Here are some poems from some of my old blogs. Hope you enjoy! Lust and Lovers What will my sin be, studying the bulges and ridges on the current sex symbol, bending over to pick up her pencil, forcing me to have impure thoughts about pornography and sodomy, and worrying me about my love. "What would she think?" Tell me, if she was standing here right now, watching me sin in my heart, and cheat in my mind. Forgive me, my dirty trespass. I lust and I wait. Holy heartless virgin, what could I teach you that no one else could? But then I leave. She leaves, in the other direction. She returns in my mind, as I make love to my true love, who can never know about my thoughts of carnal desire. Cry I could never understand why man is supposed to cry. Is it out of fear? Is it out of pain? The loss of career, or the failure of fame? Do we cry for the lost? Do we cry for the insane? Do we cry for the end of love, knowing that it cannot be saved? I have cried a million tears, and drowned in sorrow for a thousand years. I have cried out for pain and hate. I have cried for my soul's sake. And now I cry with you too, just as I will cry when I lose you. Addicted She walks into my chamber, her hair, wafting around her smile, her eyes, focused on projecting her soul. Every time our eyes meet, I know I love her. She tempts me with her spirit, as she walks toward my chair. Her body, moving restlessly, like a tiger, hungering to strike, and claim what is hers. God, I cannot help myself, her embrace, a drug, an addiction. Lord, I need the strength, to keep myself in check, to be a full man. I dream of her smell, tremble for her touch, like the needy junkie, needing more, more to survive. I know I will see her again, when I need my next fix, she will be waiting in the wings, trembling and jittering, just as addicted as I am. Never The sunlight will never shine, unless we open our eyes. The moonlight will never glow, unless we take notice. The water will never flow, unless we remove the levee. The grass will never grow, unless we seed the ground. The road will never be crossed, until we put our best foot forward. The tree will never bear fruit, until we develop a taste. And the world will never die, unless we die with it. Souls on a Sunday Afternoon We filed past the golden trim and smelled the sweet smell of relief. A hot Sunday afternoon of cake and sweet tea. Our eyes follow the celebration. The sad clowns in colorful drab, as they break into tears and grin meanacingly at the young brood. "Come here and meet your future." Says the elder to the younger, as he prepares a plate. The small dogs, placed on their leashes, slobber over the smell of fried instinct. The youngest of the children play hide and seek behind their ancestors. The little blond cherub offers the elderly man, dirty and with shovel a piece of apple pie. Finally, the guests sit and listen, listen to the same story read many times before, and knowing that it will be read for many years to come. Praise the Lord and pass the cornbread! As we honor the unfed guest, never to taste the banquet, to smell the boquet, Encrusted with the words: "Lest We Forget" There Are No Virgins There are no virgins pure and clean, of clean thoughts and solid soul, of the plans best set by a priest. Our Lord in heaven above, sold to the highest white light, blind to the children of tomorrow, raped as they leave preschool. We are wounded by the broken dreams, our fathers cry for their soiled offspring, chastity is a lost hope. Our world, the thin layer of faith and form, is lost to us all, and replaced by nothing but naked corrupt children. We become adults the minute we open our eyes to see the newborn dawn. I Never Understand on a Good Day I never understand on a good day. I ask a question, I get a comment. I give an answer to existance, and all I get is an improbable response. "Which came first, the question or the answer?" "Is it fair to everyone else that I be human?" "What happens if the sperm whale gets the vote?" "Is a mild state of unconsiousness considered love?" They just smile and nod politely, so they can laugh and stare later. "What the hell is the answer?!!" I scream. "Bob" "Maybe it means the beginning and the end?" "Is it the name of the unknown giver?" "Or are you just screwing with our minds?" "Soda" I hang my head in frustration, shed an agrivated tear, and go lie down. Love, According to Insomnia She walks by me. Her hair is wild and long. She doesn't know her own beauty. I don't know my own strength. I held her close, her doubtful eyes burn into me. Why is she sad? Isn't my undying love enough for her? Anxiety knows no bounds for the insecure, while she hides behind her aloofness. I love her, even if she shows no interest. I long for her nose, she longs for relief. I look at her features, she looks at herself. Her spirit, her soul, her eyes, her fear. I am afraid to be together. She is afraid to be apart. We are afraid of ourselves. All poems here are by Shawn Patrick Williams.
Assuming you are Shawn Patrick Williams (you gotta be Irish, right? ), you're a mighty good poet. I really dig Love, According to Insomnia, and the one about the Virgins. Never Understand On A Good Day poses some interesting questions and reflects the same frustration I feel at the lack of answers and everyone else's apathy toward these ideas (thats what I got from the poem, anyways). Those were my favorites, but they were all pretty good, I like your style.
