Rhyming Rambling

There’s nothing my pen can do

For me tonight, there’s nothing to say,

That will be even remotely new,

Or that will help me to another day,

There’s nothing the world can

Give me when I don’t know

What I want or how to plan

The plot that will see me through.

The words are weak and without

Significant reason, the purpose is sound

Asleep beside a faith in doubt

Drenched, then buried in a muddy ground.

And nothing can help me

When there’s nothing to be helped,

Like nothing can ever stop the sea

From striking the seagulls as they yelped

With violent whips of water just because

They searched the surface for stray

Fish that chose to swim a little close

To the sun freely through the day

And then shake their fins away to the dark

When the sun’s rays gradually withdraw

And there’s no more silver spark

In themselves to pursue against the flow.

But does the fish know what it

Really is until it’s pierced by a bird’s claw?

Do they find how they’re perfectly fit,

For something entirely different from why they grow?

Why do we, like them, give our lives

To something we can never be sure of?

Why do we give strongly to our strives

When we can never know what we’ll be carrying off?

Just so the sea can strike at the seagull

As the gulls hunt their little silver fish

And then the fish, gulls and sea all in gowns dull,

Stained by life’s strive utter an empty death wish.

Who’s to say I can not give my life to,

Nothing and everything and flow like the rays

That spread generously all day through

And at night, in a memory of a flower stay,

Until in the next morning when they come

And witness the origins and decays of lands

They grow new flowers, and build a new home

In creatures too magical to understand.

Wondering, where does the phoenix sleep tonight?

Does she know me? Does she see me?

Is she weeping at my sight?

Am I where she wants me to be?

My oldest friend, my only friend,

The one that I’ve never seen,

Yet can feel you in every blow of wind,

Washing all the snow off my heart, clean

Like the soul of a child, a leave

Washed by the morning’s dew,

But now that it’s cold, my heart’s on my sleeve,

And I can’t even feel you.

So my heart is burning its empty walls

As you decide to sleep tonight

Whilst you know without you my pen falls

And the paper sleeps meaningless and white,

I’ve been giving myself to something,

Like the fish, only I called it honesty,

But it tumbled when faith came tumbling

Down and it started wars and animosity,

I ended it, but it did not come back after the war

And even when the faith grew back

And it healed itself, it healed me too but the scar

Of honesty is malignant and raging with black.

Then I gave my life to love, and only love,

But love is only despair when it’s trapped in fear,

And suppression and bitterness that drove

Me almost off the edge of insanity to my pier.

Then I only gave it to me but then

I realized that I needed love for that too,

And all the madness, hope, obsessions, sin,

Did not last and so old they quickly grew.

And I’m still waiting for the next

Obsession, passion, emotional suicide or

Purpose and peace to give me some context

Of which key to find and for which door.

Or even if I should just break them all

And scream and bleed my way down each door,

It will surely be easier to let myself free fall

Maybe I’ll know what I’m here for.