Most of my poetry is in their respective works, but on occasion I’ll craft something for whenever the mood strikes.
~Aquarius Moods (07.04.25)~
Wish upon a shooting star,
Ever near, never far, yet always, _always_, beyond my reach.
It never fades, I’ll warrant,
To listen while glistening at marvels yet to pass,
That mortals merely in their duress can find fathomless,
We are all stardust, and we are all water: this was how our thoughts began while our cosmic souls developed, then wandered.
How I would, that if the chance arose, express not in melody and undying prose, the exulansis which while sad lacks true despair.
My namesake has water, but I am Err.
I’d Rather (15.09.2024)
I’d rather be a Superman, instead of ordinary.
I’d rather be seen as Good, rather than Evil.
I’d rather be viewed as smart as opposed to mediocre.
I’d rather be competent, instead of lazy.
I’d rather be seen as lazy, instead of dumb.
I’d rather be quirky, instead of crippled.
I’d rather be called a Villain, instead of pitied as untrustworthy.
I’d rather be labelled suspicious than betray those dear to me.
I have been called a liar, to protect the weak.
I’d rather be seen as treacherous than become a hypocrite.
I would never want to be hypocrite, but I am only Human:
An ordinary human being, doing their best.
No different than the real Superman.
~Muse of Serenity~
As music soothes the Savage beast,
Grass on the other side grows green.
As muses inspire the artist’s fervour,
Passionate, intense, yet so serene.
Of what tremulous feelings are not spoken, yet said,
Art expressed in those moments, spoken in their stead.
Never truer than whence he knew her.
Sunshine rays in her caress,
Warms his frost, forebodes duress,
That spirits dulled renewed, invigored,
With every breath taken when he’s with her.
Upon a whim, you encourage all that Good in him…
There is no weather, balmy and acrid,
No conversation that doth turn vapid,
Mint, now his most favourite ice cream,
And favourite fruit become mandarins.
All these things he hates, can tolerate,
When by his side, she elevates,
A shared tender gentleness emanates.
A most serendipitous pairing most serene, serener, this serenity,
As ever a muse and artist was seen, with him, and her, his remedy.
My 2nd Disciple was able to beat the odds, and found a sweet, intelligent, and super hot girl to date him. I composed this poem in their honour, as he is a very dedicated student, but extremely capricious, so didn’t always get along with the ladies despite his good looks and talent. While I could annotate the poem with analysis, reminiscent of my high school days, I will only offer a small piece of context: the things he loves with her, i.e. mint flavour, are things he normally abhors. Only reinforcing my belief that Love is [necessary] Evil, for changing his fundamental nature.
Ghost Haunting at A Private Grave
As the Accursed, I do Accuse:
I am wounded, empty-leaden,
And you are the cause.
What have you done to me?
To my very being,
That each breath I take must make way for pause…
That my mind and heart and soul are in turmoil,
As I steel them all to face you.
You, who have seen me at my worst,
I, filled with the unspoken and unspent, unvented quite demented,
Lamenting that what once was and would have,
Had it not been for me.
What am I experiencing, right now?
Is it fear?
Yes, but not exactly.
Is it trepidation?
Yes, but no, not quite.
There is some guilt,
As a matter of factly,
Perhaps, mayhaps, a hope?
A chance for some respite…
Strangely, I am elated, too,
At Fate, now steers me back to you.
This is not a feeling, that leaves me feeling torn,
This is emotional maelstrom, a dark and heavy storm.
Though as I grapple with parts of Self denied,
Then passes, this turbulence, and from torment there is nothing left,
Except Gratitude.
In dreams, in thoughts, in my subconscious actions that have shaped me thus far,
To encounter you again is my blessing, undeserved as I was since we parted.
What is dead does not easily spring to life,
Yet though untended, those affections held I did not let die.
So haunt me, please- not as spirit, apparition,
Figment of mere Imagination,
But as Flesh and Blood and Zest and Zeal:
It’s worth the suffering, to know you’re Real.
And all the while, it was _I_ who has lingered, ghostly, by this lonesome grave…
Solosopher & Solosophy 