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WHEN EMO SHUNS NO MORE.-by- Matthew F. Blowers III
When Emo Shuns No More.
The black rabbit has died,
ebony crepe drapes
her friends souls,
wet with the tears of her loss.
They mail blank pages to God
that would have,
could have held her poems
not yet conceived,
with only one word
scrawled on the bottom of each,
that simply asks...."Why?"
What madness
drives young souls
to dwell in sorrow.
finding only bleakness in a world
so full of breathtaking beauty,
when death is the drabbest of all.
To abandon the pen and the word,
and allow oneself to be encased
in an permanent inkwell's depth.
To sue a side of life, and win
a darker side that other poets walk.
In eternal damnation like Edgar Allen Poe,
aimlessly wandering the ancient streets,
of Baltimore with so much less,
after an already brief life.
How does Poe exclaim his pain,
except in haunting sightings late night.
No poem has ever been published from
the hereafter nor read by any living,
leaving him just another anonymous soul.
One of millions that with utmost sorrows
roam the places they left far too soon.
There are so many
tomorrows unseen
where love will dance,
and hope make merry,
in a weary soul.
Forget the weight of today,
and adopt the wait for what will come,
lest the earth weigh you down,
into nothing but bones,
and a restless spirit forevermore.
Beware the razor and the pill,
the hangman's noose and the bullet.
rush not in haste to such waste.
These have claimed
many promising poets,
on the cusp of their greatness.
Leaving the world with an aching hole,
much like the black rabbit fled into,
not a wonderland, but simply an under-land
from which one can never escape
their own unbearable cries of Why???
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By Art~Whimsically YoursWhen Emo Shuns No More.
The black rabbit has died,
ebony crepe drapes
her friends souls,
wet with the tears of her loss.
They mail blank pages to God
that would have,
could have held her poems
not yet conceived,
with only one word
scrawled on the bottom of each,
that simply asks...."Why?"
What madness
drives young souls
to dwell in sorrow.
finding only bleakness in a world
so full of breathtaking beauty,
when death is the drabbest of all.
To abandon the pen and the word,
and allow oneself to be encased
in an permanent inkwell's depth.
To sue a side of life, and win
a darker side that other poets walk.
In eternal damnation like Edgar Allen Poe,
aimlessly wandering the ancient streets,
of Baltimore with so much less,
after an already brief life.
How does Poe exclaim his pain,
except in haunting sightings late night.
No poem has ever been published from
the hereafter nor read by any living,
leaving him just another anonymous soul.
One of millions that with utmost sorrows
roam the places they left far too soon.
There are so many
tomorrows unseen
where love will dance,
and hope make merry,
in a weary soul.
Forget the weight of today,
and adopt the wait for what will come,
lest the earth weigh you down,
into nothing but bones,
and a restless spirit forevermore.
Beware the razor and the pill,
the hangman's noose and the bullet.
rush not in haste to such waste.
These have claimed
many promising poets,
on the cusp of their greatness.
Leaving the world with an aching hole,
much like the black rabbit fled into,
not a wonderland, but simply an under-land
from which one can never escape
their own unbearable cries of Why???