The Black Puppet

The light in my veins turned to dark as I saw what they did to you.

I wouldn’t just sit back and watch.

Tell me your fears, your worries, your anger and I shall be yours to control.

I will be your puppet.

I will be yours to control.

So I dawned the mask and put on the hood, ready to strike.

I’ll let their blood drip onto my hands so you can be free of them.

I am part of a larger plan, a plan that I have no control over.

For I am just a puppet, guided by God and led by fate.

Blided by anger.

Pushed by hate.

Vox Populi

There are those heralded and praised as geniuses.

Some deserve the title.

Yet others are given a false sense of pride.

And here I stand among the rest of us, under the guise of idiots.

We hide behind jocular masks, here to entertain the intelligent.

But under these fake smiles, plots a revolution.

Under these false grins are the hate filled frowns of fools.

They drive us closer to the edge, pushing us like lemmings.

But this is where we are strongest: backs against the wall, thinking on our feet.

These puppets cut their strings, fighting with their own will.

Wondrous Wonderings

I’ve contemplated shutting down the blog recently. I utterly hate giving you all these absolute piss poor excuses for updates that have nothing to do with writing, but I’m not getting any better. If anything, I’m getting worse.

Most poets and writers are able to write more…vividly when under extreme emotion or duress, but I’m the opposite.
It might have been a foolish dream to try and be the King of Words, but I’ll struggle to keep trying.

Friends, do not read this as a plea for attention. Never think me so low. I’ve digressed too much; My time writing will be greatly diminished and the amount of poems here shall trickle to a halt for now, but I plan on coming back.

I’m so sorry everyone.

Be well all!

-Davis Gwynn

Current Predicament

Hello everyone. I’m horribly depressed as of now. Oh it’s nothing to worry about for I’m sure it will pass….but in case it doesn’t I wanted to thank you all for the incredible support you’ve given me. You’ve all given me confidence and that’s an amazing feeling that I owe all to you, friends.

I know I write about dark, depressing, creepy, and cynical things, but at heart I’d like to believe I’m a good person.

However, as it stands, I’ve gone insane. The definition of insanity as I’ve so constantly written about and defined is, ahem, “Repeating an action over and over again while expecting a different result.” My insanity is forgiveness. Now there are people who should and deserve to be forgiven, but I have yet to meet them face-to-face.

My friends, don’t let me get you down! I’ll write to you all again soon. For those who see this, thank you. For those who do not, thank you as well.

Oh and keep well, all. Keep well.

Until I write again,
Davis Gwynn.

Specifics on my Last Poem

The Poem does have some of my own thoughts, but it’s mainly to embody the thoughts and feelings of three new characters I’m working on. They are: Stanley “Stan” Whitley, Michael Dipperson, and Sarah Mable. The last poem (Thoughts of a Tumultuous Poet), needs explanation, and, as such, that is my fault. However, these three characters are going to be featured in the first book I ever submit to a publisher. More details to follow.

Best regards,
Davis Gwynn

Thoughts of a Tumultuous Poet

I can’t decide if I want all of you to burn or just some of you.

You take no pride in yourself.

I think you should be quiet for all that comes put of your mouth is a lie.

What happened to us?

Don’t look me in the eyes and then not say something.

Don’t just scurry past me like I’m your worst fear.

It’s a nice day out. Shame I have to spend it indoors working.

I’d much rather be writing than dealing with you pretentious pricks.

Fuck you, fuck this, and fuck me for putting up with you.

Oh god I’m sorry for getting angry even though you act like a child.

What story must I rewrite to have him fuck off into oblivion?

Me? Harsh and crass? Impossible.

After this I swear to whatever higher being there may be, I’m moving to an island and becoming a hermit; Salinger had the right idea.

Everytime I see your face, I die a little on the inside.

Is there any light that hasn’t been corrupted by us as a species?

And in the fierce fiend of a distempered dream, the poet awoke from his long dreamt nightmare, terror and fear holding providence in his mind.

Soon, Stephen King, you’ll know my name.

How is it that I, someone who loves and respects everyone equally, could absolutley hate everyone at the same time.

How is it that one person could make me love the world so much?

They wonder why I hide my face from everyone and everything.

I will rewrite this story! I will change how things turned out.

Silence is golden and those who keep it are even better.

I keep to myself? Well of course, how do I know I can trust any of you?

I’m a tad paranoid.

I’m a bit of a hypocrite.

I’m a bit of a fool.

Look into my fierce eyes and see the truth.

Just let me sit here amongst my broken memories and tears and let me write.

You

You’ve left, and I can feel my heartbreaking.

Your scent lingers in the air still, and it seduces me with memories.

I can still feel your head on my chest, your lips on mine, and your hand entwined in mine.

My arms feel empty without you in them, and I can feel my heart sinking.

I’d give everything up just to keep you here with me forever.

But, in my heart of hearts, I know that in the future we’ll have all the time in the world to grow old.

Wisdom has been imparted to me and I shall never let her go.