Heyla folks, random poem posting. I'd like to get some honest feedback, maybe some suggestions on how to come up with titles in the future. I love constructive criticism, though blatant laughter does not count as constructive, nor does assuming my poetry it literal and critiquing it within that context
. It's relatively long, so try to be patient if you can.
I walk the streets with weary eyes,
Cloaked within a slick disguise,
I expose others in their facade,
While I walk unnoticed like a mocking god.
I see a man in ragged clothes,
Torn and dirty, that's how it goes,
For within he lies much the same,
Broken, torn, unnaturally tame.
Who would know what he'd once done,
All of the, (literally), bloody fun.
I feel his spirit standing over me,
But beg this vision not to see.
I was his daughter once before,
Crying tucked up on the floor.
Pain and sex he rained from above
While screaming he did it all for love.
I shake away the pain, but it is too late,
For seeing these things is my eternal fate.
They call it a gift, knowledge immense,
But it's pain that it gives, sharp and intense.
I see their souls as they once were,
The miracles and travesties they caused to occur.
I find myself, as I stand now,
Hating and loving, I don't know how.
I am doomed to know the feeling of past,
Feeling only the things that I know didn't last.
I fear this weak man that does not know my name,
And that young babe on the street I do love much the same.
For this is the only way I know how to feel,
From my very own past I am forced to steal,
To know others while they don't know me,
Lost in constant, painful reverie.
I may seem special, with powers vast,
A rare life, it would seem, the Fates did cast.
But truthfully, is that what you believe?
Or somewhere deep down, can you truly conceive,
What I'm telling you now, with such honesty,
Do you do these things too, only differently?
When you feel your first love, so deep inside,
And when you hurt, and it just won't subside,
Do you hold onto it and refuse to forget,
Do you hold yourself in and decide that that's it?
Are the best and worst times things you selfishly keep,
Loving and hurting but never again that deep?
Refusing to strive to feel more then before,
Settling for the past rather than what could be in store?
Letting your truest emotions be owed to what's gone,
Clinging so hard that you can't carry on?
Listen to one who is thus afflicted,
For I know what it is to be addicted,
To the past, that long gone story, Your joy and pain, your shame and glory,
I live in stories that have already been on the stage,
Where I feel safe in my knowledge of every page.
But to be safe is not to live,
And to hold back is not to give,
So don't relive your past, day in, day out,
Because that's not what real living is all about,
Only letting yourself feel what you've already felt
Is not really feeling, it's denying what you've been dealt.
So live, breathe and hurt, repulse and entice,
For whether it's too late for me, I still give good advice.
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