Some Scant Poetry: "Angst in Progress"

Tonight is the night
where dark souls seek light
and goodness, however slight,
wins through with great might

Tonight is the night
don't give up the fight
push through all the tripe
and we will be alright

Tonight is the night
ignore the strange bite
don't look at the sight
of your blood turning white

Tonight is the night
just imagine your flight
like a high-flying kite
Doesn't that just excite?

You are doomed

Eyes bleeding, memory ceding,
I wander my thoughts in search of truth.
It eludes me, tantalizes me,
beckons me to follow in it's wake.

I step away, seeking refuge ,
but those cruel stars only paint more fallacy.
Can I not see them as they are any longer?
Is my memory no longer mine own?

The curse of a writer is not lack of idea,
whimsical notions of plot and peril,
but the inability to stop dreaming.

I have created for so long,
written eons of ersatz lifetimes.
God is tired, worn, drained,
and yet he keeps on raising the dead.

Where is that child now,
the one so lost to his own recluse?
He is somewhere else,
lost to the changes.

Do I regret?
The decisive changes?
The ignorance of beauty? The beauty of ignorance?
I am what I am, nothing more, nothing greater.

A writer is a fickle creature,
one prey to the pokes and pricks of the world.
It withers my soul to think it,
but my soul may indeed be the price to be paid.

Shivering within my insanity,
the blood moon raising high and bright,
even within my darkest moments,
a story lays in wait.

Winter is slowly coming
summer’s heat fading away
fallen leaves turning old and gray
time standing still for a season

Thunder ferociously sounds
raging fires burn the eyes
leading the qualm into reddened skies
small creatures run for the hills

Sparks shorn off of steel
sanguine hope bleeds thin
as they fight through the grim
dark and musty earth rises

That dusty field now lay empty
save the lone cross dug deep
hope that those souls will sleep
forever in the arms of their maker

Men long gone from summer
fighting for the cause
no longer giving pause
to wonder in the revels of winter

These men of harsh climates
these soldiers of dark winter
first bleed and then splinter
never returning home

In the fields they linger
brothers in arms, they reside
in that war, forever to abide
by the laws of man given to hatred

That cross still stands firm
near that old, deadened tree
now forever paying the fee
for a country lost on it’s own

For when that day rises
when we are the ones
to repay what we’ve done
and absolution is no longer a trinket

Those winter soldiers will rise
escaping their doom
of perpetual gloom
and escape into the wild beyond

Not with a bang, but a whimper

Lord and High Master, hear my faint cry
else forever and tether just might have to die
the mystery draws near, whatever might lie
at the center of truth - the right or the sly

I plead you try, to breathe, stay alive
leave us alone? You must continue to strive
let loose the fear, the unholy sweet dive
take hold the power - the power of five

Save your dark soul, part your disease
take my snug life, if it were to please
those damnable thoughts, insurmountable fees
you have the power, yet where are the keys?

Seek out thine enemy, cleanse him of dirt
spread his blood thin, make his soul burnt
shackle his dreams, tarnish his worth
make him suffer for those he has hurt

Divine retribution, darkness unbound
he is the one with the darkly hell-hound
suffer his madness, his power profound
but then leave him dying, power unwound

Kill this foul creature, sickness perverse
put upon him this incurable curse
send him to darkness, icy strand's worst
then he'll be the one with ultimate pain versed

Save us, Lord Master, save us again
for you are the one with that ultimate pain
hear us, Lord Master, our pleas open and plain
don't leave us to dwindle in horror and shame

Power within and power without
only you can contain that almighty clout
spare us, oh Master, don't bring us about
to destiny's door, the path to self-doubt

Return to us now, oh Lord of Despair
don't let us wither in winter so mare
fight back the death, the poison, the dare
that you leave your short life in darkness' care

Pass on the title of Lord and Dark Master?
To one of us henchmen, who would be the new caster
of dark deeds of night, a dissolute pastor?
I fear the result - a pyre to burn faster

