On Home - a poem by William Bethea
On home and dusty objects:
Scatterings, prayers and junctions.
The wind, alone, restless persists,
Guiding sky water
Feeds emotional tricklings,
Flows from wounded height
To the vast, loyal, wanton ocean.
This is Your GiftAll that you love shall be taken from you.
As punishment, all your attachments will be destroyed.
You will be continually tempted with all that you want and that you cannot keep.
You will be given no actual choice; all your choices will be mere delusion.
You will torture your own mind and twist your own perceptions in an overwhelming effort to avert your attention from the simple truth that all existence is suffering.
You are expected to perpetually succor your tortured mind with images of illusionary happiness until the moment of your inevitable sacrifice.
This is consciousness; this is your gift; this is your punishment for daring to exist.
The Ruins - Part IThe Ruins - Poems of Loss
by William Bethea
Once, when I went to the Darkness;
I left behind my precious things.
When I arrived at Its door,
There was no answer.
Upon returning home,
I found It waiting. The Darkness
Held my precious secrets in its teeth,
Ground them into dust and spit them
In my face, laughing.
Once, there was no where to turn.
The Darkness pretended to be my friend.
It welcomed me into Its lair.
As It fed me, nurtured me,
Comforted me, loved me,
It siphoned away my soul.
As I wept in utter delusion,
The Darkness consoled my broken heart,
Smothered my face into Its bosom,
Offered Its orifices to slake my misery,
Suckled my pain and fed on my loss.
The Darkness would became engorged,
Eyes rolling back, head lolling,
Grinning gleefully, contented,
Collapsing, in unconscious satiation
Until my need arose again.
Returning lucidity repudiated the Darkness.
It fled from my shattered existence, dying.
Only then, did I recognize
The endless irreparable ruins remaining.
My GoddessI prayed to my Goddess
Through many a Moon's night
To be worthy of the inspiration that
One of Her priestesses might provide.
Instead, She blessed me not merely
With Her divine delegate,
But with the Adorable Manifestation
Of Her Pure, Lovely and Perfect Grace.
Bound forever in grateful service,
I devote my works to this rebirth.
This Test and Gift, both, presented,
My Goddess now doth walk the Earth.
Her SkinHer skin
By the back light
Glows with inner fire
The scent of twilight lingers
On her neck
Her shoulders her
You Deserve to SmileDo what you have to do to be happy.
Eat an entire chocolate cake,
Swallow all the pills you need to take -
'Medication' isn't a dirty word.
Wear a princess dress
Or a band t-shirt with
Jeans in distress -
Boy or girl or anything in between,
Stand before that mirror
Take a twirl
And see how beautiful you are.
Go for a run,
Have some fun,
Watch Netflix until your eyes burn,
Curl up in bed -
Take a vacation from your head.
Phone a friend
And talk for hours,
Or stay in your room
And wait for the darkness
To end -
No need to pretend,
Just do what you need.
Paint a picture
Or write a sonnet,
Or just sit still
And breathe -
Pick some flowers,
Just for yourself -
You are just as special
As anyone else.
Can You Hold on One More Day?I read a poem about a boy.
Who had lost all of his pride and joy.
He wore his heart on his sleeves.
Which were stained red,
From all of the blood that he bled.
The boy died...
By the blade of a knife.
That he ran up and down his wrists.
And I couldn't help but cry.
That poem was fake.
There wasn't such a boy.
It wasn't a true story.
But... Then I began to realize.
That just because it wasn't that specific boy.
There are others just like him.
Begging for death.
Slitting their wrists,
And hoping to die.
Because so many times,
And so many times,
But nothing gets better!
I just wanted to say,
I've been that boy.
At some point.
I felt that way.
And I just wanted to say,
I am so sorry.
I know it hurts but hang on another day.
Please, stay with me dear.
Don't join that boy,
No, not tonight.
Stay with me,
Suckerpunch SweetheartRed lipstick war paint
I am a soldier in my own war;
A force split in two sides.
