Untitled #3

No one really cares where I go.
Time marches on, and the planets still roam.
I want to throw my window wide
And yell to the world what I feel inside.

In the past, I was punished for dreaming,
But my soul went on and continued screaming.
It was, to me, a tragedy
That you would not let me see.

I looked to you, cried out to you, to feel me,
But you were never there for me.
Now my only regret that I cried tears of pain
'Cause I know you'd never do the same.

You're already scared by what floats around in my mind,
And you think that there's something wrong with my kind.
So I ask myself, what good could ever come of this,
To live in fear of your grotesque face.

I realize this day
The price that you must pay.
So just maybe you'll finally feel some regret
When the ground beneath you gets stained scarlet.

---

Originally written:    February 11, 2001
Put online:    March 18, 2001
Discussion:    This is basically a poem written to those who ever had a problem with my poetry or didn't want me to talk or write about what I do or tried to somehow control my creativity (this is something I can't even really do, so how could someone else do it?). Now, I feel some clarification may be needed on certain lines: "...That you would not let me see" means see or realize in word form what is in my head/you could not accept me. The phrase "my kind" refers to artistic, blasphemous people. What is "the price" in the final stanza? I kill the "you" of the poem. Your death is the price that you must pay for the suffering you have caused. Maybe at that time, then, you'll feel some regret over what you've put me through and what you've done to me. Hopefully you'll think, "Oh, gee, maybe I shouldn't have done that." I will always be a thorn in your side, I will always fight you, and I will not give you the satisfaction of winning.


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