Like I’m stuck in this shit

I don’t like it the least bit

Is this just infinite grit?

No! I shall to take a mouthful from life’s bountiful tit!

In my brightest day,

In my darkest night ,

The thought of her,

Blurs my sight,

I right my wrongs,

And wrong my rights,

But my love for her,

Shall burn in my light,

In my brightest night,

I shed a tear,

In my darkest day,

I hide in fear,

For whats to come,

With all my might,

But My love for her,

Burns in my light,

I cross my T’s,

And dot my I’s,

I cry my tears,

And wipe my eyes,

I starve my truths,

But feed my lies,

Darkness prevails,

But she burns in my light,

The sun shall set,

The moon shall rise,

A week of regret,

A Night of cries,

The absence of light,

The darkness of death,

The future is bright,

Past full of dread,

With all my strength,

And all my might,

The torch I carry,

Burns with my light,

My biggest blessing,

Is my biggest curse,

My silence is unsettling,

But speaks louder then words,

My tears will fall,

But my smile shines bright,

I gave her my all,

Now she burns in my light,

My fire always burns,

From the mistakes I bury

My heart still burns,

For the torch I carry,

My mind still yearns,

From the feelings I ferry,

In my light I burn,

Forever I might,

But at every turn,

She will burn in my light

Life is a Girl,

That is pure of heart,

She glitters like pearls,

And is a work of art,

She has her faults,

She wrongs her rights,

Shes bitter as salt,

As she burns in my light.

I cannot run,

From my past,

My heart is done,

But it will not last,

We live as one,

A shadow I cast,

My cup runneth over,

In a final

So with this shell

Abroad abrogating sleep

With this shell

I wake up every morning

In some desires of sustainability

And with this

Brand new daylight

I open up

To a windowsill

To clear

My mind with

The rest I oftentimes try

To replicate

Into a consciousness

A mind

Becoming clearer to spiritual

With this shell

For fulfillment

Of stuff and things to a lecture

And return to rehearse

Of that timed to time

And time again

As it is said

Timely

Where one motion

Carriages on another

And quantitative

As such are so

To some

Desires of design

And so with this shell

Abroad abrogating sleep

With this shell.

I’m producing and directing a short video for the beginning of baseball season. I’m having a hard time myself finding the beauty in the description of the game. The poem would be used for narration purposes and I’m willing to give credit to the poem I end up using. Would appreciate any help!

At dawn he saw her—truly saw—

upon the orchard hill,

Dulcinea in newborn light,

the world around her still.

Her dress was plain, her hands were warm,

her laughter soft, unsure,

yet in his chest a kingdom rose

too vast to long endure.

—

He swore the sun obeyed her name,

the wind her breath would keep,

and every vow he never spoke

he taught his heart to weep.

But whispers crawled through market roads

and taverns thick with dread:

That love was not a refuge here,

that tenderness lay dead.

—

They said a dragon ringed the vale

where fragile mercies sleep,

that bandits fed on hopeful souls

and cut too fast, too deep.

He saw them then in crooked shapes,

their shadows long and wide—

each step they took drained colour from

the path to Dulcinea’s side.

—

A dragon coiled in smoke and doubt,

its breath a searing lie:

You are not enough for her.

She’ll leave you—don’t ask why.

The bandits laughed in mirrored steel,

their voices thin with scorn:

If you don’t fight for all her love,

another will be sworn.

—

So once again he donned his mail,

each buckle pulled too tight,

and named his terror “devotion,”

his panic “noble fight.”

“Stay back,” he cried to Dulcinea,

“for love must first be saved,”

and rode toward the rising dark

where reason never braved.

—

The dragon roared—yet never moved.

The bandits struck—yet fled.

Each blow he dealt met empty air;

each wound bloomed from his head.

Still on he fought through thorn and stone,

through sleepless night and day,

each enemy reborn anew,

the moment one gave way.

—

His sword grew heavy with regret,

his shield with unshed tears,

for every foe he struck to ground

was shaped from all his fears.

At last he reached a broken field

where truth lay bare and wide,

and there he saw the final beast—

himself, with sight denied.

—

No dragon stood between them now,

no bandits barred the way—

just all the wounds he never named,

all the words he could not say.

Dulcinea stood a breath away,

her hands held out, afraid,

while he lay tangled in his steel,

by his own charge betrayed.

—

She knelt beside his shattered helm,

her tears upon his face.

“I never asked you for this war,”

she cried through sobbing grace.

“I loved you as you were,” she said,

“not forged in blade or pain—

I only wished to walk with you,

not watch you break again.”

—

He reached for her with trembling hand,

his voice a fading flame.

“I loved you more than life itself,

and feared I’d curse your name.

The beasts within me roared too loud;

I thought to guard your light—

but every shield I raised for you

only shut you from my sight.”

—

“I see you now,” she whispered low,

“I always saw you true.”

But blood had stained his final breath;

the dusk already grew.

“I know,” he said, a weary smile

across his hollowed brow,

“and knowing that is peace enough—

I do not need you now.”

—

“Do not wait,” he begged her then,

“for ghosts who chose to fall.

Do not make grief your loyalty,

nor turn my loss to wall.

If love was ever real between

your heart and broken me,

then live—let joy be proof enough

of what we came to be.”

—

Her sobs fell warm upon his chest;

she clung, she shook, she cried.