I am a force of nature
Bring about my own rapture
And I’ll bring you to your knees.
Little girl lost.
Cut off my hair
Cut into my skin
Pretty princess girl
Let me in
Let me in.
Sugar in my veins
And poison in my heart;
I can turn blood
Into a work of art.
I won’t go there again
Won’t do it
A sea of hands
In my head.
A universe inside.
Just what's inside.
Bullied On Our Friendly Website DA
There was once a two authors on a website that wanted to let their opinion out.
But a famous author set to put them out.
She took the flame of these little author’s hearts making them burn from blue to red.
And here’s what she said,
“Your little fire shall extinguished because I want you to get the Fuck Out!”
The tiny authors wept and cried.
Wondering was it because they picked a side.
Maybe if they had gone with the flow of everyone else
they wouldn't have suffered being a different self?
The small male author thought it was too much to handle and left.
But the dainty female author stayed behind. However
The light within her grew dimmer and dimmer.
And its glow became barely a shimmer.
Her originality became to be like everything else she owned: plastic.
She wasn't real anymore; just another author following the trends.
All hope was lost.
No one to come save her.
Sadness reigned within her,
making her shallow and pale as Frost.
Eternity Comes Only Once
...In a dream of eternal youth
with beautiful eyes and unspoken truths,
dancing on a thin thread drawn by Selena
in a blue night when all four winds talking about peace;
...In that unique poem when love
shines more than the Sun God on your ring finger,
weaving lasting hopes on a delicate cobweb
in a white day of the beginning of all beginnings;
...In a cold afternoon of December
with memories which surrounds the Arctic Circle,
melting everlasting snows that floods the time,
paradoxically, leaving behind them the fire which burns your heart;
....In the black hole of a single moment,
with pain, with answers, with courage, maybe with joy, or Not,
Waltz with the time between seconds,
Eternity comes only once...
i cradle my hope
with both hands,
as if holding it close
will give it the warmth
to stay alive.
when you come near
it flares and rustles,
begging to take flight;
yet i am both caress
we have confused our signals,
mixed our drinks and
closure looms ominous
but i would rather forget
than be caught in this
luminous void of
i am weak
you are blind,
perhaps we could be
if only we spoke.
you have unknowingly
in helical fundamentals
about my identity,
shaped me in
the embers of
i wish i knew
when to release
this frail hope.
we're both drunk
and you're shaking,
caught in a moment
neither here nor now.
bring you back to
the present, and i linger
but you are eager to eclipse
so you run.
i'm too afraid to ask,
but at least the question's
we're both cowards.
Demons Can Feel TooI'll admit that I'm a demon.
I'm cold and cruel,
Hateful and quick to anger.
I prefer darkness over light.
But demons can have feelings too.
I can be hurt, offended.
I can be sympathetic.
I can care for other people
And I can love.
I may be a cruel being.
Excessively so at times.
But that doesn't make me heartless.
Though I may seem so,
I do have a heart.
And I do use it.
Just not often.
Because the problem with having a heart
Is it can be broken.
And I don't want a broken heart.
I think maybe that's why demons seem so cruel and hateful.
They're just afraid of getting hurt.
bound in retrospectpart i.
about wreckage and dreaming,
about nights wept weary,
and how city limits
compress to claim you
when you run.
away early mo(u)rning
and choosing dark over light;
how eventually i stopped
wishing upon stars
what’s the point.
there is no true way
for someone this self-conscious
to let loose streams of
but i'm trying.
you are an immersion
racing down my spine,
along vertebrae as if
they belong to you
but they shouldn’t,
you are long-limbed eyelashes,
a study in faux-reluctance.
you are a cage
i never could penetrate
although you never had much trouble
ignoring my reluctance;
penetration became a game
i never won.
this was never a love story,
but add enough adjective
and i guess it can be
whatever you want it to be.
warped to your ideal,
turn me to my better angle
and hide the flaws;
hide the fa