To Be Is Not To Be

What is Love?

Living is death,

No air or breath.

Joy is also pain,

Sunshine – rain.

But, the heart beats on…

Strength degrades to weakness,

Confidence fades into meekness,

Happiness shares similarity with depression,

Desired peace is voiced as angry expression,

But the heart beat on…

The truth was in honesty (reality) only lies.

Laughter – as the person I was – painfully dies;

This corpse I now am, I bitterly hate and despise.  

All those perceived feelings – have shed their mask of illusion;

No more than the mind, nerves, and senses, logical conclusion –

Pointless iterations preceding a predestined death, life – a delusion.

But the TRUE heart STILL beats on,

And though all hope and life is gone –

These verses remain beating strong.

Composed By: A. D.

A Futile Lament for Relief

A man stood on the subway platform, incessantly calling out;

As the trains were steadily passing, and commuter’s amassing.

Destitute, ignored, and socially deplored, he continued to shout.

His eyes were filled with a strange sort of desperation;

From his lips cries spilled, like the liquids of perspiration.

The repetitive echoes, emanated from his continuous calls;

Reverberating like an orchestras performance, on concert halls.

Deep in his Flesh, he knew each of the passerby’s could hear;

And in his Heart – pain, for none would lend a compassionate ear.

Their dismissal pierced, his Skin and Organ, like a fatal spear.

Finally, a young child and her mother, walked past his incessant pleas;

The young girl`s hair, innocently blowing, in the passing cars breeze.

Time would pause for a moment, as the man and child locked eyes;

His were brown as the earth, and hers were azure as the skies.

The virtuous youth, had yet to become a gadget of humanity;

And saw only a desperate soul, where other`s saw insanity.  

She looked at him with curiosity, and her mind grew very puzzled:

Wondering why no other would assist the man who was troubled?

Why they leered, mocked, and neglected; another who struggled?

So, without a moment of further contemplation,

She decided to help him – no indifferent hesitation.

Knowing (without cognition) that a smile, a wave, and a friendly "hi";

Might be the cure, for the stranger, who seemed to internally die.

The youth tenderly prepared to offer, the injured individual, a friendly wave;

But stayed the salutation at the roaring command, which her callous mother gave.

Her eyes filled with tears; as the next train - took the beaten, conceded man to his grave.

Composed By: A. D.

The Being`s Bloodshed

In the depth of the evening, he continues to duel;

With little communal incentive to use as a fuel.

Consumed by belittlement and helpless gloom;

He remains adherent, fighting forward in his room.

The lieutenant of his armies is, a glorious ironclad volition;

The only hope for victorious dreams, to achieve fruition.

Feeling the faith fading, in the face of impending doom -

Still, he will only stop trying and battling

When the fingers of death, deliver his flesh to his tomb.

The wind blows, the windows are rattling -

The air rakes, it`s cold chill slithers across his spine;

His hand also shakes, his brow is saturated with brine.

His spirit is steady – No, it`s pulsating, aflame with hot blaze.

His heart stands at the ready, thirsty and throbbing to amaze.

His desire marauding, on the page; all enemies it will raze.

He is nodding, applauding the violent rage – as the combatants engage.

His company strikes swiftly, killing in a gory haze and daze.

Blood spills like ink, weapons flourish like pens, each hand motion delivers death -

As the initial prospect shifts, it`s very vicious tide, and switches to it`s inverse side.

Defeated cries flood, as enemies doubt and disdain are slain – taking their final breath.

The individual stands over the cowards and fallen foes;

His troops raise their arms, crimson stains their clothes.

If he cannot defeat himself, then who can oppose?

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

An Execution on a Desktop

No tears fell, no fears swell, as the condemned took the stage.

The ax rapidly came down, with the silence of a falling feather;

A shrill chill blew through the air, not brought on by the weather.

Blood fell upon the snow, staining the sheet like ink on a page;

Pointless hope ended, as abruptly, as the final line of a bard`s verse

(The rhythm of life, almost perfect, the only mar is: it’s by far too terse).  

