The gray is where I reside.
My compass spins as I gaze upon the world.
The horrors that are so interesting.
The honorable deeds that inspire me.
The violence that boils beneath, while empathy wells my eyes.
I am not a bad man, nor am I good.
I am not hateful, righteous, or forgiving.
And thank God not corrupt.
Sometimes I like me.
At times I don’t.
I am building.
Brick by brick.
Act by act.
Word by word.
To become the man I want to be.
In this hell of a world.
About the Creator
Brier
Im a drunk steel worker from Wisconsin that enjoys writing. Currently working on my first novel and doing some short stories in the mean time.
A Letter to the Firestarter
Dear Firestarter, We can all see you, we've been watching you since you began. In case you didn't know we were here before you and we will be here after. We witnessed your rise, your setbacks, your guilt and your lies. We witnessed you start the fire.
By Donny Foley3 days ago in Poets
Inmate Six
The Toll of Inmate 6 I cocked the trigger, I dropped the hammer, Chasing a life I thought was glamor. But the flash of the barrel is a fleeting light, And life has changed in the dead of night. If only I refrained, if only I’d seen, The hollow end of this killing machine. I hear the distant inmates’ clamour, As guards approach in polished armour. Echoes ring through the concrete hall: "Do the crime, give up your time, give up it all." A gallows pole is now my toll, The weight of the iron upon my soul. The Spiritual Appeal Last rites are read, a spiritual appeal, But the silence of God is the only thing real. He whispered to me in a voice like thunder: "Shouldn't have dropped that hammer, or torn life asunder." My response was solemn as the end drew near, Though I told the walls I felt no fear. But the smell of death is thick and close, A heavy, haunting, final dose. Prayer now departed from my guardian’s hand, As I leave the world of the living man. The Reaper’s Receipt The reaper chimed in with a hollow grin: "No more games to play, let the fire begin. Hell is coming your way, Inmate 6, The clock has stopped its rhythmic ticks." The inmates shout through the bars and steel: "Should have cut a deal for an appeal!" But now it’s late, the walk is straight, With my own two hands, I sealed my fate. The rope was set, the air grew thin, The price was paid for the original sin. The gallows pole took a heavy bend, And Inmate 6 met his silent end.
By Vinn Black5 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
I love the steady rhythm and the imagery of building, brick by brick.