Preludes of Insanity (A collection of Poems)

Here is a poem/story type thing I wrote. I wrote it after looking a picture of the cosmos, and then a picture of a foot upon a bed of gunshells in what looked like a third world country. It is, in all essence, a reflective upon the reduction of innocent people because of poverty to the drug trade.


Stardust

Stardust, an intangible substance, rumored to exist. Said to be left behind by a shooting star, as it streaked across our sky, falling gently to the ground. Something to be, treasured. A gift from the gods, or at least that was the previous definition, something that I once gleaned from a fairy tale. I opened my eyes, dark lids eking to reveal an iris of cobalt ringed by black, and gashed with white. They shimmered with a thick layer of liquid sadness, and I closed the lids once again. The liquid gathered into a single unit, and a tear formed, rolling down from the corner of my eye, to my softly rounded chin, leaving a gleaming path of saturation. I let it stay, undisturbed, a sigil of my defeat.

Stardust, a tangible substance with this new meaning, something that should not exist. Created in hidden factories, made by men filled with greed. They care not what destruction this product brings, or who it affects. I turn around in a circle, my gawky limbs swinging limply. I lift my dirt stained hands, trimmed nails buried under a thick layer of grime, I pressed them over my face. My body shudders with a dry sob, no sound issuing from my dry and cracked lips even as they open in an attempt to cry. I slowly sink to the ground, bare knees, covered with scabs and blackened by soot, meeting the coarse, dust covered stone ground.

Hundreds of bodies adorned the ground around me, wrapped in sheets, life snuffed out like so many cigars being ground into the ashtray, and then dropped. My country, had once been pure. My people, simple farmers. Now, all lay around me, shattered. Littered among the debris, among the snuffed cigars, was stardust. Not the thing of mist, but of the material world. Millions of dollars worth of drugs, were spilled over these bodies. I screamed, veins and tendons popping from my neck, dark skin flushed with rage, and self-hatred. I wildly scratch at my face, clawing down from my forehead to my neck, raising furrows of skin, which sprouted blossoms of blood.
It had happened sometime yesterday, a drug war. My people, man, woman and child, were slaughtered. The drug trade paid more than farming, but it had cost them things worth far much more than money. They lost their innocence, and they lost their lives. Because of this stardust, not at all like the fairy tales I had read, I had lost everything. I picked up a gun from the ground, wrapping my trailing digits around the cold iron hand fiercely, pointer finger resting gently on the trigger. I looked up into the sky, the moon was not there, even it had abandoned me. The dark sky, a blanket of black velvet, was speckled with the sparks of blue fire, like the diamonds I had received as a gift when I began this whole thing.

A star flew across the heavens, leaving behind it a glittering trail. For a second, I thought that it was falling toward the earth, a shower of sparkling magic to take away the taint I had given this land. But it was only my imagination, and the only thing that could cleanse this ground, was my own crimson blood. This stardust I had helped create, had brought nothing worthy of myth. Instead of becoming a legend to my people, my name would forever be damned. Eyelids shut tightly once again, dark lashes meshing together. The trigger, a cold prick under my finger before, now was welcoming. I pulled it, and the barrel rotated, one of the six bullets falling into place. The hammer came down upon the end of it, and the cold lead sped down through the chamber, were it barreled through my flesh and bone, lodging somewhere in my brain.

I collapsed unto the ground, my hand stained now in blood. A few seconds later, the thunk of some severed part of my head hitting the ground sounded. The crimson tide washed away the impurities of the land, and my people, and my folly plan to give them a better life. I died, all color washing out of my body, bowls emptying themself, my last breath joining the atmosphere. I wish, I would have kept my faith in myths, instead of trying to make one myself. Maybe all of this could have been avoided. Maybe my country, and my people, would still be pure.

Originally Posted by Alexome

I didn't really like any of them but from what I see and how much you're inspired it sounds like you are really inspired.

XD Wow.

Anyway, Marius, you sly fox, I just wanted to say I like a lot of what you've thrown onto your thread here. The poetry is fluid and rarely forced, if not a little at times, with a decent amount of depth for me to sink into. The last thing you wrote is a very passionate little story, and it takes skill to make people feel it the way that made me experience the ruined man, clenched in despair.

Oh thank you! =D

I usually just go with the flow, I haven't written any poetry in quite a while.. I wonder why. XD

*hug for Shade*

Neoconsensus

Emotion Trickles from me
Sweeping Hungrily like a ****ing fire
Consuming all of these ill put thoughts
And placing them back as some innate sick desire

I try to dance to my own ill wrought requiem
But the words stop, choke and live their own life
All that is created once again joins back the world from which I had wrought it
Let me return to the purity that was once unmoving and unthinking

Granite waves of passion thunder down
Slabs as thick and heavy as Atlas’ burden
The tiny tree at the top of the Wishing Well, roots diving deep into nourishment
Confucian dreams of tomorrow work against us all

I finally started writing poetry again. OH MY!

I, Awaken

I see through the shadows of doubt that surrounds me.
I feel weak.
I see through the intentions of people that surrounds me.
I feel powerless.
I see through the poetry of media that surrounds me.
I feel ostracized.

I embrace the shadows of doubt that surrounds me.
I am not weak.
I embrace the intentions of people that surrounds me.
I am not powerless.
I embrace the poetry of media that surrounds me.
I am not ostracized.

The shadows of doubt that surrounds me destruct as they touch my core.
I am strong.
The intentions of people that surrounds me warp to my own will.
I am powerful.
The poetry of media that surrounds me is erased by my companions.
I am universal.

Strings of power connect us all.
Underlying consciousness.
Underlying matter.

Infinite dark separating,
The gossamer strands.
Alone and ephemeral,
Yet they are connected.
This spider web of life.

Their blood, our regrets.
Their hate, born of our doubt.
Their darkness, birthed by our shadow.

Strings of power fill us with light,
Punctured by will.
Lifeblood of Earth and Sun,
Spill and Fill,
Cascading through our soul.

Yet the vein clots.
Anon the vein scars.

Afore the instrument pierces deeper.
Sliding back and forth,
Thinning the walls.

Dear mind.
Shaper of Reality.
Bring the Gods into me.

(This one, is about Channeling. O.O)