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Featuring the works of Bryan Tromler
by Bryan Tromler
One bright day while sleeping in the dark,
I awoke in the middle of a dream.
And as I slept,
I was with my favorite pet,
who had died the yesterday of long ago.
We romped and frolicked through the fields of mice and rain,
taking for granted our time together,
our lives,
our pain.
Still we played and played,
until the very last day.
Pretending it was here to stay.
Wondering about the places we had never been,
and where and why it had to end.
Even though the years have passed,
I still see him pounce,
and jump through the grass.
My love for him tomorrow will last longer than today,
and I only dream,
we could go out and play.
by Bryan Tromler
Why must everything that lives,
or is loved ,die?
Why must we feel the pain of utter despair,
and cry?
Hopelessness and emptiness to follow thereafter.
Only to fill the void once again,
with something or someone, that is temporary,
or will also die.
Why must we only find content
within external input of feelings and emotions?
And how can you love yourself,
if you do not export or share the same,
knowing that you can and will also die,
leaving some one else in pain.
To love is to be loved,
and when that external side of you is gone...
you may once again fill that void,
and move on.
But it may never be complete,
and unconditional,
for fear of separation anxiety
Or at the very least,
it may never be the same as the one you once chose...
So go ahead and cry.
by Bryan Tromler
Woe, behold the power of the pen.
For now it is mightier than the sword.
In Government hands,
it can change,control,or even kill.
In a poets hands,
it can create words of love, joy, happiness,
fear, sadness, anger or regret,
in the form of a poem or story.
In a writers hands,
it can tell wonderful tales of
beautiful things such as princesses and kings,
the birds, the bees and dragons with wings.
In a screen writers hands,
it can create horror and blood galore,
and tell a story behind a war or a movie
that is just a total bore!
But when it is in my hands...
it is never known,
whether it will be words of wisdom,
a letter home,
or a simple creation all my own!
The pen is a wonderful thing of which to write what you think,
as long as it remains full of ink!
Whoa! Behold
The power,
of the pen.
by Bryan Tromler
The pain, the pain…
Oh god the pain.
I can't feel it,
so why is it there?
No sickness, no wealth,
only mental health.
Fear of what is not there.
Discontentment of what is.
Longing for what may never be,
dreams of what we fail to see.
Mel dramatization of the brain,
only to refrain from acknowledgement of the pain.
Sad attempts to fulfill what is not there.
Blind to what is.
Epic debauches of life's past,
run through and trough,
of what, why, when,
and who is who.
The pain only gains and gains,
the emptiness is the same.
the less the more, the more the same.
Slowly becoming emotionally poor,
wondering what life has in store,
yet not wanting anymore of what life perpetually gives and takes.
Most of it what we make,
whether it is physical, emotional, or hypothetical...
pain.
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