Saetyl's Poetry Corner

Hello and welcome to my poetry corner. I hope you enjoy all of the poems you find here. If you have poetry you think is good and you want me to post it then e-mail it to me and I will post it.
This is the stuff I either haven't sorted yet, or don't have enough to make another category with. Other categories and pages of poetry you can see are: child-voice poems and poems of the night.

The Curse of Artistry

I am tormented
by this thing you call my "inner child"

It draws
not with crayons
but my own life's blood
and the pictures of pure destruction
societal strain and hypocracy
suffering and distain
they chill me to the core

my creativity, my muse, my inner child
is but a curse upon me
to see the things I see in my mind's eye
to hear the thoughts I hear
and feel the things I feel
it drains me so

the flood of passions and pains
are not even my own
and this innocent thing you make it out to be,
this child,
all but takes my suffering
and wrenches it out of my guts
to paint scene with the bowels of my soul
upon these whitewashed walls
leaving me bleeding before you
writhing in agony

and you say
that this is the gift of an artist?
I think not.

Eyes
You think it's easy
To be me,
But through my eyes
You'll never see.
The pain in them
Is so true,
And the sky
Isn't my only blue.

Trapped
Look around.
A little black box opened,
with you inside.

Be yourself.

Scream loud,
louder, loudest.

They close it
Top going...
down... down...

Why? Don't they see
you're inside?!

screaming...?

No way out.
Heartbeat
stronger... faster.

"help me."
Can't they hear you?
"Help me!!!"

They refuse escape.
The little black box
you're inside

confused
trapped in yourself
Why you?

why...

me...

help...

Heart of a Writer
The heart of a writer
Yearns for creativity.
It cries out for stories,
Whether true or pure fiction.

An imagination unfolds it thoughts,
And a soul can bare itself.
Also, if the writer wants,
They can hide behind their work.

The heart of a writer
Is different than others
For it needs more of some things
Like creativity, and unique ideas.

Some consider it an extraordinary gift.
In fact most people do,
But I know that
I have the heart of a writer.

My Life
My life is but its own world undying.
Ever living, ever striving.
I must go on, and I must seek,
What ever lies beyond that creek.
I go exploring in my head
Seeing all the things undead.
Trying to move on or stay.
Having to go on without my pay,
Seeing whatever my eyes may,
Hoping for the next passing day.
Am I living life at its fullest,
Or only at its worst?
My mind will, one day, explode.
With all its questions left untold.
Until that day comes I sit here,
Only me and my fears.