Camena Vita Explorationis

Poetry written at the dark hours of night and through the cold winds of winter, and poetry written in the glorious sunlight and through summer's warm array. The title of this book, "Camena Vita Explorationis" translates into "Poetry of the Searching" from Latin. "Battle" and "Dear Mr. Gove" are both published poems.


1. Battle

I turn on my heel

In the blinding darkness,

Feet tingling over the warm night sand,

Only for the dark to be pierced

By the shining light from the illuminating moon onto the land.


And below it, the murky waters

Mimicking the sky above

In all its dark, sapphire glory.


The sea’s bipolarity inflicts,

As it sways and swishes,

Gently hitting against the eroded rocks betwixt,

Before stilling momentarily and resuming its dance.


I step forward from the ticklish golden grains,

Interrupting the perfection of the sea in front,

Slicing through its peaceful layer,

Its mood changes: it roars, it shakes.


But I continue, carefully diminishing the ocean surface,

Killing it with every step I move forward,

Going deeper into its place of sanctuary and refuge.


And then its fury comes into action,

Trapping me in its freezing grasp;

I’m stuck, unable to move.

Its revenge is coming, it is inescapable.


Then it happens, by a split second,

The icy depths, now conjugated with the once-still surface,

To make a prison, inescapable, unnegotiable.


Leaping, jumping, pushing me underneath its shallow exterior,

I scream a noiseless scream, lungs burning with misery.

The melancholy is true, inevitable.

There is nothing I can do, but calm underneath the covering.


I am going to die.


But I wake up,

In my bed, though in a cold sweat.

“It was a doomed dream,”

But no, it was not.


For though I may have not drowned

Physically and bodily,

I am already dead,

Emotionally and mentally.


And as I walk through the shattered glass of Consequence,

I see that it may have just been better off as a reality,

For my world is already drowning me,

But this time, the sea, the tormentor

Doesn’t have this much magnificence and beauty.


And I battle it every day,

Listen to its insulting notions,

Back and forth, back and forth.


It doesn’t understand

What I have to go through.

The constant demand of society

Is enough to want me to bid adieu.


“What the hell is wrong with you?

You’re a piece of dirt,

No matter how hard I rub off the stain,

It just never comes off, it always grew.

That stupid stain is you.”


Yet I still must go through it,

Non-stop, every second of my conflicting life,

Not a single moment of peace,

Not even in my sleep.


As I walk through the burning abyss of Memory,

I am bombarded by the bleeding wounds,

Not yet healed, fresh and open,

And it hurts, the pain is unbearable.


The fighting doesn’t stop,

I’m told that I’m hated,

Worthless, unneeded,

“Go, leave, go die,” it stated.


I must battle with my mind.

I must carnage with myself.

And it’s not going to ever end.


I’m better off going to the cemetery.

Because this is the world I must endure.

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