This non-fiction, narrative poetic book will serve to educate everyone on the moments in which you think you are doing the right thing, while it is really the opposite. This book contains many elements irresistible to readers: wrongdoings, pain, despair, regret, guilt, and workable grief.
This non-fiction, narrative poetic book will serve to educate everyone on the moments in which you think you are doing the right thing, while it is really the opposite. This book contains many elements irresistible to readers: wrongdoings, pain, despair, regret, guilt, and workable grief.
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Overview
This non-fiction, narrative poetic book will serve to educate everyone on the moments in which you think you are doing the right thing, while it is really the opposite. This book contains many elements irresistible to readers: wrongdoings, pain, despair, regret, guilt, and workable grief.
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9781468502015 |
---|---|
Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
Publication date: | 05/06/2015 |
Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
Format: | eBook |
Pages: | 116 |
File size: | 318 KB |
Read an Excerpt
Memories of Broken Souls
By Christopher Leonidas
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2015 Christopher LeonidasAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-0204-6
CHAPTER 1
Part I
Mirthless
Lost
What to write:
that night, my mind went blind.
For a blank sheet of paper
proved my thoughts darker,
darker than a blank sheet
of paper in a hollow, dark room,
a dark room that became
for me a random living room,
pushing me to be a dweller.
I knew no way to describe
my slithering snake's actions
and the kisses of hell's flame.
Fallen Ones
As dawn rose,
coughing blood blew out,
and cells decomposed.
I, the Octa, or the circle of eight characters
who carried my own memories
and seven other characters',
remained confused
by life as I tasted its sorrow,
and time passed by.
While grieving for unfair death,
I made my way into the cemetery.
I carried the world's disgrace.
Feeling that the world was colder
than fear itself in a sense,
I hoped to show this existence:
that killing each other is no better
than just action like a rightful penalty,
and, being a messenger,
I should start over.
Commotion Jaws
Octa remained confused
by the torments of his mind
and stood still; he was being used
by all who pretended to be.
All nights and days,
he conquered his thought
to decipher and escape
while he was lost in a maze.
But he remained stuck:
a broken tape.
Believing that love was true,
Octa sensed he was being betrayed.
This led him astray to an illusion
of a universe that he conveyed.
He then remained in a dark
hallway of commotion.
Watery Grave
I sparkle and
burst into flame.
The winds leave no mark
of my ashes to claim.
While losing the linchpin of my body,
resulting in vaporization,
disarray engulfs my land
until I'm decomposed from composition.
I should be unborn.
This world fills me with remorse.
Corpses over corpses
honor the dead's tears
at the tomb with no guide
in which I reside.
Dishonor leads me lost and astray,
and this world is a wasteland —
a watery death of disarray.
Solemn
As I noticed justice had been killed
and left my family with no morrow,
like a woman with no limbs,
my heart dipped into sorrow.
A flood of blood: I was fulfilled.
The wages of their sweat
were not awarded to them;
they had lost the bet
of their lives against Satan.
Their boss refused
to pay their monthly income.
I endured pains like
chewing glass with no end
in a goat's jaws. In the toothed bill of the shrike,
a small black bird, my breath of heavy sea, it heaved.
My torments became a wind for my mind.
My inner doors were dark skies.
While all my past came in a blast of wind,
I lived the rest of my life upon woeful melodies.
Still, persecution was a dead body
on a bench that faced me.
Its smell went in circles around me;
the dead body did not stay in place.
I could not control
these memories:
I had a sensation of sinking in a deep hole,
which brought many awful pains
and flashbacks that I couldn't contain.
I was an abandoned, old boat with cracks and holes
of rotting woods on a cursed island;
justice was undetected.
My thoughts and concerns
uttered a long cry,
like cats giving birth at night;
this was my lungs'
last rhyme to unbound freedom.
Still, my actions came from boredom.
Until a few relatives died,
they remained neglected
on the surface of this dirt.
Mournful Soul in Regret
Octa rode on the line
of his life in a cart,
and memories of hers haunted him,
like he owed the ghosts of his heart.
All she had done for him
was bloodshed on a killer's hands,
and the ways she held him on her breast
were snows of fallen leaves.
Years of tears melted over his cheeks.
His heart was made of snow.
He fell into pieces.
Broken glass deepened inside his bones.
His flesh dried.
