The Metrical Mediocrity of Methrirr's Musings.

I fell to peer pressure. Sue me.

It must be funny, for how they laugh,
Their glee in how I writhe and squirm,
As through the bars of my cage, my prison,
Their prodding claws pervert my tortured flesh.
‘Tis torment, ‘tis pain, aye.
But can it really be that funny?

It must be fun, for how they play,
Each day their games becoming more grotesque.
The Lash of their contempt sick song of blood,
Each time it falls I feel it less and less,
Yet all the more the anguish lingers there.
How, then, can it really be that fun?

It must have been woeful, for how they wept,
When they discovered me there, free at last.
The necktie of escape wrapped ‘round my throat,
As, spinning gently, like an autumn leaf,
As graceful in death as ever. And they look on,
Whose games have ended, and so they must move on.
How, then, can it really be that sad?

There is so much torment and struggle and hardship evoked in this poem ;_; By the end I was actually truly sad :c What an effective voice!

Not as good as the first, but surely worth having written to put up here. Enjoy. Or, you know. Don't.

My silent tears that fall in streams,
My muffled screams and tortured dreams,
All cloaked in false felicity,
For not a soul can see.

My friends are false, the links are weak,
The chain will break, my tortured shriek
That echoes as I fall to meet
My solitary fate.

As I fell the others scattered,
As down I plumetted, hopes shattered.
Alone you stood, for that I'm flattered,
For you thought you could help.

Too fast I fell, my wings shorn off,
And as I met the earth, they laugh.
You weep for part of me to keep,
My fallen corpse is all.

Of those who thought themselves my friends,
Just you alone delayed my end.
Just know that you were true and dear,
And weep not for my death.

For there was never any hope,
Just one alone could not have saved
My life was doomed to end alone.
And so it was. Goodbye.

They see me cry, and feel pity,
But I wish not their pity.
They see me bleed, and feel guilty.
But they are not to blame.
They count my scars, and are worried.
But it is none of their concern.
They see me break, and are frightened.
But they have nothing to fear.

For I weep not for myself,
but for those who aren't heeded.
I bleed not from my wounds,
but from those of the real victims.
The scars on my back are not mine,
but those of the tortured and maimed,
And I do not break under my own stresses,
nor under those of the world.

As a mountain stands against the wind,
Defiant and strong and enduring,
Whose hide is carved by rivers,
gouged by lakes,
Battered by stones,
and torn by trees.

So do I stand against evil,
Defiant when matched with defeat,
my soul worn, my heart heavy,
the only vessel of pain that shares
the tortured wails of the world.
and worse yet,
the tormented ones beaten silent.

Beasts. Vile, cruel, disgusting beasts, all of you.
Who's game it is to toy, to torture,
to torment and to break.
The little boy that cowers beneath you,
is naught but one of your many playthings.

Like a snake that strikes many times,
you're venom seeps, and festers there,
each wound fresh and new, never healing,
Not as long as you can help it.
And you watch remorselessly as the wounds fester,
infected by your merciless games.

And so, your victims grow against you,
banding up to meet your wrath,
head on with wrath, their heads held high,
and suddenly you are the victim,
and they have no mercy.

Such is the way of things.
Vengeance, Justice,
For no man or woman escapes the lash,
the grudging shadow that looms,
There and everywhere,
to find them, to deal it's justice.

You won't know how.
You won't know when.
You won't know where.
You might even pretend not to know why.
That's why, when it comes,
it will often remind you just who you are,
before jugement is passed.

~5~

A blind man sitting on a stool,
about him the marketplace is frantic,
And it's roar assaults his ears.
He is greeted by a young man,
and the sweet sound of his wooden flute.
"Blind man!" he calls, "Be free of this noise!
For I shall play for you
The most beautiful song in the world."

"Is that so?" Inquired the blind man.
"Aye!" said the young piper,
"I know all songs that are sung,
each and every one, and for you
I play the most beautiful of songs
ever crafted by the hands of men and women."

"Sing for me, then," the blind man said,
"The song of the wind that whispers,
and laughs a warm, light breath,
and roars in gusts and gales
like no orchestra of man,
that wails like no choir,
and moans through the ear, I say!

"Sing for me then," the blind man said,
"The song of the trees that creak,
and groan with the voice of the woods,
deep and great as the chorus of winds,
And how their trunks quake, and branches shake,
and the leaves that rustle and fall.
Sing for me that song!

"Sing for me then," the blind man said,
"The song of the river that giggles,
a brook that chatters, a stream that trickles,
A waterfall that roars, the hissing of the spray,
on the stones down below, as the rain falls down,
applauding as it meets the calm of the pond.

"Sing for me, then," the blind man said,
"The song of the calling birds,
their chirps and sweet whistles,
or that of the squirrels that chitter and squeak,
or the long, slow mourning song
of a wolf in the night.
Sing for me, young piper,
The most beautiful song in the world!"

The piper there stood, and was humble.
"Blind man," said he, "I know not the song
of the wind that howls, nor the river that laughs,
or the leaves and the trees that rustle and creak,
or that of the animals that chirp and chatter."

The blind man smiled. "Of course you don't!
For you have never listened!
Where the sounds of man are silent,
where his influence is gone,
there play the songs of nature,
not for mine ears, nor thine,
They sing because they are,
whether or not you are there to listen."

~'|6|'~

Do you weep for me to hear?
Or for your own ears. For none
can hear you through this wall
this fortress against mankind
that you've built here for yourself.

When you locked yourself away,
so that none could take you,
break your heart, your spirit,
you neglected to make a door.
So here you sit, fists bleeding
from the relentless beating
and pounding against the concrete walls
of your own heart.

Do you wish to escape?
It is much easier than it looks.
For what has been built can be torn down,
cast off like a cloak in a warm summer rain,
to accept the droplets to you,
arms open wide, to feel it's tickling caress.
Simply allow those around you to love.
And the walls of your self made prison,
will topple and crumble away.
Just have no fear.
Trust me.

And at last you'll be free again.