A set of my poetry

1. The Voice Of Despair
 
Triangles of half-open doors
Reveal all the truth that is hidden:
Just condoms and cans on the floor,
Black papers with verses, forbidden -
Unfinished remakes of the song,
Deprived of the right to speak loud
Of wicked intentions gone wrong -
Erasers have muffled the shout.
 
The only illusion-proof mind -
A poet, the voice of despair,
Sincere, the one of this kind
Throws verses far into the air
Right there, in a dirty old flat
Among once great talents, now rotten.
They all have deserved more than that,
But even their names are forgotten. 
 
2. Reflections At Four In The Morning
 
All days are the same: morning, city, the crowd.
Life's not going forward, it's moving around.
And masks of all shades on those ignorant faces,
A few made-up stories in cheap street newspapers,
S***s looking like stars, dirty queens of attraction,
Gross idols of so deceptive perfection
Are doors to the mind of the crowd, so hollow -
They hear the call of the dumb and they follow.
Now passion means lust, now freedom means violence,
Stupidity prospers. It's due to your silence!
The weak ones are searching for someone to blame,
The helpless would trade for a minute of fame.
A couple hearts broken don't cost a damned thing;
The hopeless romantics would give anything -
Despite having nothing - for love, non-existing.
We've made up this concept, as something is missing.
Believe it or not - I can cope alone!
I never wished someone to call me their own.
It's such a delusion that having you here
Will help me get over this common old fear.
What's frightening? Solitude? Fear itself!
I hide beside you when I fear myself!
But it is much better with you than the crowd
That never goes forward, that keeps going round.  

3. Heartless-can-be?

I'm wild and sometimes even heartless-can-be,
I'm fond of collecting illusions to ruin,
I'm breaking the rules life has written for me,
"Create to destroy" best describes what I'm doing.
I'm scarily dangerous, silently loud -
A walking disaster you'd better ignore,
The pain in the neck of a desperate crowd.
But I'm like a magnet - you'll only want more.
 
You'll figure me out, you'll get to the core -
One beauty, two fears, three dangers - it's me.
You'll enter my heartspace and close the door
For anyone else who I wanted to be.
My truth was denying devotion and faith,
And now you've proved right the opposite true.
A chain of mistakes is the sign of my days;
My strength will forgive me - it led me to you.

 

4. Every Single Evening's Plot

 

I closed the door of my dirty old flat,
I went outside for a short evening stroll.
I bought some cheap hooch and a condom instead.
I'd only arrived when I heard a phone call.
It was so persistent, so deafening loud.
Who failed to forget me? I wanted to know.
I took a deep breath for a desperate shout,
Picked up the receiver: "Hello! Hello?"
Just silence. An error? Wrong number? Or what?
A quick thought of you. Stupid me! Would you care?
I started to feel all the spirits I'd bought
Dissolve in my blood, neutralizing despair.
In less than an hour my neighbours arrived
And asked me for something they needed. Okay.
I gave them a condom and bade them hot night -
I wouldn't have sex for some number more days.
I spent the next hour listening to moans,
But envy and anger were still neutralized.
I'd made through the day, and I'd done it alone.
The neighbours calmed down. I closed my eyes.

 

5. A Desperate City

 

Hello to you from the gray gloomy city,
Where crowds unconsciously worship despair,
Indulging in dangers of constant self-pity
With naive belief in the world's being fair.
 

 

They have no trust in a man's inner power,
And fortitude sounds like something unknown.
They have no poets, just ones of an hour,
Who drown at once in the thoughts of their own.

With greed they consume plain illusions for dinner,
And dress them with lies when they serve the new dishes
To those so-called "pathological sinners"

Who find someone else's delusions delicious.
 

 

They have Friday liter-mates rather than friends
To mark that the week of no favor is ending,
But even with glasses of spirits in hands
They look worse than misery. Are they pretending?

Reviews

[Arthur Henn]

There is so much here.
Very well written.
April, I like the way you put this all together.

Art

[Coyote Poetry]

All five stories were very good. Life can seem empty and emotionless We just must find ways to bring and keep hope and being positive alive. Thank you.
Coyote