creation, ourselves we discover.
Not having been lost, yet here we are found.
As one with the words, like passionate lovers.
In meticulous glory our hearts tightly bound.
In pursuit of true beauty, let us not tire.
Carefully crafting beginning to end.
Unveiling our frailty, exposed to the fire.
More of us shared with each lyric penned
We all have scars
that tell their tales
of times we hurt
and those we failed.
We do our best
to hide them all,
yet gain some more
each time we fall.
Our life it seems
is rife with pain.
Will I catch myself
as I fall again?
I can only hope
as I go down,
I don’t remain
there on the ground,
but get back up
to start again,
with a caring hand
from a faithful friend.
We all are broken
not one untouched.
I am no different
I have my crutch.
You see it there
it does not hide,
like all the scars
so deep inside.
So when at me
you choose to look,
don’t judge the cover
but read the book.
Perhaps you’ll see
I’m just like you,
because you know
you’re broken too.
Swirling, twisting, turning thoughts,
where life and imagined meet.
Long forgotten graveyard plots,
and grass beneath my feet.
Making sense of what I’ve seen,
one links to another.
Simple truths that I have gleaned,
memories I had smothered.
Fanciful beasts, they dance around,
like sprites inside my head.
Contrasting those beneath the ground,
held tight by words long dead.
Images come and then are gone,
that’s when I come to find.
They’re simply ghosts residing long,
in the graveyard of my mind.