No audience, at this point, only the executioner and ax truly care.

A dream, in the consummation of its crucifixion, leaves a nightmare.

Reality – a jest, or a test?

Life – a lucid dream, a whimsical fantasy,

(Or a moment of apparent sensation and brevity)?

Humanity – ingests and infests.

Eternity – some sort of divine idea of levity?

Death – living answers were found, like metaphors clearly explained…

Death – morbid mysteries so profound, those implications – restrained…

Death – The Reality of Life, which is consuming Humanity for all Eternity…

Death – the executioner placed the ax down and laughed at the absurdity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Anti-venom

She had ambled and rambled, through the reverie and the bramble;

Unaware that she gambled, with something deadly in the preamble.

Her imagination was sterilized, after a few days without any poetry;

She was bitten and paralyzed, by the serpent of complacency – totally.

The apparently virulent venom vehemently affects her mentality,

Seemingly contaminating concoction course through her personality…

(The motions of her art, aren`t easy to forget –

The waves of emotions, which flood the sight

The ink like blood – mud, which soils the white;

The rhymes, like snakes, uncoil then recoil – applying a bite

Of unmitigated evocation – somehow, a beneficial sensation)…

Yet, this infection, in the plasma of her imagination;

Is the medication for the asthma of her pen,

The alleviation of the restraint of her spiritual Zen,

(Like Pythagoras) Her summation, her perfection – ten.

This was, the elision of all her metrical stagnation,

The sanitation of all her melodious formulations.

Her Anti-venom.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Death In The Theater

(The man dove into another description…

To the blank sheet – (as always) his life, he gave;

With a feeling the page would become his grave,

Still his hand traced another depiction.)

Starting a new page, revealing a fresh blank stage;

This is where we start the show, under a fluorescent glow.

Each letter plays its part, as we raise the curtains and start:

The setting is a place called New York City

(The time - the director is intentionally forgetting),

As a soul drifts, among the human race –

Inside his mind, he is feeling pretty sh*tty.

He is consumed by this state of emotion…

His tone emanates with the sadness which escalates,

The cause and reason for this is not the gloomy season.

It`s due to the time which has been lost,

As mortals are moments are too few;

And the past is something we can`t mime,

So each passing second carries a heavy cost.

Like rhymes in a bard`s sad lonely song…

Which are slowly fading from everyone`s sight…

Time can`t be written again, no matter how powerful the pen.

His thought is focused on the prior – the past,

To all the dreams – the prey he never caught.

Failed accomplishments, consume his cheer, like locust;

Lost opportunities, make him shiver, like a sudden icy blast.

His ponderings are unfinished – a sudden interjection -

As the audience watches but the ending is incomplete,

Yet - with a sense of puzzling confusion - they are met.

To the shock of their viewing perception;

From the ceiling the curtains begin to retreat,

The play was perplexing, and the curtains - are set.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Revealed Enigmas, Though Irises Negate Any Sight (RETINAS)

His eyes stare (entranced) into the aqueous lake of black,

Like a fisher of fallen, there is something with calling;

Which his pen brings back (to add to the track),

Leaving the joy – sullen, as the horror is crawling.

The incubus is sprawling, through the ink on the page.

Infernally imparted diction is expressed without restriction.

The temper is in a rampant rage, the stanzas develop on a stage.

From the slate river, enemies arise, thousands of eyes filled with hate;

Manifesting from his darkened haze, he`s hypnotized by their binding gaze.

The ocular occult images swirl, closing in around his carcass;

He is hoping and praying, these dark spectacles will pass.

He feels frozen in astounding awe and frigid fear,

The feeling restraining his mind is steadily compounding;

His courage is unable to thaw, as the visions draw near.

The hour is beyond late, and their surveillance does not abate,

More enemies continue to generate – not attacking - but wait…

“What do they want?” his logic begins reasoning and expounding.

