And yet again I stare blankly at the screen
as the cursor blinks, waiting for my fingers
to speak my mind's thoughts. Perhaps within
the night's sluggish hours I will find the words.

A phrase—but of meagre stature and stance,
of small voice and weak impression. Alas,
I revert the page, blank once again, empty
and without. Time drags on without pity.

The words have evaded me for far too long.
I have searched in vain for what to say,
all attempts futile thus far, with wrong
turns and countless detours along the way.

Maybe my mind wishes not to express itself
without my knowing, or maybe these
monotonous nights have reduced my
poetic capability close to none.

Either way, an hour past midnight is never
the perfect time to write a poem of any sort.

Black robe, distant looming
A nod through senescence
Time is fleeting, passing
All, but of the essence

Thoughts made in retrospect
Of his dreams, velveteen
Maiden in his prospect,
Naïve, only nineteen

Callous thoughts in wiring
Pallid, his mind dare say,
"Future, what's in passing?"
Whispers, a foggy way

Creature, borne through figment
Like disease, latching free
Moments, striking, salient
Sordid thoughts, though dreary

Static, of radio noise
Moonlit drops of the dawn
Wavering, cracking voice
My mind, a soldier's pawn

What would you do?
When every word you utter fails you
What would you do?
When nothing in this world enthralls you
What would you do?
When you don't know how to let loose
What would you do?
When you don't know what to feel too
What would you do?
Are the same questions in your mind too?
Or if you have answers that I might woo
Could you share with me, give me some clues?
To the road, I should choose
And figure out what should I do

I could put a bullet 
In me now
I could hand a rope 
To end it and die 

I could jump off a bridge 
Stop living this lie 
I could take the pills 
Without saying goodbye 

I can’t stop bleeding 
Will it stop me before my time
I can’t win this clichèd fight 
Are my own thoughts even mine

I can’t slow the sinking 
Will water fill my lungs or wine
I can’t refuse poison, it it the end of the tunnel 
This light and shine

we stretch our arms to the sky-
only to be met with nothing,
a void we tend to hide-
maybe it's only
in our own eyes,
where the universe rests
and the galaxies surge-
where constellations gleam,
in the darkest of nights-
where the warmth of the sun
melts the ice-cold pain
on the inside

The liquid pain looks at me with my own face
What’s there to fight for when I’m just my own trace
My reflection shouts at me she begs me to differ
Asks me to stop but we don’t know each other

My blood paints a rose of the death on the floor
I’m dripping from sorrow don’t want this no more
The scent of the iron and silk of red water
Colour of love flows out as I suffer

I judged them too hard when I heard on the news
Thinking that sadness is just an excuse
I thought I would never betray family
But this darkness is bigger than reality

Contemplating if it’s worth it
Calling the line or just end it
Silver sharpness invites me to dance
Drawing on my skin it’s final sketch

Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch

It’s better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe’s
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of EXAGGERATION.

Stephen Spender in his best-known poem wrote: "I think continually of those who were truly great." This near-limerick suggests that Spender may have exaggerated the time he devoted to hero worship. Keywords/Tags: caveat, spender, truly, great, think, continually, hero, worship, exaggeration, contemplation, awe, fawn, fawning



Caveat
by Michael R. Burch

If only we were not so eloquent,
we might sing, and only sing, not to impress,
but only to enjoy, to be enjoyed.

We might inundate the earth with thankfulness
for light, although it dies, and make a song
of night descending on the earth like bliss,

with other lights beyond—not to be known—
but only to be welcomed and enjoyed,
before all worlds and stars are overthrown ...

as a lover’s hands embrace a sleeping face
and find it beautiful for emptiness
of all but joy. There is no thought to love

but love itself. How senseless to redress,
in darkness, such becoming nakedness . . .

Originally published by Clementine Unbound

Keywords/Tags: caveat, eloquent, eloquence, sing, enjoy, enjoyment, inundate, earth, thankfulness, praise, song, light, welcomed, enjoyed, enjoyment, bliss, joy, love

The days haze woefully gray
as I sit here, alone, and my blaze decays.
Empty promises never go away,
and so I swear to close their place
in my desperate heart. But the night
lives as long as it is tenebrous. I’ve tried
to hide, to bide my time until they see
the type of person that I can be. To me,
it was a waste; they didn’t want to be
the friend that I needed. And so I pleaded
with myself to never be so weak. But the ends
of my week stayed littered with fleeting
hopes to be included, to be one of them.

I attempted to be bold and put my fears on hold
because regret lives longer than the night.
And yet I remain here unnoticed and unwanted. I hate
how my doubt distends and bends so bitterly.
But perhaps it is my fate? Am I destined to be late
from the gaze of my peers; to be deaf in their ears?
But I can’t deny that it hurts as I am a blur
in the vision of my friends. My patience is evasive.
I am set to wait, while they are sated and I hate it.

The night is a heavyweight and I am too weak.
I strive to not be so jealous. I wish to not feel so much.
I want to need myself more. But the night is not light,
it is an empty reach, stinging with envy. My eyes
are sorrowed by such a shade, but they despise
by their lonesome. So loathsome is the blight
that comes with the lonely night. It arrives
much unlike a good knight. It lurks there despite
my might, and it is never defeated when we fight.
The white of daylight is gone by the sight of the night...