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Poetry By: PromisedSword

Luke-warm feelings can't fuel my muse. I need the brighest, the darkest, the most brilliantly painful and beautiful emotions to keep me going. I need to feel so alive it hurts.

Please, let me hurt.

Submitted:Sep 2, 2007    Reads: 99    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


I'm tired of always waking, to find forgotten dreams,

And I'm sick of always losing all my artistic schemes.

I stay awake past midnight without a thought in my head,

Then I listen to the emptiness, as I lie awake in bed.

What lives in me is nothing now, no hate or love or pain;

I wonder if, when clouds roll in, I would feel the rain.

I'm festering inside myself without a passion to feed;

If I were to slit my throat, would there be blood to bleed?

I no longer have the tempest that once did rule my heart,

And without that driving force, I fear I'll break apart.

I've forgotten how a fire feels or the moment of it's spark

I'm now without that force to fight the coming dark.

My memories are growing dim, where once they did shine bright.

My internal flames are quenching without that flowing light.

No matter how I scream the words, no one grasps my pleas

And my hands grow weak and feeble; they stumble at these keys.

I want to wake and feel the storm; I want to fight the pain.

I want to struggle hard to stand under a heavy strain.

I want to burn both my hands, until they peel and break,

For fighting off this madness was my biggest mistake.

I'd rather stand and face the sun than have it warm my back;

I'd rather drive in further than turn from the attack;

I'd rather drown in icy water than have it cool my face;

And I'd rather die fighting than run away in disgrace.

So give me now the maelstrom and the falling free;

Give me now the bullet-wound in all it's agony;

Give me now the demons that lurk in the deepest hell,

And I can handle these; give back my fire as well!


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