If you are to die, one of our own
then we might die with you, quick to condone
falling upon our own swords, quiet and alone
for only you, Master, can stand on that throne

The Sages of Despair lie at your feet
but do not be so fast, your title to bequeath
pick one of us, without weakness underneath
else we will fall, not but rotting dead meat

Call on the old ones, those long gone in slumber
call them to fight from their tombs long since plundered
the dark gods of power, those that which may sunder
the breath of the world, enemies then encumbered

Take us all with you, Lord of us all
don't walk alone, this path of the fall
infuse us with honor, strength to recall
what glorious deeds, the peasants you maul

Lead us to glory, for this day we die
Sages of Despair, children of thy apocalypse

-_-
I'm all for working hard, but this is going a bit far, dont you think?
or are you just incredibly bored/lonely?

The proper term is "catalyzed". I am a writer, Zeldace - it's what I do. Give me a step, and I will climb a mountain.

Hearts ways try to mend
cold creases that speak to the soul
heavens part ways for forgotten loves
as profound as a poet’s pen

Time erodes strength
even though memory remains firm
we are lost to this tide, forgotten
but that love shines brightly in dark times

The bonds of the heart
the wishes of old men and tired boys
course through our veins
like rants of the mad

We can see, can feel
we crumble at the call of parting ways
we bear strength to the world
but our battered souls are sundered, unfailingly

This sad love, this saying of goodbyes
the humanity of the coming twilight
desperate fingers cling to the past
not wanting to let go of life

Those left behind and those that leave
should not be so petty to forget
those tender hearts beating in unison
those precious moments, those few lives lived

A receding love is a dire rage
a patient fury that consumes once born
to cling to yet another is to cling to one’s self
tragedy building upon woe

Love that one, hold them near
for the day will come when they are no more
and you, also, shall face that grade with open eyes
and the stronger you will become

Never failing, never faltering
true hearts bleed ever so slowly
slow to evolve, slow to deny
triumph over death needs naught but a soul

But soul does not come lightly
nor does death’s despairing sheaves
a soul is created, is born
from the fickleness of heart

Fear not to love another
dare not to deny your heart
hope not for base desires
care not for the ending of the times

Pass on, give yourself freely
let the eons fade and burgeon once again
welcome sweet sleep with open heart and soul
and find your way home

As sure as dark winter takes it's sway
a soul's sweet breath is sure to fade
an infinity of stars, to strange eons we pray
visiting this world for naught but a day

And in this darkness, in clever guise
taking up the cup, a hero will rise
will fight the end, for those that have died
and set things right; a savior, a guide

To take us along, to take us to Eden
from horrors that breed like damnable heathens
to part us from death, save us from needing
this simple crude matter, this intolerable feeling

Victorious dead, friends long since passed
speak to us from beyond, from that horrible past
they plead for our souls, in vile darkness cast
praying we make it through this villainy vast

So our hero stands firm, with powers in hand
ready to pave the way to this once fabled land
of life and sweet freedom, of deliverance to be had
though he must stay behind, must fight while he can

For there is no Eden for him, no solace in rest
fight and fight on, he must do his best
to rid this universe of evil, of debauchery confessed
to find the dark servant, in holy deeds dressed

His words cloaked in just and divine writ
believable lies that threaten to split
the threads of existence, life; all of it
but our hero goes on, unable to quit

Ferocious yet mild, the last of his kind
he risks his own life for what he must find
the key to his life, his purpose, his mind
and in his strong hands rests the fate of mankind

A champion of humanity, of strength so profound
he will fight back and conquer those darkly hell hounds
save us he will, and send us Valhalla bound
but stay behind he must, to safeguard the mount

The City of Gods, the Temple of Light
the last bastion left for which he will fight
send us to Eden, oh Master of Might
spare us from this eternity of withering dark night

And remain in our hearts as the one who gave all
leaving no one behind, not even those that will fall
deliver us from evil, save us from the call
of despairing sheaves, of Hel's torturous hall