His face was smudged eyeliner.
He bled as wounded skin from blades.
He tightly held his chest back.
He dove into a sad state
of his dark cave.
His tongue whispered,
"Grandma" every day,
but he couldn't find her.
He turned to be apart from love
and naked in the middle of an abyss,
while he lingered, a day could've come
to perceive the gale of her kiss.
But those cruel men burned her to ashen ashes.
Why, so suddenly, did life separate her from me?
he wondered.
He was into her like a meth addict.
He led his heart on false hope:
oft he would see her returning
from the journey that
her soul went through.
His eyes were heavy rains of a sky,
as if he were hit by a drunk driver,
causing his entire foreskin to obliterate.
Oceans reminded him of her hair.
The sky: of her smile.
The gale: of her wise words.
The heat of the dawn: of her love.
The coffin: of the day she was gone.
Aha, Aha
He drove spikes into my heart.
My father smacked my older siblings
with his hands and with sticks.
He pulled their heads against the walls,
like he was breaking coconuts.
But our mother gave up on us.
She watched them being beaten up as thieves.
He drove spikes into my heart.
My father took their freedom
like they were imprisoned parrots.
They had sorrow as a best friend
and the house as a worst fiend.
But our mother gave up on us.
She watched them being beaten up as thieves.
He drove spikes into my heart.
At dawn, I headed to school;
he confronted me to walk
in the wet grasses and weeds.
He rushed against me with rage
when I sneered and said, "No."
Before he hit me, my right hand
rested under his neck, and I pushed
him away from me, thrice.
He backed up. He threw rocks
at me. My eyes changed as I looked
back at my two little sisters next
to me. I screamed at them, "Back up."
He went inside. He came out.
"Aha, aha," he said. "Don't come
back in this house."
But our mother gave up on us.
She watched them being beaten up as thieves.
On Your Hill I Want to Dwell
Shall not I dwell on your hill?
The prayers to free me from
going through changes remain un-
answered by God. This is fun
for the people who wish to
gloat over me and to glue
me against the spider web.
My strength and faith are all ebbed
away like the water of
a tide, like the climax of
a man's life and like decay.
Those people hate me without
cause, Lord, and pelt on my route
vigorous blows. My walls and
roofs are a carbine that is
assailed with missiles and winds.
Long, You Do Have to Bleed Me
Wake up.
Tell me how long you
have to rejoice my fall.
You rob the royalty
of dignity, but you still
come forward to finish me.
Sam, my former friend, you tend to grieve
me with your mouth's stench.
Wake up.
You dig a hole and make
stroll in crocodiles, as you make
new friends. As you know, you and me
have our own distance, though.
I'm still loyal to you without flaw,
but you repay me with rocks and galls.
You place on my road, the gangster mob.
Keep me in mind.
My old friend,
shall I keep calling
you my brother? My cologne will follow you
like stench of an o-
pen grave, and surely
your cloak to ruin me
will be rewarded.
No doubt.
Wake up.
Behind this mob, you stand still.
But I track you by your shame.
Walk toward me, Sam.
Show me your face before this
army starts war for your money.
You mourn and weep and bow.
You know the awaiting of the death's jaws.
Wake up.
Brother Sam, it's over.
You make me run away in the street
for thirty minutes, but we finally meet
along, as I veer in the corner of a house:
you tremble, you sing to me, you mouse
me through your teeth as though royalty
lightens on your torch, but the gnashes
of my teeth blot my ears to give you divided
attention. Ten seconds later, a bruise remains
on his temple as blood sips down, and
I run away.
White Man, My Bones Are Crystal-Clear
It bleeds. It has to stop.
You contend with me
as you dance in glee,
gossip stranger of the morning,
whom I bump into,
entangle me with cord.
You make my blood
a sandy lake and my flesh
a dry land until my bones whiten.
It bleeds. It has to stop.
You place me on the top
of the yellow grasses and
watch me wither from the sun.
Is my will of refusing friendship
so I don't have to attract hardship
a reason to hate me?
It bleeds. It has to stop.
Though I walk away from him,
though I put a line between him
and me at work, his voice prepares
a net of spikes and wall of bars
on my daily road; this stranger,
determines to rise against me,
the dust of Egypt before the wind,
and finds a base of enemies against me.
It bleeds. It has to stop.