Staring deep into the vision of each apparition,

Into each lidless lens filled with animosity and arbor

(This heap of the diabolical division of preterition);  

The initial dismay is trimmed, like hair to a barber.

The evil eyes in collision with the rhetorician,

As he analyzes, he notices another feeling they harbor…

Past all their the enmity, beyond all that is hollow;

He detects an enigma, hidden down deep below.

It feels as though, in the mystery, he now envisions;

He is being imparted, some positive potential previsions.

A developing divination in the eyes begins to show

(His mind becomes astute,

His bravery grows resolute.);

Their stares and glares, he shrewdly, will now follow.

“What is this emotion?” he works tirelessly to reason out.

“They are filled with some purpose, of this there is no doubt;

A stranger sort of hunger, not propelled by famine or drought”

…He notices and detects, that they have a sort lonely sorrow,

From drifting endlessly in the shadowy - in the lurid and obscure;

In stygian nebulous realm, grim and dim – in darkness ever-more.

“Perhaps, a moment of illumination they desire to borrow,

And they seek (if even for a blink), through this body to be free”?

Upon reaching this deduction, their demonic surveys, fill with glee.

He continues to dwell, in their presence for a slight spell;

Making many amends, for presuming they weren`t friends.

To him, many latent caches they unseal,

Many clandestine crafts they reveal.

Rising with a farewell (like smoke from a pyre), he opens his eyes to the night;

Back under the comforting gaze of the sire, and warmth of the moonlight.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Epitaph

She stood in silence of the empty graveyard...

She wanted to speak, but found it to hard…

Her heart was filled with ravenous regret and great guilt

From all the pain – and she would continuously run away.

In silence of the night tears fell as she hid alone and cried,

In the light of the day, she`d hide in the fortress she built.

A keep - made of fake smiles is where she would, daily, stay;

Until the blood she spilled and salted waters had dried.

The woman, which the rest of the world knew (the camouflage)

Was absolutely content, loyal, loving, and upbeat.

Nothing about this joyful girl appeared at all forlorn,

A testament to her expertly displayed disguise (her mirage).

They knew nothing of her disposition of defeat,

The low self-esteem, and the scars which were worn.

She`d display the deceptive image at her place of vocation;

Showing off the false smiles, in multiple pictures on Instagram.

So deft at deceit, she usually almost believed fiction was actuality.

Why should she not believe in her dishonest creation,

If everyone else believed in the visage (not seeing the scam)?

She fooled her closest companions and lied to her own family…

… To one, however, she was momentarily real and genuine.

Not because she wanted to, but due to all they had been through.

This person was shown her very best and also the faulty –

Had sampled all the sweetness and the bitter and salty.

Through both heaven and hell, their friendship steadily grew;

And like the titanic, they didn`t see the approaching ruin.

Despite the multiple repeated lies and careless disregard from her;

A second-second chance to show loyalty and honesty would occur.

The person stood by her bedside, when she was in the hospital;

And forgave all the untruth, every injury, ignored the suspicion,

Repaired the damage that she cause; believed she would reach her optimum –

Despite endless betrayals, that her commitment would be at its` maximum.

She swore that her love was endless, without any condition –

And this would be the most destructive lie which she would tell.

In their time spent together she`d reveal secrets, she claimed none knew;

Despite her character, the person took those things revealed, to be true.

The deepest desires of her dreams, the fervor and ferocity of her fears;

The person loved her honest smiles and consoled all her falling tears.

She lived in her disguise and tried not to think about the person she destroyed.

All responsibility for the death, she just blew off and would utterly avoid

Thinking about the life, her nefarious ways had carelessly severed apart;

She was an artist who created an odious, abhorrent work of modern art.

She tried to ignore looking or speaking to the grave,

Of the friend, that she didn`t even attempt to save.

She justified her decisions and actions, by relying on advice of transitory friends;

But despite all their instructed fancies and her own delusional illusions,

The reality, the validity, the filthy fact – she couldn`t wash away or cover or cleanse…

Which was: She killed the person with her repeated wicked contusions.