And pass on into memory, into our souls
as a part of ourselves, a part of the foals
so we may fulfill destiny, accept our new roles
as children of the storm, of the deathly barrows

AWOL Alistair Acorn was once lost in the woods
he asked for some directions from dark men with big hoods
driving in the dark to safety, they soon became friends
but drove off bridge cause the turn was blind around the bend

Brash Bobby Baker, his tongue without rules
went to the fair, looking for fun, and prodded at some mules
he soon got a stick to poke them, himself the class clown
and poked one so hard that it sat down on his squishy crown

Crying Carolyn Camper, of beauty most profound
thought herself to be ugly, thought herself a hound
She went up to the kitchen and grabbed a long knife
but accidently fell down the stairs and onto a rusty pipe

Demented Danny Dillswitch loved to burn stuff
every third Thursday of the month, he’d light things in the buff
pouring gasoline all over, making him laugh and shudder
he loved the bright flames to the end, but was chopped up by his brother

Entertainer Emily Erickson loved to dance in the nude
loved to drink and party and hang with all the dudes
but she offended a gangster, one with a thick rope
he sent her to her momma, down a slippery slope

Fatty Frederic Fredricson loved the white snow
upon his black skis everyone knew that he was king of the show
trekking the back-trails, an avalanche he once started
coming out from it’s lair, the abominable snowman was the reason he parted

Gullible Garry Gladstone, a daredevil of sport
hung out with bad people, some of a detestable sort
they dared him to jump through spinning knives with motorcycle ablaze
he fell into a turbine and was collected for seven days

Honorable Harry Hackswith cheated on all of his tests
he had all the brains, all the smarts, but was lazy nonetheless
he got all through high school and college this bad way
but was shot by a beggar in the streets who wanted all his pay

Jilted Jerika Jackson loved to tease all the boys
she crushed them and left them broken like cheap weekend toys
until she met sweet, gentle Steve, a man whom she deeply loved
but after he left her for Adam, she hung herself from above

Killer Kerry Kaliber was a wrestler of great strength
who loved all the fame and fortune, loved it at great length
He leapt from the ring with chair in hand, attacking at his foe
but fell just short, on his head, and made a great ending to his show

Little Lenny Libel, who’s speed was of luck
ran into the busy street, his fate a garbage truck
mother always told him that on sidewalks he should stay
instead he reached for the stars in a smelly, gruesome display

Marred Maddie Morrison was fond of the dark arts
she read the black bible over and over, especially all it’s grim parts
she pierced herself all over her body, and wanted to again sin
so she went for a drive late at night and was later found in a garbage bin

Nasty Natalie Nimmersbeat was a devil on roller skates
one fine day she took her slim chances with one of the fates
skating down the freeway, stylish iPod in her grip
she fell in front of the adjacent train, trying to do a flip

Opulent Oscar Olympus was a celebrity of fine film
but was also an accomplished sculptor with a massive iron kiln
he endlessly toiled day and night, perfecting his fine craft
but then he fell into a well, and then he got the shaft

Penniless Penny Pentleton searched for drugs galore
she even once bought some pills behind the abandoned grocery store
she took them home and hid them away, too scared to even try
she died an old lady, in her bed, a hot poker in her eye

Quarrelsome Quincy Quippersome liked to brag and boast
of all the ladies he had conquered, of all the visited coasts
he went upon an airplane to a land strange and distant
and was gored by an elephant in naught but a violent, terrible instant

Rowdy Ricky Rickets loved to watch all kinds of sports
If the game had a ball, he would be there at the courts
he went to a game, without a shirt, dyed blue from head to toe
and suffocated from the paint, his new colors yet to show

Sad Sarah Simpleton, innocent and sweet
wished for a fine prince to one day sweep her off her feet
playing by herself, alone, in the old woodcutter’s shop
she danced upon the chipper machine, danced until she dropped

Troubled Tommy Tibbs, looking for cheap thrills
payed off the school bully with a handful of green bills
to hang him upside down, over a steep cliff
but he had just greased his hair and soon lost his grip

