, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I have no reservations in my sincerity
I apologize if my intentions skew simple clarity
My commitment in this instance seems a rarity
Why do I continue if there’s nothing to seek?
How do I convince myself there is something to be?
I ask these things of you because I ask myself the same
In this moment I wish to be trapped in a continuous downpour of rain
Feel the earth at my skin
Take each blow, each droplet, on my chin
Bite my tongue and swallow down the hope
Freedom for some is found at the lassoed end of a length of rope
But I am free of everything but my heart
The Doctors told my mother I was handicapped from the start
From the womb I was destined to build and seal my own tomb
No king or pharaoh, his hopes were always too narrow
He could give up dreams of playing a game he loved for a living
But when it came to matters of the heart he always suffered from too much giving
What is suffering he asks himself?
Can any man really suffer if he loves someone true?
Would clouds exist if like the sky they were painted blue?
Could things be, and allude the likes of you and me?
Often I wish, love and I had a relationship like this
But it isn’t so
There’s no length I wouldn’t go
Despite certain absence of reciprocation
Being beaten to death and still practicing patience
Perhaps I would have an excuse if in a padded room and called a patient
But it is in this world I must exist
In this world I’ve willfully pissed away wishes
Because they are like fools gold you see
No good to you or me
Like all this love I have that cannot and will not be
No wait and see, no see you later
Put me on ice, in a morgue’s refrigerator
Perhaps that will cool my blood boiled hot
Alas shut me up on the spot
No awkward sympathies
No performance accompanied by symphonies
Freedom from the truths that bury me in the ground
Freedom from the pain of repetition and its sound
The truth may kill me, but I am alive and my heart does pound
Apparently it’s for nothing, but for me it still is
What good is there in the world, if I still exist just like this?

By Eric Hampton

By Eric Hampton



The Haven Sanitarium: Mystery, Murder, Movie Stars

The Dying Romantic, Poetry

Shaggy Lamb Productions

This Is A Good Sign