And though the person screamed every obscenity as they died at her hands;

No matter the words said - to this day, one phrase remains and forever stands.

No matter the wrongs, who threw the first stone, how she avoided it; she couldn`t undue

A truth the person expressed as they died… She tried to avoid their last words… “I Love You”.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Monsoon Of Gloom

The winds around the tiny ship were growing.

The captain stood at the helm all alone,

As Poseidon`s breath was violently blowing.

The coward crew had abandoned ship

In a frivolous attempt to swim home.

Precipitation, from the clouds, began to slip.

The true fury of the tempest had, only begun to show.

From aft to forecastle, the vessel was tossed;

As the savage waters, cast the steel hull to and fro.

The captain, as a first mate, survived A Shipwreck before

(The experience, on his soul, was eternally embossed),

So he held his course; although he was still unsure…

… Of what the payment for this journey might be.

He looked up at the sky, and was filled with uncertainty;

As thunder from the black, flashed above the sea.

The captains` disposition was dedicated and humble,

In his heart he fought any sort of self-sustaining vanity;

So his commitment to his mission did not stumble.

The fact, that his own life (to him) was of little value or meaning;

Caused him to steer the ship further forward –

Deeper into the adverse waves, rumbling thunder, rain streaming.

Some might say he was suicidal, and others that he was bold,

But as the craft, into the squall, moved toward –

In his heart the captain felt (of his life) totally indifferent and cold.

The deluge pouring from the clouds was now increasing,

And the raging typhoon had grown – more vicious;

Still, the captains` progress was not close to ceasing.

The wash, now consuming the deck, continued to swell;

And the voyage began to appear - more pernicious –

Yet, the commander feared neither death nor hell.

Doubts of survival began multiplying, rising in the interior;

He felt an intense fear of the craft becoming overtaken,

As Zeus and Poseidon wrought calamity on the exterior.

The pilot knew others were depending on the cargo

(And their reliant trust, could not afford to be forsaken),

Which resided in the holds down inside and below.

The worn vessel was no longer under the skippers’ control –

But, some strange spirit kept the boat afloat and advancing;

Pressing through the behemoth blasts, and each riptide roll.

Suddenly, the man saw ahead, a developing tremendous tidal wave.

He knew that: he and the ship, with destruction were dancing;

And that this last step, enveloping, would drag them to the grave.

In a series of flashing moments (which felt like an hour) –

With the moan of aqua and steel; the ship was submerged in the brine,

By the flood of pressure, from Poseidon` pure power.

Held within the savage drink, there was no air generated;

Sounds and sights were distorted and deafened. After some odd time

Had passed, with the captain in this condition, he suffocated.

The captain felt the life leaving his body, and felt a new fear.

The fear was not due to his current form, now passing;

It`s source at first, like his vision, was occult – and unclear.

Soon however, the reason became evident in his dying mind –

He thought about the souls, with their agony surpassing;

He felt terrible, a new source of hope, they`d have to find.

His sight, in death, grew dark as night, then was bright white.

He was lost in utter stillness – an emptiness beyond the storms` violence.

The place reminded his spirit of staring directly into sunlight.

Formless, he drifted, not feeling a thing – beyond absolutely numb

He attempted to discern a direction, in this realm of light and silence;

And soon felt as if he was falling asleep, to this feeling he`d succumb.

In a moment his vision rejoined the obsidian, and flesh he was feeling.

Opening his eyes, he saw the celestial sphere – the terrestrial ceiling.

He felt the sunshine, and heard the cry of a gull, as he awoke from the lull.

The five senses (at first dull), were detected by the receptors in his skull.

Slowly standing, erect on the deck, he looked ahead and saw port and land;

How he and the battered ship pushed past the tempest, he couldn`t understand.