Undulating Ursula Unger loved to eat fast food
more so than her children, she ate and ate for mood
gaining super, massive weight, she thought herself content
but fell through the floor and sadly drowned in the just-poured wet cement

Vorpal Victor Vagabond was a master at crafting writ
he’d write all day and through the night, surviving on only spit
his stories were great, sold abroad, but came with heavy price
he fell asleep, at his desk, and was eaten alive by mice

Wacky Walter Widow hated to go to school
he run away, without consent, and play in the neighbors pool
swimming one day, all alone, he reveled in being unwatched
he got a cramp in his leg, but later died of chicken pox

Xeroxing Xander Xargon was master of the printer
He’d fill it up, keep it clean, and constantly adjust the tincture
till one day, fabled from old, another techie was hired
the building burned with all inside, and Xander was truly fired

Yawning Yysabella Yeltsin was a foreigner from afar
she was bored with life, to the point that she stole a rich man’s car
driving away from the police with speeds unrivaled by most
she hit the brakes when her tires popped, but couldn’t miss the post

Zoned-out Zachary Zilch drank way too much caffeine
and when it subsequently failed, his mind would droop and lean
he tried once to break away, to become free of the vicious drug
but before he won, he lost a sum to a loan shark and his thug

Of blood and bone, mind and spirit, grace-infantile
human is we, doomed to die in unspoken guile
make your choices, feed the dark beast, you sorry ne'er-do-well
make one faint slip to your death, and then your off to hell!

Cold winter’s chill
sets into our bones
We weep for those lost,
those beneath the narrow rows

Time-worn crosses,
evenly placed in quintessence,
give little solace
to those that remain

We look to those souls,
those who gave their all,
surrendering their flesh
so we might remember

We bury our mistakes,
in hopes they would fade,
but in the cold, uncaring earth,
they speak even more profoundly

Mercilessly spared, we linger
to recount this tale of strife,
of legends in the mist,
of heroes unsung, untold

“To the grave us all” was sworn,
but that was not meant to be
Some stayed, some parted,
leaving faith questioned

Why do we survive?
Luck, damnation;
I am but a guesser
in the dusty fields of clay

What little grace remains for the dead,
wreathed in white roses,
will soon be forgotten
But not by I

Those linear strips of enshrined mortality,
written cleanly to account
for all those sins, all those triumphs;
the vanguard of a people

Kismet draws near,
etched upon withering stone
Hold fast, children of the earth
You are not forlorn, nor are you lost

Forever here, together, we shall stay
beneath the narrow rows
of white and stone;
wreathed flowers of hope

Forever sleeping in the arms
of our mother, our creator
Not such a sad end after all,
to find your place among the stars

Dreary rain clouds patter inside
forceful gusts expel debris
deep compression scatters the mind
and mine eyes can no longer see

Bones ache with tired regret
lungs corrode and tongue is numb
the pen drizzles in feisty globules
speech comes with a cost

Balance wanes as the battle wages
pills, elixirs; cheap imitations of hope
collapse is imminent
the threshold is breached

Amber liquor helps no more
fleeting away as sanity ebbs
sleep comes not, though exhaustion permeates
I sit here, listless, without meaning or cause

I give way to ire and malcontent
unleashing damnation upon the stars for my pain
for a brief moment of safety
the world is forfeit

Flushing skin burns with heat
nothing helps, nothing cares
for with brief rewind of time
I, too, cared not

Teeth grind as eyes cinch
vile mixtures painting with flawed mortality
in this age of reason, of enlightenment
we still have nothing

Wind-blown flakes begin to descend
The first snow on the cusp of dark winter
Nature’s fury brings one life to an end
A youth, a lost child left to suffer

Snow turns to sleet, and then onto rain
Floods escape from the heavens
At least it was quick, with little pain
Freezing to death; what a notion

I spy that lost cause, that one who did fail
Eyes simply closed; death upon concrete
Was it the wind? The rain? The violent hail?
I would not know; Death’s not so neat

He does not pick endings for you or I
He does not paint pictures of sickle and scythe
He only comes once, comes to reclaim
That one lingering breath, before it gets away

I wish I could know how it came to this
How one so high fell so low
Adding another corpse to the list
Another grim memory to sow

I feel for the beast, and yet it is dead
Without warmth in it’s breast, it’s motionless
I curse the dark skies, mine anger is fed
Why take this young one, mortality-confessed?

