Poem | Vibrations

Vibrations

My screams do not resonate.

Their disruptions are blocked by the mountains before me.

I am on foot wearing brand new shoes.

My depression will not break me.

I have been broken on the floor desperate for agility and stability, for which both have alluded me.

My screams of disapproval bounce off the landscape and echo beyond.

If I was born to burn then why am I not lit?

I am at present dissolute to the reality of my purposes.

If the flame is life and I am ash, can I not recover by igniting the path?

Will the mountains subside if I rise?

If I begin with brand new shoes, can I climb the mountain to enjoy the view?

My faith is real, as am I.

The view is magnificent even with closed eyes.

I can see the future beyond the mountains.

My life will recover, I just have to let it happen.

Poem by Tristan Rimbaud

Poem – Racist Candles (I.S.O.P. Award Winner)

Racist Candles

Slowness in me,

Because you became the need.

Your eternal flame physically dead,

I can still feel your presence with its etched resurgence.

Of your flame that burns still within me.

Hold on, let go.

Become one, cold as the snow.

Your message shall never die.

Even through one such as me,

Meek; yet sturdy as the tree that held the roots of life.

Spilled from heaven,

Burning from hell.

My life covers all.

I love you, I hate them.

The battling grounds continue to weigh me down!

No matter what, you shall live with ticking clocks.

As I hold you in the scented candle,

On my mantle,

Within my soul full of coal to keep it alive.

Poem by: Tristan Rimbaud

1998 International Society of Poets Washington D.C. Convention

Young Poet of the Year Award

Poem – Bound

Bound

Your self-powered confusion brought upon your eager selfish side.

No need for disagreement, for rightful deeds be done.

Accept your self-disabled side,

For what you see around you isn’t truth.

Your pathway is blocked by boundaries such as you.

Read this poem and more in Through Psychic Eyes by Tristan Rimbaud available in paperback and digital editions.

Click here for more information.

Poem – Me, Myself, and I

Me, Myself, and I

Me, one day went to a grave that beheld an awful sight!
For myself was buried within its rubble,
With glaringly sick delight.
Off to the side, leaning against a tree,
I watched as myself began to scream.
“What is this, pitiful pleasure?”
I said to me.
“Is your joy, your pain?
Are your needs his pleads?”
Thinking about myself,
I quickly disappeared.
Now it was me that was left standing by the tree.

Read this poem and more in Through Psychic Eyes by Tristan Rimbaud available in paperback and digital editions.

Click here for more information.