Tag: Artist

Narcissism? Nah. (Part 1 of 2)

by sidcorvid

This poem is one of two, both started with the same line, the same idea, but go in very different directions. The link to part 2 will be at the bottom

Narcissism? Nah.
Maybe I’m just better.
Ever considered that?

It’s just a law of nature.
I cannot be recreated or destroyed.

In my essence,
aspirations and material,
I am the dictator of your future.

Thanks for coming out,
Unfortunately we’re at capacity.

Allow to me to clarify,
This isn’t about me.
Forgive me, but you are not needed.

In unity we create a god.
In our spirit we will dominate.

I see the hate in your eyes,
Let me paint this in a different light.
Do you love her?

She doesn’t need you.
Your breath is an offense.

I’m sorry, friend.
This is where we part ways.
Trust me, it’ll be over soon.

 

Part 2 is on my new Facebook page, I’d appreciate any likes, and might run some contest to give away books if I get enough.

Narcissism? Nah. (Part 2 of 2) by Paul E. Wyatt Poetry.

Check out my book:
Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

In search of dominance

by sidcorvid

With stomach achingly empty,

And eyes heavy with not-quite drowsiness,

He recognizes his momentary impotence.

“To gain, once more, an upper hand,

We watch him climb.

Pulling himself towards superiority

With ropes of stimulants and faux confidence.

“They will break, as they always do.

It’s then we will see him fall,

Grasping at any and every thing.

“Let him, watch him die.

He’s not of the breed to survive.

Let’s hope him to fail,

He cannot be allowed to survive.

“What we’re watching thinks his self a god,

In days past, we’d have crucified him

For his crimes of pandering.”

Exhaling dominance with each inhale of hatred,

He gains foothold after foothold,

Staving off exhaustion with drive.

In reaching the peak, he will then watch them fall.

A Hero

by sidcorvid

He scratches his scruff
With the barrel of his handgun,
Knowing if he doesn’t clean it soon,
It will jam when he needs it most.

He takes another drag on his smoke,
Another sip of his mud,
No longer shaking at the shells
Exploding in the not quite distance.

He’s ready for his next charge
Over no man’s land.
The Vickers cannot touch him.
The raven flies overhead
And he knows it waits
For carrion; his enemies.

A man falls next to him,
Felled by a sniper’s round.
He is ready.
The order comes.
And he is first out of the trench.
He is first to fall.

His body will be picked clean
By Odin’s messengers,
But he has earned a seat
Amongst the heroes of his race.

Is it already past midnight?

by sidcorvid

It’s already past midnight?

I guess I’ll sleep when I sleep,
Rest’s not that important.

Instead, I’ll keep cadence
Reminiscing on cadence,
Waiting for Taps.

I crumple the sheets, a failure contemplating:
What is it that makes a man?
What struggle overcome?
What prize attained?

I don’t know, dude.
I can’t honestly say I have a clue.
What am I even striving for?

Anyway, it’s over now,
And I’ve gotta move on.

Can’t say it’ll be easy, though.

Is there a rhyme to this?

by sidcorvid

Is there a rhyme to this?
Falling into Theta
With the taste of Xanax in my throat?
I just need another smoke.

I don’t know what I want anymore,
I barely remember my name some days.
Still I’ll stress over the small things.

I’ll still worry about the evanescent manner of your affection,
The calories in my dinner,
The increased rate of my suicidal ideations.

Shit, did I just miss my exit?
Someday I’ll reach the shore,
Maybe drown myself in the ocean,

And embrace the cold embrace of the winter tide.

But that’s thinking too far down the road,

Right now, I’ve just got to get home
Where there’s still scotch in the bottle.

What is the sound of shit hitting the fan?

by sidcorvid

With blood blued on my sweater

And infection taking root in my burn,

I deny my own desire.

Self-worth is overstated, overrated.

Rhyme is a poor man’s crime,

And I want you.

Arrogant in thought.

I didn’t expect this to be easy,

And you are worth working for,

Worth creating my own world and path.

Still, they ask what my story will be.

They wonder what I’ll achieve

Through an illuminated life.

A better question is,

What is the sound of shit hitting the fan?

I deserve nothing,

Have earned little,

And the future remains hidden.