I should clear it away before the spring thaw
Else natural horrors will pervade
The cycle of life, death, and the maw;
Thoughts that parents forbade

I stare at it’s face, broken and lifeless
My gut starts to churn, I feel somewhat childish
Afraid of a death, though touch me it has not
I fear the inescapable; oh, what will it wrought

A dying people we are, sent to the gallows
Every day we ebb, ever growing more shallow
I hope I have time, to finish what I have started
I hope I have strength, when it’s my turn to be parted

Graying trees stretch forth
From the brumous mist,
Esoteric to their own flesh
And unaged silence.

Solitary giants, breathing as one;
Shedding their children.
Red and orange protuberances
Dance and swoon to the cold earth.

Chill carries on the wind;
Time's sand rubs coarse.
Long-forgotten footsteps
Now filled with fiery layers.

Ghosts wander these halls,
Memories of ages passed.
Wheels and metal;
Left to return to the mother.

The universe wastes nothing.
Fallen men restored to the earth
Now become the trees, graying and timeless,
Reaching upward to meet their maker.

Tears of gold and lignin fade
as Sister Winter dances.
The trees shed and shiver,
left to stand alone and endure.

The Golden Goddess beams downward,
Smiling upon her wayward children,
Giving them life anew
To witness the coming of the ages.

For nothing is to truly die,
Nothing left to fade in summer.
But is rather transformed, released
To live on, immortal, forever a part of his bearer.

Soldiers of fortune,
Soldiers of winter,
left to sleep the undying breadth,
Beneath the trees of gray and silver.

Cold is the floor this morn
calloused to my naked skin
cracks in the marble indent the flesh
as the blood-sun hides in a brumous sky

Mine eyes are moist and dreary
worn thin with the toil of drudging sleep
weary have been my dreams of late
filled with monsters; mirrors of weight

I pray they leave me be
these children of the creeping night
though mine prayers now fall upon the marble
ignorant and gelid to the touch

Mirrors of my sanity line these four walls
each broken, shattered by mine own hand
skewing reality upon my face
teaching color to creatures without eyes

You try to mend the crackled mirror
picking up the pieces of life askew
but as you fret, you cut yourself
and your image changes with it

In the end you reinvent yourself
each night a death and birth anew
from the womb of maddening desire
you enter forth, forever changed

Never again will that rider come
the man clad in black leaves and torrents
for that person of yesterday is no more
and all that’s left is you; the night terror

That tiny scrollbar is quite daunting. You're very prolific.

You know it Poetry is my lazy day work - it's easy, artsy, and generally entertaining. You can tell the story of an entire people in just a few scant lines, if you're good at it. Beautiful it can be, beyond measure.

I admire you for that. Writer's block loves to cling onto me and thus, I'm very inactive and vice versa.

I'll probably have enough time to read most of these poems after I come home from school tomorrow. Until then, arrivederci. ; )

Edit: I didn't realize that there was so much to read! Oh well, I picked out some of the poems I really enjoyed, like "Seventh Son." For one, it rhymed. XD I like the story it seems to tell, the story of one unfortunate man's tango with sanity.
"Penitent" was also enjoyable (to me) because of the self-righteous and denial elements. But that's just me and my weird tastes.
Sadly, I have trouble figuring out some of the symbolism, since I'm a person who likes to have everything spelled out for her. If you could enlighten me a little bit on any of the poems I mention, that would be wonderful.
"'Twill be Darkness" was another favorite of mine.

Echoes of laughter, romping through blind eternity

That line just gives a strange feeling, a feeling I get when I listen to the music playing in the background of the Forest Temple. Your ability to evoke certain emotions in the reader (me) is stunning.

