The VG Resource

Friends over Time

The people we least expect, become so important.
We owe it to those we left behind,
Alive, dead, all the same,
To keep our oaths to those now.

The things we once had, which burn our minds even now,
Keep the impact for each words passed.
Between two old friends, a sentence can carry the world.
And the slightest insult a knife into a festering wound.

But we owe it to the now and the people we have,
To give them nothing but the truth and the wholeness of ourselves.
To give all or nothing, make each relationship,
Each friendship, count for the entirety of the world.

He says he still has a warm heart, but a cold exterior.
Sitting in his car, I breathed the smoke with the tension.
It had been years since we’d last talked.
I made a crack on him smoking.

I don’t remember him smiling, frowning, bitching.
I don’t remember anything from that moment.
Other than that, for just a few minutes,
I could see his face again. We were friends.

We’d been friends all along.



innocence

The crying eyes; sown shut.
The bleeding wrists; stapled.
The broken heart; mended.
The bright eyed boy; murdered.

There is something to be had.
Someone to hold you for it.
Somewhere to do it.
Sometime to be appropriate.
A reason to be found.

There is a time of the year.
Where we don’t owe anything.
The streets run with the innocent.
Cheers of the contented masses.
We forget problems, we rejoice.

Everything broken will be fixed.
Everything wrong will be right.
Every love lost will be renewed.
But the bright eyed boy will still be dead.

Betrayed by your own mind; the noose around your neck a wire from your fingers spread.
The strings pulled taught by the unforgiving and relentless beat from within.
You bleed, but you still pull and turn and writhe. It needs to hurt, it needs to sting.

Following your own pain with the thoughts of what you can’t or won’t have.
The endless self sustaining torture of the utterly undeniable facts. It was you. It was you.
You stopped it. You let it go. You wouldn’t admit it. You wouldn’t believe it.

When it happens again, you remove one more limb. The consequence for your action.
Other people tell you what you did wrong, they tell you what you could do better.
You know. You knew. You were going to. You were trying to. It was to be!

They didn’t know, they won’t know. You push it down your own throat,
only to have it compacted two fold. The piercing pain, the heaving inherent.
No avail. It will happen again. They just don’t get it. You already understand.

The ending does no justice to the beginning. The glowing face of the angel at birth.
Now what? Afraid to deal the damage to the skin, while willing to eviscerate the inner.
Take the helm, steer clear of the worst causes of death. Survive.

Um, dude; your poems are decnt and all, but can you just put them all in a single thread, then change the title every time you write a new one? It's starting to get a tad spammy. I'll merge your latest for you, but keep that in mind for the thereafter, 'k?

I could do that very easily, but I dont usually do so many at once.
I just was kinda.... full of energy.

I guess.

Inspiration.