Not Strong Enough
© Surazeus
2017 03 19
Peter sits at the wood table alone
and eats cold toast with a slice of foul cheese,
pretending his heart did not turn to stone,
and thinks about the depth of silent seas.
The memory he tries to ignore the most
was the time he shouted a racial slur
at a woman while he leaned on a post
whose dark face dissolved in a drunken blur.
I know I am a good person, and kind,
he assures himself while shivering in wind,
and stares at the blinking stoplight, resigned
that he will never be able to mend.
The hurt he has caused to strangers and friends
devours his heart with the anguish of fear
that he can never hope to make amends,
so he sighs and drinks another stale beer.
Who cares about their lame sadness, he growls,
then yanks on his coat and stalks out the door
to wander dark streets where a vampire prowls,
while her last letter lies torn in the drawer.
Peter slouches on the park bench alone
and listens to wind snarling in the trees,
staring into the abyss with a deep moan,
but dreams about the depth of surging seas.
Raising ancient book of tales to the sky,
Peter laughs, then rips out pages of words
so fake names of long-dead heroes can fly
over hungry towers with restless birds.
Fumbling in his pocket for the lost key
that opens every broken door in town,
Peter stares down in the bottomless sea
at mirror that reveals he is a clown.
I painted pictures that I thought were great,
Peter shouts at the chair without a face,
but becoming famous was not my fate,
so I must approach my death with fake grace.
Every play composed by Edward de Vere
staged caricatures of himself as cad
so he wore the mask of William Shakespeare
to kill his failures and thus cleanse the bad.
Laughing at the irony of despair,
Peter paints new picture of a drunk fool
insulting a woman with mocking glare
who snaps her fingers to make him a ghoul.
Bearing dozens of paintings in his arms,
Peter walks to the park in drizzling rain
where he tosses them in flames, then chants charms
while burning the illusion of his pain.
I wish I could eat the cruel words I said
and express support for her sacred right
to choose how she wants to live life instead
but I would be blinded by loving light.
Throwing empty beer bottle at the wall,
Peter tries to sing Strong Enough by Cher,
but gropes toward horror in the dusty hall
while losing deep thoughts in a useless prayer.
I cannot redeem myself from this hell
since pride prevents me from making a change
so I will construct my own prison cell
and accept as normal what should be strange.
Peter stands on the edge of the real world
to stare in the abyss of timeless truth,
where fools who hurt other people are hurled,
then leaves rotting heart in the empty booth.
I am not strong enough to change my soul
and start treating everyone with respect
because I am not weak, stuck in a hole
I dug, so now my life is wholly wrecked.
Peter leaps from the bridge to fall with snow
and pretends he transforms into a hawk
who soars with angel wings on the rainbow
as he smacks broken on the river rock.
© Surazeus
2017 03 19
Peter sits at the wood table alone
and eats cold toast with a slice of foul cheese,
pretending his heart did not turn to stone,
and thinks about the depth of silent seas.
The memory he tries to ignore the most
was the time he shouted a racial slur
at a woman while he leaned on a post
whose dark face dissolved in a drunken blur.
I know I am a good person, and kind,
he assures himself while shivering in wind,
and stares at the blinking stoplight, resigned
that he will never be able to mend.
The hurt he has caused to strangers and friends
devours his heart with the anguish of fear
that he can never hope to make amends,
so he sighs and drinks another stale beer.
Who cares about their lame sadness, he growls,
then yanks on his coat and stalks out the door
to wander dark streets where a vampire prowls,
while her last letter lies torn in the drawer.
Peter slouches on the park bench alone
and listens to wind snarling in the trees,
staring into the abyss with a deep moan,
but dreams about the depth of surging seas.
Raising ancient book of tales to the sky,
Peter laughs, then rips out pages of words
so fake names of long-dead heroes can fly
over hungry towers with restless birds.
Fumbling in his pocket for the lost key
that opens every broken door in town,
Peter stares down in the bottomless sea
at mirror that reveals he is a clown.
I painted pictures that I thought were great,
Peter shouts at the chair without a face,
but becoming famous was not my fate,
so I must approach my death with fake grace.
Every play composed by Edward de Vere
staged caricatures of himself as cad
so he wore the mask of William Shakespeare
to kill his failures and thus cleanse the bad.
Laughing at the irony of despair,
Peter paints new picture of a drunk fool
insulting a woman with mocking glare
who snaps her fingers to make him a ghoul.
Bearing dozens of paintings in his arms,
Peter walks to the park in drizzling rain
where he tosses them in flames, then chants charms
while burning the illusion of his pain.
I wish I could eat the cruel words I said
and express support for her sacred right
to choose how she wants to live life instead
but I would be blinded by loving light.
Throwing empty beer bottle at the wall,
Peter tries to sing Strong Enough by Cher,
but gropes toward horror in the dusty hall
while losing deep thoughts in a useless prayer.
I cannot redeem myself from this hell
since pride prevents me from making a change
so I will construct my own prison cell
and accept as normal what should be strange.
Peter stands on the edge of the real world
to stare in the abyss of timeless truth,
where fools who hurt other people are hurled,
then leaves rotting heart in the empty booth.
I am not strong enough to change my soul
and start treating everyone with respect
because I am not weak, stuck in a hole
I dug, so now my life is wholly wrecked.
Peter leaps from the bridge to fall with snow
and pretends he transforms into a hawk
who soars with angel wings on the rainbow
as he smacks broken on the river rock.
...and so it ends
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