Unto the very destruction of the stars, I would have followed you.

Unto the very threat of death, I would have saved you.

Unto the very pain of heart, I would have loved you.

Beautiful. Such loyalty... It's described very well so that I know the magnitude of it.
I also loved how you ended it, and my mind connected the end with the title (though I'm unsure if that was what you intended).

'Twill be darkness...but I'm not afraid anymore.

Anyways...enough of my long babble/rant, magnificent job! Though, I think the title of this topic is incorrect. These poems are far from "scant." I'll be watching this topic for more, ciao~!

Symbolism...what a word. The things that drive my writing, that inspire my poetic verse, are sometimes difficult to ascertain. They are there, haunting, shadowing, influencing my every keystroke, but as to where they come from? There are things that even I do not know. Music does play a big part in what I do, as I will put on certain tracks to compound my own emotional prose, so your attachment of the Forest Temple music was actually rather astounding; I believe I was listening to Setu Firestorm's Zelda fanworks when I wrote that one.

In retrospect, I now find it funny, the hidden meanings within my own words. Intent now seems so distant, so...chaotic. As these lines age, they seem to grow, to have deeper and fuller meaning for me. Some of the early ones were just arrangements of pretty words, ones I thought felt right, but now I feel myself mature enough to appreciate them even further.

Though I can tell you this, in that many of the works are written from the point of view of certain characters in my novel: The Golden Box. "The Seventh Son" was written in regards to the main antagonist, who is entrapped within the throes of his own demise, while some other poems were merely inspired by the character's being, or the romantic ideals that they were intended to portray. I do not know what brings it on, what speaks to me and tells me to write things such as these, but I feel I am the better for it.

"Penitent" was written after a certain scene in the game Mass Effect was witnessed. Very seldom does a video game compel me to write, though that one was so powerful, so damn unfair, that I could not deny it. To this day it still gnaws at me, makes my teeth clench in ire, though I suppose that means it was done properly.

I thank you, Alure_Illusion, for your in-depth patronage. It is always a pleasure to know that someone actually reads your work, and not just passes by it.

I'm the same way; I write what feels right, rather than replacing words for other words to tell a story.

Music does play a big part in what I do, as I will put on certain tracks to compound my own emotional prose, so your attachment of the Forest Temple music was actually rather astounding; I believe I was listening to Setu Firestorm's Zelda fanworks when I wrote that one.

Music always helps set the mood...at least in my case, and yours, too. As I said before, your ability to evoke certain emotions in me is stunning.

Oh? You're writing a novel? Are you going to publish it? The life of the antagonist sounds quite tragic. : (
Many of my works are inspired by video games and anime. XD But it's great for you that you can find inspiration in a variety of sources.

I thank you, Alure_Illusion, for your in-depth patronage. It is always a pleasure to know that someone actually reads your work, and not just passes by it.

No problem, some of your poems may be lengthy, but they are most definitely worth sitting down and soaking up.

Lengthy? And here I am, paranoid that they are too short!

As for the novel, yes the tale of the antagonist is quite tragic. Well, come to think of it, many aspects of the plot lie upon the fringe of tragedy and despair for the characters. I have this strange propensity toward such things. I suppose I wish to portray the best sides coming from the worst situations, or rather the ability of the human spirit to cope, surmount, and endure, even without the relief of success. It is unpleasant at times, and on occasion I will not write for days in light of a decision made, but I would not wish it to be any other way.

Publication is indeed my goal...as soon as I can get it finished. It is a little over half written at this point in the rough draft, so it is moving along, albeit at a snail's pace. Well, at least to my own perception. Having only come thus far, my respect for accomplished authors has grown tremendously. Such a monumental task, writing a full-length novel, but one that sows so many rewards. Even if it does not succeed in the world of printed literature, I am sure, beyond any doubt, that it will be one of the greatest accomplishments of my adolescent days. And who knows? Perhaps something greater is being built here, even if it be but a state of mind.

Cheers, and thank you again!

-DB