You daily seek for my life,
but I pretend you never plot
my ruin in the pleasure of your depth.
My isolated character repulses you
to stay away from me, as a sheep
from a lion, but the dregs
of your action blind you.
Though I am peaceful, you turn
to make me blue, to cover me
with sand, to darken and slip my path;
but you didn't foresee that ending.
It bleeds. It has to stop.
On my way in, you jostled and shoved me;
you awaited my stand to kick
my skull, but you didn't get it.
You awaited my stand to kick
my skull, but now you do get it.
The constant pit in your stomach
swallows you as I rest a cold blade
under your neck, and your eyes
turn into watery lands, as though my
eyes are the darkest clouds of my temper.
The Cigarettes from My Nose
I must stop.
This childhood habit
buries my mind with fear.
I become a rabbit
running away from the sneer
and snare of my own mood.
Daring to use smoke as a remedy
when a person bleeds from the flood
of the vocal volcano —his or her
capability to not withstand a cloudy day.
My heart sings in anger.
My mind hopes to turn into a hero,
but my left hand holds onto a cigarette.
I stop.
Leaving the past behind
me holds back my mind.
I tremble every night.
I huddle in corners.
I go in circles.
I stop the smoking.
But I haven't stopped thinking
about craving smoke.
The smokes travel into me;
they are second and minute in clocks.
My bed wets of sweat at night.
My mind drowns from profuse frights.
The blood of my body boils.
The skeleton under my skin quakes.
A decade of not having something
on my lips leads me to insanity.
I'm About to Go Down
Help me.
No one knows the gleefully
horrible life I lived yesterday
is not the one I live today.
I stop returning fire against fire.
I live on peace instead of dire
disaster. I smile and sit away
from people, but I still have a cloudy day.
My surroundings consider my
kindness as my
weakness. Tears blur my eyes.
I stay solid, but anger rises.
I kick the chairs in my house.
I repulse my spouse.
I hold my head.
It becomes a waterbed.
My tongue starts to snake out.
My neck moves like a turkey's.
I sneer.
I cheer.
"You're not a bad man," I think.
"It's just people who are naught."
But the door is the eyes of the law.
I go out with agony to befall someone's flaw.
Silent Memory
That illusive tumultuous night
became tough as it compelled
me to sit still on a broken bench,
on which I angrily strove to fight.
My broken thoughts wore out
just like every inch of a farmer's hands
in an excruciating drought for crowned lands.
Sorrows thronged with penance,
the waves of my eyes,
and bereaved me in the withered pasture's entrance.
They blotted my heart.
While I stared at those doors
that had infinite doors
behind them,
wars of silence slowly
drowned my heart with darkness.
I could no longer contain
the memory of that night:
pouring blood of that kid
was all over my hands.
The skin of Sam's sister marked
with machete
after getting beaten:
Skin wide opened.
Blood bathed the street.
Guts dirtied the road.
I couldn't maintain
her justice as I arrived late
to the murder scene.
"What has your bro done?"
I cried, "For his foes murdered you."
As I sweated,
I had been swallowed by a shaft.
I'd drowned in a dark closet
of a boat with no life raft.
I became a spoiling, rotting apple
that endured falls,
affecting my inner door.
My mind turned out to be a wall
behind a lot of walls,
and my body's temperature
melted my bones.
My conscience was bloated
like fattened cattle.
My throat, in my mind, was slit open,
and my neck's bones were broken.
Daily Welts
Feeling hit by stress,
stress that makes of my life a mess,
people instill in my mind
that I'm responsible for lying down
alone and helpless,
like the homeless person who ignores
daily bread on the ground
and a mother who abandons a child.
People discern me smiling all day
in a dawn that rises in May.
Still, never think of all the nights' tears.
My flame of faith becomes a weak torch.
Surrendering surrounds
my mind on a field of war,
of a small forest; it shapes my inner door.
All I have are tears of a fall,
regrets of having been born
to be played and bounced
around like a ball.
Still, I'm being plagued by injustice,
Injustice of Haiti's communities —
A place that I linger upon,
my tribulation at an end.
I Committed Suicide
I stretched out weary hands.
Melisa, who considered me like
a big brother, quickly ran
away from me.
My heart writhed unto me;
I longed for a swig of water.
Noise danced, rumbled inside me in thunder.