The only thing which the commander knew, in his heart – through and through;

Was he hoped that the vigorously contested cargo brought joy – to at least a few.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Power Is Out

The light flickered on and off

A man blew out smoke

Followed by a harsh cough

As a woman spoke…

His eyes were fixed upon the light

Transfixed upon the bulb of glass

When brand new, it shone – so bright

But, then, time must always pass

He remembered when it was first installed

The brilliance of it, he reminisced

Recollecting that thought, he also recalled

Her radiance and illumination – he missed

In the somber silence after sunset

The trusting moments of the past

He smoked the cigarette, with regret

Till she spoke, finally – at last

… “I do not love you” and more

“I only cared about you” to finish.

Yet, only the echoes of what came before

Repeated, replayed, and did not diminish

Heartbreak numbed his weary mind

No words, no response, could he find

And without warning, no alert, the end came about

The bulb, the light, the love – were all snuffed out.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Twenty-twenty

The apparent and seeming madness,

Are only the senses heightened;

Uplifted in the lengthy solace -

Frightened, but also enlightened.

“In the late empty night,

Filled with all-seeing insight.

Knowledge not used for destruction or power,

Though much seems void – in this desolate hour –

This artistic vision, is breeding positive construction;

Once blind sight employed, is now without obstruction.

While unable to see the present clearly,

Looking beyond the sea of the evident;

Fantasia is visible, almost perfectly…

In Utopia, the eyes are a resident…”

The instant, Life and Death,

Every exhale of warm breath;

Are just more momentary metaphors,

Purchased from a neurological store.

Every sensual and physical reception

Has no effect on our core.

The pain the heart endures

The blissful – every conception

All emotions, through time, are fleeting

Every object, in slow decay – retreating.

It often seems, for all life gives –

That bitch also takes away;

But in the dreams, all beauty lives

For eternity, never to see a ditch

Dug down six feet - it`s never ending,

The journey, into a world of play.

- Artists are the dreamers -

The hands of mortal time

Are rendered into no more;

Than imagination`s secret door,

In the artist’s frame of mind.

Even the concrete building, rising, in its absolute mass;

Is born from the same material, which gives us glass.

A passing, accelerating automobile;

No longer is moving modern steel,

When entering the artist’s second view –

Just a cloud drifting out in the blue.

For it is observed that all objects in the universe

Are composed of atoms, molecules;

Which are in a base way, quite the same…

So, to the “nutty” poetic frame of brain;

All objects exposed to metaphor`s rules,

Achieve the same comparison when placed in verse.

As this realization is reached, what seems like insanity;

Fades from view, and becomes no more than: perfect clarity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Empty Poet

For every poem that is shown

Six poems are hidden away

For every flower that is grown

Six seeds in the earth still lay

For all the various emotions

Which are poetically expressed

The one that occurs most

Which is mostly repressed

(Not to brag or boast)

Is the feeling of indifference

This life is rife

With strife and pleasure

There`s leisure and labor

Which create feelings

That come in every flavor

In these emotional dealings

For all the various emotions

He personally prefers to remain empty

When he is not immersed in poetry

For if he didn`t cloak his mind in apathy

Then his mind would bring him insanity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Silhouettes

Watching the shadows pass

Upon the drab concrete;

Silhouettes in mirror`s glass,

Each shades movement is fleet.

The images move in silence.

Object are bending

The light, defiance;

Twilight, they`re rending.

Reflections made in the night;

Exposed by black ink,

Upon a page of white,

They slither and slink.

And though the shadows move - so discrete,

As they journey through the dim lit street;

Their casters bring sounds of pure elation,

As they leave the stations of their vocation.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Sweating Bullets

The poet started out that night with a few simple bars;

Outside his window, the only sound was passing cars.

“Soon they will arrive to torment -

The unseen voices, echoing without relent.

Insults falling in a steady torrent,

Ridicule calling leaving me spent.

To the paper I`ll run and hide,

In it`s leaves I`ll safely abide;

Till the verbal attacks eventually subside,

Within these verses, I must now reside.”

His life and soul, he would gladly return;

If only in doing so, he wouldn`t have to burn.

He tried to smile, all the time, throughout it all;

But the harder he tried, the harder he`d fall.

