x. The Edge

July 22, 2011

Sitting at the edge of emotion,
the tension before it snaps.
Crack
The sweet release of suicide
calling, teasing like a siren
in the stormy seas of my misery.
That moment when the blur clears
and it all makes sense –
like this is the only answer,
like this has been it all along.

Standing at the precipice of eternity.
The seconds before the darkness
disappears
and there is only light, divine.
The soft lullaby of death
entices me into endless slumber,
beckoning me to the painlessness of forever.

Kneeling at the feet of God,
exhausted from praying and waiting;
silence.
This time not asking but telling
choosing my own destiny,
taking my life in my own hands.
No more supplication, pleading
for delivery – no more.

Lying in the corner of the room,
feeling the life crawl out of me –
dreadful
Not a soft and gentle transcendence
but a harsh and unforgiving wrench
from the world of the living.
Not like slipping silently into dreams
but jerking roughly into the cacophony of hell.
Sick to my stomach now,
retching and twitching,
screaming as the darkness closes in.
Finally, the realization that this was not the answer;
the acceptance of my own stupidity;
the knowledge that it is too late;
the guilt.

v. Knees

July 11, 2011

Every night
before she sleeps
she gets down on her knees
and prays.
There, bowed at the feet of her God,
she pleas
for it to all be over soon.
She sees, she feels
his awesome power
by the light of the moon
and she closes her eyes
and clasps her hands
as he enters her,
hushing her,
and she breathes him in
swallowing the seed of her God’s love.

iv. Prayers

July 11, 2011

My poems
are my prayers
Every time my pen
touches page
my soul lies prostrate
at the feet of my God
for it is God
the almighty creator
that gave me the power of creation
God gave me the vision
to change the world
with my words
and so every time my pen
touches page
I supplicate
I ask for my words to be read,
to be understood
I ask for my readers to be moved
that this world might somehow
come to reflect
my verse
or that my reader might be moved
to improve
for himself or for humanity.

My Poems
are my Prayers
and every time I speak a rhyme
it is a hymn
in honour to my god
for it is God,
commander of the word,
that gave me the power of speech.
God gave me the voice
to command my people –
God’s people.
A voice
to lead a revolution
a voice
to teach a generation
a voice
to sing in veneration
a voice
to show our celebration
of the Universe
we have been given.
Every time I speak a rhyme,
I show the people
how to live
how to love
how to create
for the betterment of man,
woman, child, Earth
and the Universe.

My poems
are my prayers.
Every line I write,
every verse I commit to the page
becomes another installment
to the scriptures of a people
living to understand their god.
Every metaphor
becomes another
name for the creator.
Every metre, every foot
is a prophecy.
Every tear in the eyes of my readers,
every laugh on their lips,
every smile and every frown
is a declaration of faith,
an observation of greatness,
a transcendence,
an ascension.

My Poems
are my prayers.
They are thanks
for the gift
of The Word.