Heavy metal and I are kindred spirits, and one of life’s grandest kicks is writing about it. But this is a minor portion of the book; should you not share my fondness for the genre, there are still plenty of other topics herein.
After all, there is no accounting for musical taste.
Just kidding. Well, sorta.
One last note regarding my love for heavy metal: I have buried the names of a few different hard rock and heavy metal song and album titles, but have blended them in with the poetry so that, if you hadn’t heard (of) the song or title, you would never catch it. I thought it would be fun for my fellow “metal-heads” to try and find them all.
In closing, I feel it incumbent upon me to spend a moment discussing our very different poetry styles. You will find Trey’s writing style is direct and emotional. I made the decision not to be like some parents, who take over a Science Fair project for their child, and then put the child’s name on it when it is finished. Trey’s poetry for the book was typed straight into the computer from the notebook paper he wrote them on, with no changes or revisions. I hope you get as much of a kick out of reading them as I do. I can only add a hearty, “Amen” to the comment I keep hearing regarding Trey’s poetry writing: “He has the gift!”
Regarding my style, I’d like to mention two things. First, if you are a connoisseur of convoluted poetry (which a good portion of it seems to be, at least to my simple mind), devouring it like cornbread and jam, you may be disappointed with most of this book. In my opinion, what is the point of writing a poem which only the author can interpret? We poets have the chance—dare I say the obligation?—to express common feelings and emotions which others can’t put into words; why should we waste this golden opportunity writing nonsense which 23rd century poetry students will still be trying to interpret? Thus, if drawn to complex poetry like a hillbilly to a Chinese buffet (c’mon, anyone can say “like a duck to water”), my style may be too unsophisticated for you. In contrast, if you find incomprehensible poetry about as much fun as a root canal, then press on! I feel you and I will have much to talk about when the ride is over.
It is, admittedly, a bit deep at times, but hopefully not bewilderingly so.
If new to poetry, it is crucial you understand that reading it in book form is like Nyquil: best taken in small doses. There may be lines contained herein which you will have to dwell on for awhile in order to fully comprehend, but it is worth the effort. If you try and breeze through the book like a Peretti novel, you will miss the deeply emotional experience poetry was meant to be.
Conversely—or “second,” for those keeping score—although some of my poems may be erroneously perceived as “odes to wickedness,” they are merely a series of transient images, seen through dusty windows, flying swiftly by on my personal road to righteousness. My art springs forth from the unforced rhythm of my soul. It is the cry of a tell-tale heart, plagued by darkness and bathed in light.
Thus, with the opening act clearing their gear from the stage, and the headliners waiting anxiously in the wings, it is with great pride that Trey and I bring you, “i bLEed DaRk.” It’s a book he simply stumbled into, but which, through multiple hardships and happiness, I have spent 45 years preparing for. I pray your heart and spirit are deeply touched as you brave the path my son and I have paved for you.
Yes, Trey and I were born to be poets.
Thank God.
POEMS
(You ready for this?)
Titles A – F
“A Tortured Spirit Takes a Stab at Love”
My temper flashes lickety split, ferocious blabber
Spewing from my mouth
Knowing my words are knives to those I love the most
And hating them as they spill out
That’s what anger is to me
A victorious Savior, whose very presence terrifies
Even the most foul
Savagely ripping Hell’s keys from Satan’s grasp
As all darkness bows
That’s what love is to me
Spirit perceiving the dread-black cloud, skulking
Knowing it is on its way
Fully aware I am helpless to stop it,
and that it’ll ruin my day
That’s what depression is to me
A frail man, dying alone on a criminal tree
Betrayed by one closest to Him
Mocked and murdered by His heartless condemners
To expunge even my filthiest sin
That’s what love is to me
Scar-tissue only allowing a rare laugh inside
But for the most part
Living with the knowledge that I’ve accomplished
Nothing, as it tears me apart
That’s what bitterness is to me
A soon-coming King, riding a white stallion,
Calling all believers home
To dwell with Him in palaces of ivory and gold
Never more to roam
That’s what love is to me
Trudging through each day, understanding my self-loathing
Destroys everyone around me
Longing with all of me to love all of me, yet hating me
And that pathetic reflection I see
That’s what low self-esteem is to me
Days may seem to grow darker, but I fear not wicked spirits
Knowing the world’s Creator
Looks on all of us with delight, as a doting father watches
His child in a kindergarten theater
That’s what love is to me
“Adieu – A Pep-talk to the Wounded Mirror-man”
Why do you bury yourself in denial?
