Otebon's Strange Poetry

[Otebon Albrecht]

Every once and a while, I happen to sit down and get slapped over the head by Seredipity. These sorts of things are what comes out.


Lasciate Ogni Speranza:

Why do you struggle?
What drives you to resist?
Where can you find refuge?
When will you be safe?
How can you expect the best?

There is no hope.
There is no light.
Those that try will fail.
Those that run are chased.

How do you proceed with this farce?
When will you accept your fate?
Where will you choose to die?
What is your purpose in continuing?
Why do you struggle?

I am the one that has ended it.
I am the one that sees the world.
Broken dreams and old wishes.
Broken hearts and shattered bodies.

Upon a dark and winding path
You come upon a dark portal.

"Through me lies your future.
Through me is only darkness."

Lasciate Ogni Speranza.


Lucretia:

She laughs, she smiles,
She dances upon the edge.
"Come" she beckons "Come."

"Watch," she says. "Watch."
Watch as the dance flows
along the candles edge.

A single flame stands vigil
The only light within darkness
A thin line between worlds

Who is the one who dances?
Who is the one that laughs?
She is the one that guards.
She is the one that watches.


Masks:

There once was a man proficient in the creation of masks.
He would sit alone every day and build, shape, create.
He would wear his masks, trying them on, testing their feel.
Soon, people began to like him for his masks.
He would go about with a mask to hide his true face.
People weren’t interested in his tale. They wanted to see the mask.

“What will he wear today” they’d say as they gathered to watch.
“Smile, sorrow, or joy?” “Excited or Elated?”
Every day the man wore a mask to please those around him,
For no one was interested in his tale. They wanted to see the mask.

But there were some days where he simply could not bear it.
The thought of a mask was repellent, obscene.
He wished to share himself with the world,
With those that enjoyed his masks.
But no one cared for his Tale. They wanted to see the mask.

Stings would break, faces would slip.
Façade’s broken asunder due to the cruel whims of fate.
“Go away” they would say to the man here.
“Go and get a new mask,” they would shout and chase.
They didn’t care about his tale. They wanted to see the mask.

As the man practiced, he became a master of his craft.
His masks began to look lifelike and true.
He would wear them so that he was not shunned.
Strings would never break and there was no shame.
For a mask has no shame. For a mask has no story.
The man no longer cared about his tale. They wanted to see the masks.

The man disappeared into nothing.
One day, he simply was no longer there.
His shop lay abandoned, his tools scattered.
His home lay empty, his masks were missing.
Who cared about the man’s tale? They wanted to see the masks.


Feel free to comment, post, talk about, or otherwise look at these. I'd like to keep this thread to continue posting my short bouts of poetic inspiration; if that's alright with the current Moderator.

I'm sure he won't mind.

[MrRazot]

So far I really like your poetry

And I warn you that I go in depth...

the second one is my favourite out of the three, but tell me, are you comparing the flame of a candle to a woman? Google tells me Lucretia was a roman woman who got raped and killed.
If the flame is compared to a woman it really does make sense

First one really does portray hopelessness and the feeling of being alone and well done for that.

Third one is more eerie and I like how it plays only on the surface of the story and leaves me wanting to know why and how and how the poem in general is about the cruel nature of people and how they do not care as long as they get what they want.

Good poems indeed.

[Otebon Albrecht]

Uh... well, truth telling time I suppose.

I call this my "strange" poetry, because usually I don't know what I'm writing till I'm done. Although the title comes after the writing is over, while I'm writing, I have no idea what comes next. So, to get to the specifics of your thoughts... I may be comparing the flame of a candle to a woman. I was aware that Lucretia was the name of a woman in a rather known story of good old-fashioned Roman "Rape and Pillage" (I mean...  they really seemed to like doing that...), but the name brings to mind Light for me (especially with the Latin base "luc").

I forgot to mention above that the Italian translation of the title of the First Poem is as follows:

Lasciate Ogni Speranza: "Abandon All Hope"

In total, thank you Mr.Razot.

[Otebon Albrecht]

Found this one that I wrote a while back. I don't remember when I wrote this, but I think it may have been during a particularly bad attack.


Pitiful Fool

Look at that pitiful creature,
awkward, hobbling, arthritic.
How does he move from day to day?
What drives him to live like this?

Pain assaults from everywhere
unyielding, constant, crushing.
What is the point of suffering?
Why is this his curse?

The lights of blessings ungiven
illuminate the winding road.
The weight of torture unknown
smiles at the prisoner, trapped.

A road with no end in sight
but destination known.
There's no, nor will there be, escape.
Trudge and continue; move on.

When there is no way out
find a way deeper in.
When there is no hope, no light,
learn to pierce through the shadows.

Control your world.
Burn the rules to light your way.
Use your burdens to break your chains.
Dig until you bleed, then some more.

What a pitiful fool I am.

[Otebon Albrecht]

Reputation

Come and listen! Come and hear!
Come and see! Come and believe!
Something everyone has, but no one owns.
Something that is best kept, but impossible to recover.
Formless, thoughtless, and subject to change,
No man controls it, but every man knows it.

It doesn’t matter what you do.
It doesn’t matter what you intend.
It doesn’t matter if you meant to.
It doesn’t matter if you did.

The idea is simple, yet so difficult to grasp.
Your reputation is something you want to last.
Somehow, somewhere you want it to be heard.
Sometimes you wish it didn’t exist.

You can build a thousand shelters and feed millions more.
You can never tell a lie, you may always be there.
But it doesn’t matter, because it’s not what you do.
It’s how they see you.

Curious how such a transient thing can be so important.
Funny how such an inconsequential idea has such weight.
Who has the authority? For what purpose?
The fact of the matter is…

No one does.
Everyone does.

[Otebon Albrecht]

Something I wrote last night.



Summer rain

Calling softly to the Earth below
It falls, it cries
A soft sigh heralds it
There is a passing in the wind.
A Silence broken only by the sound
Of water crashing to the Earth

Safe and warm inside,
The rain falls unnoticed.
Unasked for, it is uncared for.
Uncared for, it is invisible.
Invisible, it is unnecessary.

Days pass without notice,
Days without rain.

Voices rise up to plead with the sky.
“Bring us rain,” they cry.
“Without you we shall pass from here!”

With endless irony, the cycle continues.
The rain comes and showers the people.
At first, the people rejoice.
Then they fall silent in pleasure.
The silence turns to complacent bliss.
The bliss turns to boredom.

Their need filled, the rain is, once more, unneeded.
Their desires sated, they begin to ignore.
Their want gone, they return to their warm houses.

Soft rain falls to nurture their world, and no one notices.

[Otebon Albrecht]

Something I wrote about two weeks ago and wasn't sure if I wanted to post... Woke up and the issue was decided for me...


My Greatest Mistake

Thorn pierces the flesh and holds tightly.
Pain, flaring brightly, spreads softly throughout.
A job to do holds my attention. It can be dealt with later.
The Thorn moves, pain makes itself known.
The job lies unfinished. It can be dealt with later.

How long until the pain becomes important?
At what point does comfort come before obligation?
Is the carpenter required to carve?
The Soldier required to fight?
The man required to love?

Thorn is ripped from its corporal home.
Pain burns away all thought as it comes.
Healing can now begin, but not complete.
The hole remains, covered in scars.
Scabs form, are picked away, to bleed new.

Pain and Pleasure, two distinct concepts for Man.
One is applauded, the other abhorred.
There is little space for middle ground.
Nerves die and blur the grey. There is no distinction.
I miss my Thorn.