The Fury of Sin

The Fury of Sin

I have seen, in the mist of reflection,

the depth of unknown possibilities.

The earth toned orbs with which I view the world

reveal a swift, patient beauty

that fears the detachment of memory and regret.

Such a sin breathes a sullied life

into this stretched and torn body;

a sin that defiles and wounds,

pushing forward pain

and allowing it to foam and cascade

out through these glossy marbles

as a waterfall over a mossy cliff.

An unkind word once bruised me,

forcing me into a deafening submission.

A wicked strike once raped me,

shaming my good name

and killing the hope that once flourished within;

a bold, full flower now wilted and corrupt.

With such sad anguish,

life has become a mere stain,

a blot of existence moving

neither forward nor back.

Time continues to erode the physical

but the mind remains untouched,

unfiltered by youthful experience

and the mercy of forgiveness.

This limbo claims my withered spirit

and makes me prisoner

in her damp cell of uncertainty.

To be a soldier and escape internal war

would make a ravished soul

worthy of redemption.

But with no weapons to fight

and no armor to soften the blow,

how can these eyes survive

the fury of sin?

December 11, 2011

Sylvia

I've written a poem about one of my greatest inspirations: Sylvia Plath. She was such an amazing poet and strong, troubled woman. Sometimes I think we suffer from the same inner demons and insecurities. I know I may never be as good of a poet as she was but I will still continue to try to express my feelings through pen and paper. Maybe one day I will inspire someone as much as she's inspired me. Here's to you, Sylvia.

Sylvia

Sylvia, you were there

right in the thick of life,

straining for an answer

and begging for a reason

as to the cruelty inflicted

by inhaling hope and

exhaling constant pain.

The talent was evident,

hidden deep below regret

of a career wasted; a dream covered

by the excrement of deceit.

With ample passion and a voice thick with truth,

you were destined for greatness, Sylvia.

The pride is clear in the cherub faces

of your orphaned children.

You hid your fearful secrets

underneath that yew tree,

carefully planting a massive seed

of doubt into the roots,

allowing the poison to seep through your psyche

and foul your waking dreams.

The risk of sanity blew against you once

but you knew better than to succumb.

That foreseeable, colorless road

would have enslaved you

and drowned you sooner than before.

I envy your descent, Sylvia.

You, a pioneer for bravery,

have made us all unworthy -

sad miscreants full of emptiness,

afraid to push down the blade

and sever the weakness coursing

through the traffic jam of veins

that keep the soul afloat.

The fear, hurt, and betrayal

are what defile and rape us

leaving nothing behind but

the stench of undue decay.

But Sylvia, you have inspired me.

Your power over the pen

and command of the poetic voice

have enraptured me,

seized my heart,

and fulfilled a manic need in me -

a need to express that same affliction

that haunted you for so long.

And perhaps my defeat

will be similarly death with

when it hollows out my essence

and leaves me reeking of exhaust,

molding with the leftover crumbs

littered on the kitchen floor.

December 1, 2011