Blowing Through The Windchimes

I thought I’d give you some poetry this evening. I’m not really in the mood to write a long journal post right now because I know it will turn into some pathetic mush that you probably won’t want to hear about. I wouldn’t blame you. I don’t want to hear about it either. So I found a poem I wrote some time ago and hoped that you’d like to hear it. So here goes:

Man Doth Hurt Man

Wrap it up in chicken wire, 
Check it beats with bullets and fire.
Hold your head high
Still reach up for the sky
Don’t think of the pain
Ripping through your skin again.
Don’t stumble – “Your heart!
Don’t fall apart!
Just keep marching to this drum!
Keep singing, don’t hum!”
This tuneless tune
As you shoot for the moon
And miss entirely on purpose.
They don’t make a fuss –
“Keep marching! Don’t cuss!
Back straight! Head tall!
You’re aiming for the fall!”
This is the battle to lose.
This is the life we didn’t choose.
It beats beneath the chicken wire.
It’s writhing but with some inner fire…
For all is lost now…
For all is lost…
We don’t know how…
Imagine the cost…
And with a steady flow,
The blood still burns.
On and on the soldiers go,
Though nothing in them yearns.
Now they only know to fight
Despite this endless night
That seeps in all around their tired forms
And empty, silenced, inner storms. 
Man doth hurt man
As only he can
That way they both understand
As they both march in the same band
And if man doth hurt woman?
And with that the soldiers ran…
When the new site goes up properly, I hope to transfer all of my poetry there. I’m hoping to put it in order relative to when I wrote it so that people can see how much my command of language and form has improved. That’s what I hope, anyway, but it may not be the case. You may end up wishing I’d never continued writing such twaddle, but I sincerely hope not.
I’ll probably write a proper journal entry tomorrow. I just don’t feel like I’m in the proper frame of mind tonight. When I am, I’ll let you know… unless somebody wants to mail me a large slab of chocolate. No? Didn’t think so, but it was worth a try. I hope you enjoy the poem. I think it’s about a year and a half or maybe two years old. 

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