But the whirlwind heard the swoosh
of the knife as my eyes blushed.
But why didn't I die instead?
I placed the knife back
in my rusty pocket.
I recalled she told me, "No,
don't kill yourself."
"Stress is like chess; either
you play it, or it plays you."
Vinegar boiled my blood, though
my bones were hit by the daily rocks I ate.
My suicidal act was lured with its bait.
But why didn't I die instead?
Swarms of flies consumed
the skin of my throat.
My fleshes were allotted
to stresses atop a fire.
My fur was tumbleweed and
chaff before the wind blew.
My mouth became a thirsty land.
I turned blue.
I cried sandy tears.
My ivory screams were smokes.
But why didn't I die instead?
"Christo," I heard as I reconsidered.
"Melisa bloodily committed
suicide," an old man vociferated.
I fell to my knees.
The blood in my head was a rolling sea.
Reconsideration ebbed away.
I was a zebra running away
from a lion's teeth,
but in the lake, caught by
the crocodile's jaws of death.
My muscles fainted in decay.
My soul ran away from a fowler's
snare. Wails went higher than an eagle's
wings.
But why didn't I die instead?
Within Time This Old, Honest Friend
Glasses of tears,
his white eyes cover.
His inner door's stress,
shaves the coconut of
his body, and his hairs
turn into sheep's fur.
In seconds, the mirror of
his face changes, but
within time, it decays
until his smile goes away.
Inside his head,
a shoreline caves in his blue bed.
Tom's forehead beads
with profuse sweat;
his inner door recedes.
He traps himself in a net —
his conscience indented
the shorelines of his skull.
The stench of the people's graves
that he created,
slowly takes him to the heat waves,
pulling Tom against the wavelike seas.
Old webs trap his mind
unto the past road, while
the present buries the scene
that paves with blood,
sifts betwixt the pile
of his stomach's spleen.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Memories of Broken Souls by Christopher Leonidas. Copyright © 2015 Christopher Leonidas. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Introduction, xiii,Part I: Mirthless, 1,
Lost, 3,
Fallen Ones, 4,
Commotion Jaws, 5,
Watery Grave, 6,
Solemn, 7,
Mournful Soul in Regret, 9,
Aha, Aha, 11,
On Your Hill I Want to Dwell, 13,
Long, You Do Have to Bleed Me, 14,
White Man, My Bones Are Crystal-Clear, 16,
The Cigarettes from My Nose, 18,
I'm About to Go Down, 19,
Silent Memory, 20,
Daily Welts, 22,
I Committed Suicide, 23,
Within Time This Old, Honest Friend, 25,
Own Shadowed Abyss, 26,
Abandoned, 27,
Deep Inner Door of a Killer, 28,
Burned Within, 29,
That Dark Rising Year, 30,
Morrow after Morrow, 35,
Perfidy, the Untrusted Friend, 36,
Octa Stood Still, 37,
Part II: Wanderer Rat, 39,
Wanderer Rat, 41,
The Coward Dastar Was Being Seen, 42,
The Young Girl, 43,
After an Occurrence, 44,
Shattered Soul, 45,
A Woman's Deadliest Moment, 47,
An Abis Victim, 49,
The Incoming Grave, 52,
An Old Man Dying from a Gunshot, 54,
The Seventh Dead, 55,
Part III: Regrets of the Shadows' Confessions, 59,
Past Confession, 61,
Sorrowful Confession of Abis, 62,
Witnessed a Dying Soul, 66,
Caught in the Dark, 67,
Redemption of a Corrupted Shadow, 69,
Deathbed Confession, 71,
I Walked Away, 72,
Realization, 73,
Broken Circle, 74,
Want to Move On, 76,
Part IV: Cries of Change, 77,
Let Your Soul Step into Dark, 79,
Depraved Proposal, 80,
Die, Lie, 82,
But You Did Want Be Blue, 83,
Keep on Dubbing Me Betrayer, 84,
Mankind, 85,
Crime, 85,
What Circle, 86,
I Long Await, 87,
Open Your Heart, 88,
Tiredness of Broken Souls, 90,
Government, 92,
Shattered World, 93,
"March Forward," Yell the Patriots, 94,
Dawn of Despair, 95,
Humanity, It Shall Be Done, 96,
This World, 98,
About the Author, 99,
Upcoming Novel, 101,