Death of a Poet

[manifestdestiny]

The rising of the morning sun, be as it may a symbol of hope cannot undo the damage done. For its luster lacks the the vitality to free me from the punity that in which I have surcome. The bounds that bind my soul have taken hold of what little hope I had left. And yes, to loose hope is a fate far worse than death. Beleaguered and belittled I staggered to the edge of sanity, bruised ego and all in celebration of my fall from grace. And no, I refuse to turn away face to save my pride the shame. How far I have come is not how far I have came. Regardless, if I am plagued with self-disdain the nature of things cannot remain the same. A part of me must die in order for the whole of me to live. However, the real question is what portion of me am I willing to kill. The world is the focal point of my pain but the world is impossible to be healed by one man. The quiet chaos that kisses my consciousness is re-edified every time I inhale, like a soft whisper from behind the vale. As potent as poison and as fine as coarse sand, the poetry that is towers over me. In shear awe, I stumble unable to stand and gaze at its horizon. Surprisingly, it becomes clear again that I am just a man but obviously the drive in me pushes on defiantly screaming, Yes, you can! The question has taken me through sin and purity to divinity then blasphemy through denial to insanity until finally the picture became clear to me. Hope is the real enemy. Our ambitions denies us of our humanity and compromises our rationality. Served like soup, our faith poisons individuality and stagnates real spirituality. The purpose of life is not just to survive or to be revived when you die to dance upon the the big pie in the sky. Like a carrot on a stick we chase religion under the promise of hope. Indubitably, a hope unfulfilled is a bitter pill to swallow. Soon depression, regression, and obsession will follow. And, out of these disparities are all the evils of humanity are born. But hope is all I have; my only son, my high, my joy, my peace, my sweet rhapsody to settle the savage beast. Hope is poetry and I am its poet. To kill it is to kill myself. Like I said, hope is the real enemy. And ironically, I hope my death proves it definitively.

[Word Warrior]

This is at the heart of poetry and represents the motivation of every poet. You've captured it! Long live the essence of your individuality.

[Majadi]

That was beautiful, ManifestDestiny! I mean I felt that, I have loved poetry since I was nine, was not aware that I was writing poetry until I was 15, after my Jayne Kennedy look alike Creative Writing teacher told me I wrote beautiful poetry! That was beautiful, keep doing that!

[Godssoulja]

I like the flow of this piece. My only question is, is their an audio version?