You were just ACHING for something new, yes?
Yeah, I know ... almost all the stuff I've been putting up in here recently has been four to six years old. I really have been meaning to write stuff, but it just hasn't been gelling into any form that's been accessible to me to capture with pen and paper. I did, however, spew one out yesterday. I don't think it's particularly coincidental that when I'm feeling my worst is the only time when the poems come these days.
IN PITS OF ANGUISH
stressors entwine,
form a garrote
choking off air,
crushing all hope,
obliterating light;
in the nightmare
who can dream
beyond this dread?
our delusions
are not enough
to forge tomorrows
not insane,
to chart some future
without despair,
the curdling touch of death
upon our soul
these weeks seem pointless,
all efforts wasted
chasing out within the real
the phantasms of mundane life,
for we are different,
not of that world,
here chained to doom unseen
and damned to claustrophobic cells
life bleeds out
and empties eyes
once full of promise;
with nothing for us here
we only wait
the draining flow of days
to lead us downward
to the grave
the frantic spasm,
survival's seizure,
is the only spark
animating being;
we are beaten, defeated,
cast down so low,
in pits of anguish
from which there's no escape
- Brendan Tripp
08/29/2006
Copyright © 2006 by Brendan Tripp
"Back in the day", when I was writing 250 poems a year, I had a structure ... heck, when I went back to school for the I.T. stuff, I started writing regularly again (if at a considerably lesser pace than 21 poems a month). Obviously, part of the problem is having no "schedule" ... maybe if by some fucking miracle I actually manage to get a job I might be able to get back to writing! Of course, if I started posting 21 poems a month in here everybody would drop me from their Friends Lists (or maybe just take up a collection for me to get some therapy)!
IN PITS OF ANGUISH
stressors entwine,
form a garrote
choking off air,
crushing all hope,
obliterating light;
in the nightmare
who can dream
beyond this dread?
our delusions
are not enough
to forge tomorrows
not insane,
to chart some future
without despair,
the curdling touch of death
upon our soul
these weeks seem pointless,
all efforts wasted
chasing out within the real
the phantasms of mundane life,
for we are different,
not of that world,
here chained to doom unseen
and damned to claustrophobic cells
life bleeds out
and empties eyes
once full of promise;
with nothing for us here
we only wait
the draining flow of days
to lead us downward
to the grave
the frantic spasm,
survival's seizure,
is the only spark
animating being;
we are beaten, defeated,
cast down so low,
in pits of anguish
from which there's no escape
- Brendan Tripp
08/29/2006
Copyright © 2006 by Brendan Tripp
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"Back in the day", when I was writing 250 poems a year, I had a structure ... heck, when I went back to school for the I.T. stuff, I started writing regularly again (if at a considerably lesser pace than 21 poems a month). Obviously, part of the problem is having no "schedule" ... maybe if by some fucking miracle I actually manage to get a job I might be able to get back to writing! Of course, if I started posting 21 poems a month in here everybody would drop me from their Friends Lists (or maybe just take up a collection for me to get some therapy)!