What heartache opened this gate?
Say your “bleak future” has nothing worthwhile
But your lies are wrought from self-hate!
A scowling disdain for who you’ve become
Has privately haunted your soul
Cower in shadows of where you come from
And taken your eyes off the goal
You are a solder for Heaven and Christ!
A child of our Father most high
Did Jesus, our Savior, pay such a steep price
For you to just wither and die?
When tendons were tearing and mockers were staring
And His life was grimly devoured
Did Jesus Christ bear all the torture and swearing
For you to just act like a coward?
Plunge from atop this mountain of guilt
And let God forgive yesterday!
Though yellow roses have started to wilt
I refuse to watch you fade away
So what if your dreams have gone unrealized?!
Nothing’s gone according to plan
Your problem is you see yourself through your eyes
And not part of God’s Warrior Clan
Your self-detestation simply won’t do
This cancerous spirit must die
Thus, I implore you to bid it “Adieu”
(By the way, that’s French for “Goodbye”)
“After Babylon is Dead”
After Babylon is dead
The Lord’s heel bruises Satan’s head
The spoils of war are peace and rest
After Babylon is dead
Suicide refuge shrouded in smoke
The canopied glory is our only hope
Shelter in flashes of bluish moonlight
A candle that waits on a Fire by night
Divining expert, burn your mask
The soldier of revelry’s stirring at last
All are created in our Judge’s womb
The terror of God will be Lucifer’s tomb
Enter the caverns of serrated cliffs
Buttress the walls with skillfulness
Counsel of daughters of satanic brides
Crying to mountains to just let them die
Desolate glances shed novel blood
The slumbering masses hide fro
m the Son
Chords of iniquity strangling necks
And feed among ruins in brimstone pits
Convoy of sinners, their last freedom ride
Unholy vices lay by their side
But to the souls who will hazard the cold:
The Lord will meet up with you on your dark road
Salvation’s blood courses right through my veins
Love possessed me at the brink of insane
I’ll not see Hell (only Heaven’s terrain)
God is the reason I’ve not gone insane
After Babylon is dead
The Lord’s heel bruises Satan’s head
The spoils of war are peace and rest
After Babylon is dead
“Because of You; A Dedication of Love to Mom”
Because of you I was able to make it through my childhood with a smile…
Knowing you were always there for me, no matter who picked on me
Regardless of the perilous, boyhood predicament I found myself in at the time
Despite the challenges of the day, I knew you would cook up something fattening and scrumptious, and then smile while reading Edgar Allen Poe by firelight
Because of you I was able to make it though my teenage years (although just barely)…
When depression crept up like a thief in the shadows
When altered states of mind whispered sweet release
As bitterness plunged my spirit into staggering depths
As confusion and anger rose to dizzying heights
At the end of the day you would put your hand on my shoulder as I buried my face in the pillow, and quietly assure me everything really was going to be alright. Somehow, I knew this wasn’t just another “mom cliché,” but stone-cold truth, spoken from the lips of one who loved me more than herself. Your love was a symbol of God’s eternal comfort, wrapping me up like a snug blanket on a winter’s night.
You are my mother, my earthly creator, and I praise my heavenly Creator for choosing me to belong to you…
When the world called me crazy, you called me “creative”
When the world labeled my writing and ideas bizarre, you said I was “artistic”
When I tried to find my way, you encouraged me
When I found my way, but it was not yet my time, you prayed for me
You’ve loved, defended and comforted me; you’ve laughed at and with me, cried for and with me and even put a swig of gas in my car now and again. You’re a beautiful spirit; a creative, funny, spiritual and loving person, and though I could carry on for two days about what you mean to me, this one thing I know:
When my star finally shines bright, on Earth and/or in Heaven, it will be just as much your doing as mine
I am the man I am because of the boy you raised
I love you, mama
Love,
Rob
"Being Me"
I'm sick of this Midwest, Blue Vatican Christianity,
with "I Love Jesus!" on the bumper
I think I’m stuck in a rut. Like a modicum of mediocrity
and devil-fear has my number
Did you know at this moment, believers in some countries
are being tortured to death?
Even in my hometown, bar fights lead to murder,
dads die of cancer, kids are hooked on meth...
It's not that I wish danger on my loved ones
God forbid! But there's gotta be more
I give hand-claps of praise while grandmas are mopping
children's blood off the floor
Thank God for safety, but where's the passion?
