A Fighters Journal Of Love
“Its Ok To Be A Little Broken”
This rear view mirror I look into landscapes horizons of blue sky. These blue skies that show themselves, casting shadows of clouds showing me the four corners of crossroads I have crossed, watching Gods painted sky, settle upon this soul of mine.
Tears flowing down my cheeks I ask myself do I really want to take a life this night? Unhappy asking myself why, why can’t things be the way I want them to be? A note written to the one I love, telling her it’s over, just can not take it anymore.
The power of evil grows rooting itself in this heart of mine, a lap of burning coals rising up in the air of a cool summer breeze. Going the distance, walking instead of driving, thinking things over, looking upon a prayer asking him if he’s real.
Standing on a four way corner, looking into an approaching interchange, the junction of crossroads no longer seem real. Not believing in God, not believing in heaven, only believing in hell for that’s the only thing that seems real.
Life is too short, wanting to take this life of mine tonight. What will come of tomorrow if I stick around? The air I breathe tonight is that of a poet, a last breath of this poet that unearths words, showing written words of love to the one I love, forever in love not falling out of love.
My mind still falls into the love of the ring, trying to remember why I ever wanted to fight.
Being put out, down for the count, my chance to ever fight again fades away. This beast dormant never really sleeping comes to life, the pain of recovery rattling this soul’s chain, wondering when the beast of seizures will shake again.
Once a poet, always a poet for the words has always been there, I’m told.
Am I a poet? I don’t think so. Am I a fighter? Does it really matter? There’re is more to life than wanting to fight for glory, gaining the prize of sweat and blood of another, being spilled on the mat along with the pain and injury of your opponent, only to win a fight for what?
So in the eyes of this washed up fighter, I will always be that fighter that tried doing what he enjoyed.
These words I write are the unearthed words of what will become the signature of a dead poet’s pen. A journal of love, for the one I love who will read this poem.
“The Poets Last Breath”
Simple and smooth as the gift of the poets pen.
Resting upon the arch of his hand.
His eyes thrive,
Not what’s in front of him but what his mind sees inside the echoing halls of whispering thoughts, words resting peacefully upon his last living breath.
The crossroads of life
Lying in the shadows of each word written.
The creation of what the poets mind feels before death we see it written.
The image of romance embraced by love captured by emotions not forgotten.
A poem written for the one he loves not spoken but whispered in the mind of his lady as she reads the words written by the love of her poets hand.
She rest upon a memory, a memory of one she loved
Tears that fall once held back
Looking into the depths of his brown dark eyes
She smiles, holding his hand
Life has gone, life has passed on
Making a memory for the footsteps
Crossroads of pain and sorrow
She’s about ready to follow
Not knowing why he left
Without saying goodbye
This is the beginning of another book of poetry that I’m working on, more to come. This is based on reality and yes at one time I did contemplate the thought of ending my life many years ago. I’m OK now and life is worth living, I look at life as a gift and however one believes I believe that our creator bestows gifts upon us and they are hidden within all of us and he has his ways of putting these gifts in front of us, for what ever they may be. I’m hoping that what I’m writing here will be published one day; if not at least it will be a legacy for my family. Arthur Henn