Keeping the feelings inside each sunlit day;

There they would reside; hidden away.

Each night, voices incessantly insulted him, groups of friends;

Their distant ridicule, which anointed him, knew no ends.  

With only his book to keep him company;

In his solace, he felt, already in purgatory.

He never felt an emptiness, which was so filling.

Slowly, his life`s dullness was becoming thrilling.

A tempest of torment and emotions filled his hollowed mind;

But, an onset of anguish, was the only feeling he could find.

The silence of the night, he had grown to fear;

For in the darkness, the voices became clear.

On this particular evening, after the darkness had set;

Silence was broken, with suicide`s calling, his hearing had met.

Whispering taunts in his sunken ears,

“Do it, you pussy” is all he hears.

Yet, his heart failed to complete the deed;

So, chants continued from the demonic breed.

“You fucking bitch” they, now, repeatedly did yell;

These relentless, restless nights, were his living hell.

 Closing his lids, still hearing their reprise;

And then came the flashes of hate filled eyes.

He stared at them, eyes shut, with a will of steel;

The fear of death, and of violence, he did not feel.

He lay steady and at the ready, to attempt to defeat;

Any demonic or human foe, which he might meet.

With all his might, he attempted to do what is right;

But with violent temptation, he fought a losing fight.

He was tired of being called a fearful coward;

His inert raging energy, had now been powered.

Up from his bed, his body was furiously sprung;

Like a bullet from a recently shot, smoking gun.

His hand grabbed the closest makeshift weapon.

From that night`s battle, he would not run.

A knife and a bat, infuriation - tremors in his hand

To their death, he would send the incessant band.

It was 3:30 am, and he was on the concrete;

No intention, or ideas, of peaceful retreat.

He saw not a shadow of a person in sight,

Met only with the sounds of the dead of night.

So his eyes filled with a flood of tears,

Experiencing - the worst of all his fears.

For all the visions and words the voices said;

Were only the ruminations, and creations in his head.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Poet Phoenix

Into the fires racing

Failure he`s now facing

So no looking back

The poet took the dive

Searing is the pain

A reminder he`s alive

No thoughts to retract

Falling like the rain

Once again pursuing the dreams

Anguish envelops the soul

Sleepless nights took their toll

In silence he violently screams

Chanting “Fuck the fear

Let my death draw near”

Releasing all he holds dear

Through the waves of tormenting flame

His body he will readily choose to maim

Tumbling flesh torn against each cliff

Each new wound creating a glyph

Every painful and bloody rune

Is joyfully inscribed and hewn

Exposed bone tempered into steel

In each new jagged collision

His flesh ruptures and starts to peel

Blood runs, blinding vision

Spiraling through the fiery sky

Like a comet he did fly

The angels silently gazed

As he fell through the blaze

The demons wickedly laughed

As he tumbled down the shaft

The poet thought-

If two are against you

Do they remain two?

In that moment he was born anew

And lost to all that he once knew

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Spider Webs

As the sky grows violet

Thing nocturnal appear

The world grows violent

Day creatures fill with fear

This spider comes alive

In the quickening night

Under the moon he`ll thrive

As his dark silk starts to write

In a web of darkness

Steadily he makes toiling progress

Spinning his creation from nothingness

Underneath Luna`s kiss

The web is primed

The fabric is spun

Strings are rhymed

None are undone

Prepared to capture

Any who venture

Into the black haze

Of this spiders maze

Composed By: A. D.

The Paper Cup

The cup is filled to the top

Icy cold, drank from non-stop

No regrets for what was lost

No concern for the total cost

Consuming till half is gone

Still it`s lasted this long

Not as cool as it once might have been

Still, refreshment is readily given

Three-quarters have been drunk

In total quite a significant chunk

The ice has melted and it`s watered down

The contents disappeared cannot be found

With one last sip the cup is empty

Remembering when there was plenty

When the ice cold drink was brand new

Used and old, thrown away, gone from view.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker