Exiled Blues

Make something of it.

I sit on the side of the road
Strumming my guitar under the rain
Alone, playing a song
Composed for a trio

I've played the same song
Since my conception beside a mountain
Under the canvas of a starry night

I play because I want to forget
I play because I want to remember

Blocking out this wretched earth
In favor of my home
Woven by the most ancient one
The most ancient one of all
In a complex tapestry
of love, fire and alchemy

My fingers are raw
Yet I strum each note with a smile
Only because they help me bleed
They rid my soul of venom
They rid my body of toxicity

I perform my ballads in exile
For the most ancient one
The most ancient one of all
He has vanished me forever

Because I make chords with my LEFT hand?
Who is he to say that I'm not RIGHT.

Were my parent liable
For making love
Under the starry night?

Once a millenia
Believe me,
I've been playing since creation
A lost soul stops in admiration

I offer her my immortality
In exchange for her company
She takes with her a melody

She becomes a part
of my eternal concert
Remnants of her eyes
Will forever haunt
My exiled blues

Until I am granted forgiveness
And we all become free

Reviews

[Eve]

I wonder what people take of me with them as they go , to send them along with a melody is a beautiful gift, why do so many feel in exhile, I read this often, how alone we all are, I even wrote many along the same lines myself, do you think it self imposed? self preservation from the crazyness we see everyday on the streets that we just can't wrap our minds around so we simply shut them out, hence our exhile from the human race?

[Hawksmoor]

Just read this again. This f****n HIGHLIGHTS just how excellent and layered your poetry is.

I loved it the first time I read it, and I still love it.

Your technique with this is unbelievable.


Hawksmoor...From The Bleed.

[Hawksmoor]

This is�this is very good stuff, man. This is a story, and a goddamn tragic one, in my humble opinion, in poetry form. Yet, without this form, there is no story. This is an excellent marriage of grace and reasonable exposition.

To me, this is a moment in the life of a fallen being; something perhaps a lot less than a god or an angel, yet, something quite a lot more than a human being.

Fucked into an existence of melodious and horrific slavery with total, lust-driven abandon, this thing, this Soul, does what it thinks is right by the world, and all that lives within this world; all the while, looked upon by this Ancient One (whom I assume is God�?) as its fingers throb and burn and bleed, yet, this Soul is glad for the pain and blood, as they serve as something that looks like penance. Something that looks like the attainment of real purity.

In the end of things, a human goddess, lost and abandoned in her own way, trades a bit of herself in exchange for mutual understanding and freedom.

The Soul seeks freedom of this maudlin existence, for its freedom cuts us all away from chained expectations, and the sheer terror of caged passion.

Goddammit!

I loved this. I've read it three times in the last five minutes.

Seriously, bro, this is ultra good s**t. Your poetry has become unbelievable in its grace, style, and straightforward attitudes.


Hawksmoor...From The Bleed.