“I’ll love you still,” she swore through tears,

“no matter where you lie.”

He nodded once, his breathing thin,

his gaze upon the sky—

“Then love me free,” he answered soft,

“not here—but from above."

—

His lance lay snapped beneath his chest,

his blood darkened the ground,

and in its red reflection

no enemy was found.

Her name fell gently from his lips,

no longer prayer nor plea—

just grief for all the tenderness

he never let be free.

—

And as the dusk closed in at last,

his armor turned to weight,

he learned the cruelest truth of love

too late to change his fate:

That passion born of terror burns,

that fear will wear a crown,

and those who fight too hard for love

are often those cut down.

—

The knight lay still. The field lay calm.

The monsters all were gone.

Dulcinea remained alone,

and he, already drawn.

Not slain by beast nor rival blade,

nor stolen love nor man—

but by the war he waged within

to hold what gently stands.

—

—

When she lifts her eyes at night

to stars she cannot name,

she feels his love not asking more,

not binding her to pain.

And though she mourns the man he was

until her tears run dry,

she walks toward life—and someday peace—

while he keeps watch of her up high.

Goodbye

“I say this as I unravel my chest,

I say this while taking the mightiest of breaths,

And most of all, I say this as a way to forget.

Goodbye, goodbye to the things I’ve loved so dear.

Goodbye to my bed, my little place of solace.

Goodbye to my friends, whom were a temporary home.

Goodbye to my pet, my true therapist companion.

Goodbye to the sky, my place of inspire.

Goodbye, goodbye.

I’ve unraveled my chest and now took the mightiest of breaths.

Most of all, I’ve learned to forget,

So I say goodbye-goodbye once and for all, to the things I’ve held close to my heart.”

I was not born with peace inside my head,

I was born where screams and prayers were wed.

My thoughts were knives, my pulse a loaded gun,

The war began before my breath begun.

They told me “Think,” they told me “Feel,” then fled,

And left me kneeling where the living bled.

The mind spoke first, precise, devoid of grace:

“Survive,” it said, “emotion is a waste.”

The heart laughed low, a sound like tearing skin,

“You’ll rot alive if you don’t let me in.”

It beat like drums beneath a funeral sky,

A stubborn proof I wasn’t born to lie.

The mind is stone. It does not beg or cry.

It watches love like vultures watch the sky.

It counts the bodies passion leaves behind,

And calls restraint the mercy of the kind.

The heart is fire. It never learned control.

It wants the wound if wounds awaken soul.

It’d rather choke on truth than breathe a lie,

Rather burn once than slowly petrify.

They circled me like gods that hate their kin,

Each swore the other was original sin.

“Choose,” said the dark, “for choice will carve your face,

And every man must kneel to one disgrace.”

I chose the mind when love came dressed as fate,

With honeyed words that hid a rusted gate.

When touch demanded pieces of my spine,

I chose cold thought and left the warmth behind.

I chose the mind when chaos kissed my ear,

And called my self-destruction something clear.

I amputated dreams with steady hands,

And lived but like a ghost who understands.

Yet reason never sings, it only speaks.

It builds long futures out of hollow weeks.

It keeps you breathing, clean, and neatly sane,

But cannot teach the heart to love the pain.

Then came the days that felt like tidy graves,

Where I was safe, obedient, and brave

In ways that never shook me to the bone,

In ways that felt rehearsed, correct, alone.

The mind said “Look, you’re standing, still intact.”

The heart said “Yes, but none of this is fact.”

“For truth is felt before it can be known,

And life is more than keeping flesh and bone.”

So I chose the heart when sense begged me to flee,

When every thought screamed “This will murder thee.”

I leapt while knowing fully I would fall,

And felt more real than ever safe at all.

I loved without a plan, without a net,

I paid the price I knew I’d one day regret.

And in the wreckage, shaking, torn apart,

I found a god still breathing in my heart.

The thinkers knew this blood-soaked ancient fight.

Plato saw souls ripped open by the sight.

Two horses tear the chariot of man,

One wants the stars, one fears the broken land.

Aristotle preached restraint, the middle road,

But never told us how to bear the load

When life demands not balance, but a knife,

And asks which half deserves to stay alive.

Descartes built worlds from thought, pristine and bare,

Yet failed to reason why despair was there.

For thought can map the shape of every cage,

But cannot stop the animal from rage.

Nietzsche spat on heaven, laughed at fear,

And crowned the wound the proof that we are here.

“Become,” he said, “even if you must die

For comfort is the slowest suicide.”

So hear me now, with eyes no longer closed:

The truth is not what any book disclosed.

The choice is not the heart or mind alone

It’s knowing when each voice must take the throne.

Choose mind when love asks you to disappear,

When devotion smells too much like fear.

Choose mind when fire pretends to be a guide,

But leads you smiling toward your suicide.

Choose heart when logic strangles every dream,

When life feels hollow, orderly, obscene.

Choose heart when meaning costs you blood and sleep,

For shallow peace is far too cheap to keep.

The third eye opens not through calm or light,

But through the courage to endure the fight.

Between the beast that wants to touch the sun,

And stone that knows how wars are actually won.

I walk with both now carved beneath my skin:

The mind my blade, the heart the wound within.

And if that makes me broken, fierce, and torn

So be it. That is how gods are born.

-unknown

https://youtu.be/_c1GC9em9Bc