Where are my Gethsemane blood tears?
Could it be that, to those having teeth savagely pulled out with pliers,
being me is their greatest fear?
God help me...
“Black Ship”
By Trey Weddle, written at age 7
Trey was 12-years-old when I first got the idea to add a poem or two (which turned out to be more than two) of his to the book. At this time, he told me about the first poem he had ever written. It was called, “The Moment,” and was about the last second of a person’s life, just before they slip into eternity. I asked him if he wanted to recreate it for the book, but he shook his head. “No, dad,” he said, “the poem was three pages long and written in crayon. But I do remember most of the words to my sequel to ‘The Moment.’ It was called, ‘Black Ship.’”
Black ship
Oh black ship
Your tale is so short-lived
You sail around the world
Blowing everything you see
You live by the sword
You die by the sword
Black ship
Oh black ship
Show me your life
Show me your death
Black ship
Oh black ship
"Bleed"
For my thoughts, a pence?
Common sense built my snake fence
Ignoring the foolish comments
of demonic gents, who feign compliments
Hence, their true colors
will surely hemorrhage in the rinse
(Hopefully that made sense)
Do I understand I'm more than a man?
Plagued with a short attention span
Yet third cowbell in an angel band
I’m point-man of a hallowed clan
Whispering prayers and making plans
to take a stand against tyranny,
against "the man"
Do my eyes say, "I'm bound for glory,”
or do they tell a different story?
Through evening news (blood-gory)
and deskwork (dead-boring)
I can play all hunky dory,
ignoring my own memento mori,
while tragedy remains as common
as dust at a rock quarry
Let me put it this way instead:
Did my stubborn head
listen to a single word my spirit just said?
Am I a mirror of the garbage my soul is daily fed,
or do I bleed Christ-red?
“Carpe Diem”
When my nephew, Zakk (mentioned in the Introduction), was a teenager, I made him a self-laminated sign that said, “Carpe Freakin’ Diem” on one side, and “Seize the Freakin’ Day” on the other. He was going through a lot, emotionally, at the time, and it was just my unique way of telling him to not let struggles and hurts get the best of him. He thought the home-made placard was so cool that the expression, “Carpe Freakin’ Diem,” stuck with me for years until I wrote this poem. The word “freakin’” isn’t meant to be crude or offensive, but is more of a righteous anger, deciding, through gritted teeth, to squeeze every ounce out of every day, and to go forward in life, never looking back.
Carpe freakin’ Diem, man…come seize majestic day
Rebuke our dark adversity ‘till it starts to decay
Been the victim far too long? It’s time to get old school
By laughing in the wind we swear to never play the fool
Shake our fist at challenges and sweat until we bleed
Realize that on our weakened spirit darkness feeds
The enemy of human souls romanticizes death
In Blood we vow to battle ‘till our final, gasping breath
Lucifer will try to massacre our revelation
Though he can never triumph unless we bow to frustration
Victory is grueling, occupied by countless strife
But God will slay depression with a craggy, jagged knife
Some will war against despair, or pain which never ends
Those who conquer see life through a tainted contact lens
Some will see the world as dark while others see it light
But stars abide above the clouds of angry, April nights
‘Midst the lure of desperation, run a little faster
For every plan which works out, 37 bring disaster
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But Carpe freakin’ Diem, bro…we seize majestic day
‘Cuz setbacks are a desert rat and we’re the birds of prey
“Circles in the Sky”
By Trey Weddle, written at age 9
While this wasn’t the first poem Trey ever wrote, it was the first of his poems I read. I was so proud of it I put it in a frame, and sent it to a whole slew of friends and family. By the way, to show you how self-assured he is, after complimenting him on how amazing this poem is, I also suggested he should possibly consider changing the second line to “Lights off,” since it is the opposite of “Lights on,” from the third line. This made perfect sense to me, and I figured he would follow suit with no further thought. After considering it awhile, though, he said, “No, dad, it should say ‘Lights out.’” Trey offered no further explanation of his decision; in his mind it was finished. He was only nine years old at the time, and I couldn’t help but laugh and proudly honor his wish. I realized later that he kept the line as-is because these were the words his mom and I said to him every night when we tucked him in: “Lights out, buddy!”
(The Dream)
Lights out
Lights on
Run all you can but you cannot beat the darkness
Circles in the sky
Fire comes down
Strikes the street light
I wake up
I run to my parents and fall back asleep