EYES CLOSED

I dont know how to write poetry. I write in moments of extreme emotional turmoil for catharsis. Unstructured. Unfiltered. Unedited.

I boarded the ship from a terminal nameless,
I stood at the gates of wherever - naked and shameless,
Bathed in the light of what new dreams may be posed, 
Looked up at the sun, retinas burned, eyes closed.

Rocket ships cutting cocaine lines across the brilliant blue ether
If the student were to die, is the master still a teacher?
Discomfort in the sounds, wheels that will never hit the ground
Thoughts of never knowing home, eyes closed.

Kiss on my lips, hand on my shoulder,
Listless orbits around dead planets, life gets colder
Stars shine, glittering with false promises
We burn up on reentry, bright flash, eyes closed.

Burn all the documents, maintain absolute discretion,
Put my heart in a box, sealed from every direction
Throw away the keys into the ocean,
Forget the forget-me-nots and keep your eyes closed. 

I never made it back, only my little pieces,
Jigsaw puzzles for the king's men to compete with,
Lay me down on a bed of roses, thorns adorned.
Let me rest, nameless, legs crossed, eyes closed. 

Reviews

[songstress]

For a piece that is "unstructured, unfiltered, and unedited," it possesses a lot of fluidity. with the juxtaposition of images and rhyming, it makes the image of a self-destructive vagabond rather musical.

the harsh realities of lacking existence, dying, and pain really tear into someone and make them ponder their own misdealings in life. But, beyond that it brings about a curiosity for the reader to know where the writer may be heading, what kind of things the writer has seen to have their "retina's burned" closed-almost forced to relive the pain everyday.

in other words, nice job at getting the reader involved with all your comparisons and analogies.

[CosmoNot]

Thank you for your kind comments. The curiosity about where the writer is heading (i.e. where my life was/is heading) prompted me to write the piece one night, literally in a cold sweat. Poetry may not put money in the bank, but atleast it counts for spiritual currency.