The day after I unpacked my things
and settled back down to claim peace,
the sun came out.
It had been absent for days
and the storm in my heart poured rain,
the gray skies mourning with my life.
And today as I sit by the window with the sun
I feel the longing of nostalgia for better days.
I smell times past upon the air;
in the orange sun that refuses to warm the frigid breeze.
And although my heart is empty,
I am home.
©2021 Shane Blackheart
I wanted to try writing poetry again. It’s never been something that’s come easy to me since I’m better with flowery words in longer prose, and I usually fail for words when it comes to painting something more abstract for a proper poem, or at least, something that resembles one. I found a TED Talk about poetry tonight though, and I followed its guidance for an idea. This is what I came up with, in memory of one of my best friends who lost her life too soon when we were teenagers.
Etching people of never past across wallpaper,
a childlike innocence rapt with brilliance —
you were a creator of life.
Your very presence brought sunshine into my bleak home;
my upstairs of cobwebs and stale, stagnant air.
You made me a creator of life, too.
I loved you like a lily loves the sun;
a flower sprung to life and realized as something beautiful.
And now I love you like Autumn rain.
Nostalgia and fragments of you haunt me.
The pages I salvaged from your heart’s permission,
they are your eternity.
As a creator of life,
you drift among faded lines of frozen expressions,
and I cherish the soul you left in that ink.
I’ve wilted without your sun,
and the smell of pencils have turned to must,
your legacy now etched into my lucid dreams.
© 2019 Shane Blackheart
I don’t write poetry often, but the other day something kept rattling around in my brain that I had to write out. It started as a feeling and some images in my animation program, but became words as I just put my fingers on the keyboard. So, here is the ‘poem’ I wrote, as well as the video version of it below. (It’s appropriate for all ages)
You’re always there.
Your eyes watch me and I feel you; hands not unlike breath on my skin.
I’ve got goosebumps in my soul — I want to sing.
Tears strangle my voice in the stead of a melody — claws grasp my heart with careful fragility.
I trust you.
With careful precision, you force life back into my lungs.
Desire for the veil was never so sweet as your face — the glowing red my sign in the dark.
Passion pulls me away.
My life is no longer mine but yours — your will to fan the flames stoking my soul’s perseverance.
I will not go today.
(Closed captions available if you can’t understand some of the words)
© 2018 Shane Blackheart
I’m not one for writing poetry, simply because I’m not really that good at it. Although, while searching through my writing today to compile things for my autobiography, I found my WIP of collecting all of my retained journal entries in chronological order. As I scrolled through the entries, I found this line of text that stood out from the others, and while it isn’t a work of art or the best poem out there, I thought it had a lot of meaning to it. I remember when I wrote it. I was homeless then and at my wits’ end, ready to take that final step off the precipice.
But I am here today, still reading these entries and feeling the emotion that I poured into them at the time of their creation. Here is the poem I wrote while at one of my lowest points in life with just a little bit of grammar correction to read better.
Your footsteps beat within my ears like hearts,
their thunderous soles shaking the ground beneath me.
So dark yet so bright;
the illness inside me is retching.
Unkempt hair clings to my scalp –
nausea graces my insides.
I need you caffeine,
but your drug is sickening.
The sky is black and bright,
the rain is wet and cold.
It soothes my burning skin.
My energy cannot escape
Explosions beneath my nerves;
anger in its molten form.
All is not as it seems.
Everything is too much.
I am sick.
©2018 Shane Blackheart
Image is royalty free.