Pilot first chapter for a small novella.

A set of 5 poems I jotted down in moments of inspiration. They lack titles. Yet, calling them "Nameless Poems" I suppose is a contradiction in that regard. Nonetheless:

Fox.

The Aspects of Mortality

by. Benjamin P. Hawkins (Written: 06/03/2022)

I have solemn spoken on

The Aspects of Life.

How droll and exciting they feel.

How contradictory they are.

How similar they can be.

I have yet to smell the dying roses.

I have yet to climb the smallest trees.

I have yet to light the wickless candle stick.

I have yet to see through the invisible fog.

I have solemn spoken on

The Aspects of Death.

How somber and dream-like they seem.

How combative they have been.

How similar they are seen.

I seek now to feel the warmth of snow.

I seek now to speak the tones of silence.

I seek now to love the the beatless heart. 

I seek now to read the blank pages.

I have solemn spoken on

The Aspects of Nothingness

How chaotic and peaceful it was.

How opposite they were.

How similar they yearned.

I saw then the darkest of stars.

I saw then the shortest infinities.

I saw then the wakeless dream.

I saw then the endless end.

I have sought. I have seen.

Yet, I have solemn spoken.

Grudge

by. Benjamin P. Hawkins (Written: 05/15/2022)

I.

Am holding a grudge.

Against the jury, the witness,

The plaintiff and judge.

For besmirching my name.

And cursing my blood.

For living a life.

Free of burdens and chains.

That wrench and tighten

And pull me like reigns.

The cold iron nailed to the wall

 that strips my flesh.

Leaving rust in my wounds.

And dust in my jaw.

Vacant eyes of revenge.

Gaze to the floor.

Watching the rats.

Gnaw and climb upon

My skeletal form.

Tendon by tendon.

I rot away.

My arms cannot write.

As my muscles decay.

The chalk is long gone.

As the tally marks mock me.

At least with the roaches.

I won't be lonely.

In this wide open grave.

Befitted with bars.

I seek the sun.

I seek the stars.

I'd hold a grudge.

If I could.

But my mind is gone.

And my nails are wood.

A poem from the heart...that only I understand.

-by Benjamin P. Hawkins (Written: 03/12/2022)

I feel...horrible.

But not for the right reasons.

The Winter Treasons.

The Spring Schemings

The Summer Shearings

And

The Autumn Fall.

Damn. Damn it all. 

The shadows. The penance and curse.

The memories. The doubt. 

The guessing after first.

Mistakes. Mistakes.

A vampire thirst. 

Quenches the days of old and bad. 

The shifted tides and changing land.

I think I'm different than I once was. When I shattered and broke the curio of doves. 

I hope I am. I hope it is.

Not a phantom come to seek vengeance again.

But if it is. I know that I deserve it.

For the dark in the heart of the wandering servant. 

Crawls and claws

Scratching and tearing

At the eyes of the mask

That he is now wearing.

I bear this fate with open arms.

Accepting & Knowing.

I have done harm.

But I hope, this feeling fades.

So for my punishment to soon abate.

For a time at least...until it returns.

In the night with a cause.

And a soul to burn.

Little Brown Book. Written. 05/02/2022

Where Letters danced and Words sipped tea in gardens of blossoming stories and vibrant lost riddles.

I wrote with a passion that I cannot remember.

When Sentences spoke in elegant tongue and Paragraphs drank wine and ate cake.

Punctuation wore a dress of diamonds and silk.

Phrases wore a suit with a long ruby studded coat.

Each dash had a seat at the crystal table.

Each dot exchanged gifts with the crossed Ts.

It was a joyous gathering of creativity and truth.

Unbound and wild.

If I were Ink, I'd sing with Words, Phrases, and Sentences.

I'd skip with the dashes and dots.

I'd eat of the finest food along side Paragraphs and Punctuation.

I'd dress like Poem and sit among the lost riddles.

 Because all I have is this little brown book.

LFP, by Benjamin P. Hawkins

Witness my cold heart of a lion.

Why don't you whisper the secrets of the world?

Why don't you move the clouds or churn the seas?

I wish you would.

You'll die in my shadow, as if you had a choice.

While you scream for life to screw me.

Bringing me ruffled sheets and tear stained cheeks.

Blood shot eyes and ecstasy.

I will crush your weak little heart that pales in the light of mine.

Little. F@!$ing. Princeling.

I hear you cry. 

And I couldn't care less.

Crawl in the sun. Walk upon glass shards.

Die and be eaten by wolves.

Be torn apart by the elements and claimed by nature. 

You heartless f@!$.

While you wriggle and worm.

You have the audacity to approach my slumbering state.

F@!$ you 

You.

Little.

F@!$ing.

Princeling.

Scarecrow, by Benjamin P. Hawkins

Interim, by Benjamin P. Hawkins

As I count the minutes.

"A few more couldn't hurt."

I say.

As I swallow them like pills.

Gorging myself as if I'd never had a moment to think or process.

As if I'd never been sick and refuse to become it.

As if I'd never have slept before and never wanted to.

"Just a couple more, and then..."

I could never and would never finish that sentence. Not in truth anyways.

The interim is addictive as it is rare.

Like opioids you begin to feel less, when the interim isn't there.

I choose to stay in the interim.

Or so I think.

"But, just one more..."

I say in my mind.

As my mouth has gone slack and my arms have grown weak.

When will the last pill be taken?

"After the next."

I whisper.

When will I leave?

"After some more."

I exclaim.

I am in the interim.

I will leave soon.

"Right after...another...two bottles of course."

It was raining quite a lot.