Poem: Untouchable
If you touch my spirit, you've accomplished a miracle,
My eyes have cried and my voice has erupted,
I could cut a diamond with the sharpness of my soul,
Life's pains haven't made me stronger...they've made me meaner,
Take a glance into my eyes and you will see not a glimpse of emotion or pity,
You will only feel the heat generated by lies and deceit from experiences long past,
You reach for my hand and I'll reach for your throat,
Trust, I give to no one,
My tongue shall spit acid words at any would be rescuer,
For, you can't rescue what has already been lost.
Finished February 15, 2003 6:53pm
Showing posts with label old journal entry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label old journal entry. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Old Journal Entry: February 13th, 2004
February Wind
by Marcus Twyman
I feel each cut as if it were the most sensual touch of a lover,
My eyes strive to focus through a slowly encroaching cloudiness,
The mud oozes around my cold, mutilated body,
My mind is searching for a way to put this wrong to right,
My body is twitching with an unconscious struggle to survive,
But death's power is too strong to fend off,
The cold has taken refuge in the marrow of my bones,
And the creatures of the woods have begun investigating my corpse-like body,
The only thing I am still able to acknowledge is the cold February wind,
Each year as I return to this spot for my eternal death, the wind is the only thing I am able to remember with clarity,
As the blood begins to slow its descent into the frozen, rock-like ground I feel the last pitiful beats of my failing heart,
For 20 years I have died on this night....maybe next year will be different.
by Marcus Twyman
I feel each cut as if it were the most sensual touch of a lover,
My eyes strive to focus through a slowly encroaching cloudiness,
The mud oozes around my cold, mutilated body,
My mind is searching for a way to put this wrong to right,
My body is twitching with an unconscious struggle to survive,
But death's power is too strong to fend off,
The cold has taken refuge in the marrow of my bones,
And the creatures of the woods have begun investigating my corpse-like body,
The only thing I am still able to acknowledge is the cold February wind,
Each year as I return to this spot for my eternal death, the wind is the only thing I am able to remember with clarity,
As the blood begins to slow its descent into the frozen, rock-like ground I feel the last pitiful beats of my failing heart,
For 20 years I have died on this night....maybe next year will be different.
Old Journal Entry: January 22nd, 2003
Old poem from my journal.
Burning Candles
by Marcus Twyman
Do you know what it's like for the dark to touch you?
I appreciate the quietness of midnight's virtue,
When the light comes in the morning, will I still be alive?
For, my soul's in eternal mourning no matter how hard I try.
Could it be that I'm unknowing of how my love should be released?
No one knows how I feel, maybe that's why I can't reach for peace.
*I have three dried rose petals pressed between the pages where this poem is written.
Burning Candles
by Marcus Twyman
Do you know what it's like for the dark to touch you?
I appreciate the quietness of midnight's virtue,
When the light comes in the morning, will I still be alive?
For, my soul's in eternal mourning no matter how hard I try.
Could it be that I'm unknowing of how my love should be released?
No one knows how I feel, maybe that's why I can't reach for peace.
*I have three dried rose petals pressed between the pages where this poem is written.
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