“i bLEed DaRk –
Poems About Pain, Life, Heavy Metal and Jesus Christ”
By Rob and Trey Weddle
Copyright 2012 Rob and Trey Weddle
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
POEMS:
Titles A – F
A Tortured Spirit Takes a Stab at Love
Adieu – A Pep-talk to the Wounded Mirror-man
After Babylon is Dead
Because of You; A Dedication of Love to Mom
Being Me
Black Ship, by Trey
Bleed
Carpe Diem
Circles in the Sky, by Trey
Did’ju Forget About Hell?
Don’t Wanna Wake Up
Fight On, Mighty Warrior
From Death to Life
From Knife to Cross, by Trey
Titles G – L
Galumphing Shlub
Gentleman Will
Give it a Minute
God, Man
God I Hate That Man
Gotta Lot
Hall of the Funeral Stare
His Blood Covers the Lot
Horror Cries Behind…
I bLEed DaRk
I Can’t See You
I Know That Look
In Response to Gandhi
It’s Time
Leatherheart
Lost
Titles M – N
Mask, by Trey
Me’n the Devil
Misguided Souls, by Trey
Mock, Marvel or Move Out the Way
My Daughter/My Angel
My Entourage
My Little Princess
My Son
My Vow to You
Mystery of the Exploding-Light Goddess
Needle Fascination
Never Give Up, Never Give In
No Fear and No Regrets
Notes to a Potential Prisoner – A Poem for Rhonda
Titles O – S
Oh, What a Tragic Legacy!
Painted Toenails on the Slab
Peephole
Poem to My Lil’ Bit
Prayer at Siren’s Call
Proverbs 7 (Looks That Kill)
Rat in the Palace
Rumors
S’all Good
Simple Prayers
Sir Death
Soldier’s First War
Stains, by Trey
Titles Starting With “T”
Tara, by Trey and Rob
The Ballad of Robert Lee
The Cold
The Crimson Pen
The Frozen Edge of Hell
The House of Angelee
The Little Girl
The Only Poem in This Book a 10-Year-Old Boy Might Read
The Scoundrel
The Seen and the Unseen
The Tale of Dwight McGhee
The Waiting
‘Till the Lord Slay the Pain or the Pain Overtake
Twenty-Seven Club
Titles U – Z
Untangled
Warrior-Pope
We Are Not As You Suppose
Who Am I? by Trey
Wicked Nightmares
Your god, as told by God-haters, by Trey
Heavy Metal Poems: All Titles
Concert Behind My Eyes
Gross
Heavy Metal
Keep Rockin’
Metal Head
Metal is Life
Omen of Impending Righteousness
Poison Wine
Spider-Vibe
The Overlook
Them
Dedicated to Laura
My Little Princess
You are now, and forever will be, “Mi Vida”
INTRODUCTION
I am a poet.
Many have written about the clichéd “tormented soul of the artist,” but the great dichotomy of my soul is that I feel equal parts contentment and torment. While my contentment with life is a constant reminder of how blessed I am, I do have my share of both physical and emotional struggles. But more on that in a moment.
While I feel it is not imperative for an artist—defining “artist” in the liberal sense, meaning “creator”—to have a tormented soul, it does seem tragically characteristic. This is evidenced by great poets such as Ernest Hemmingway, Sylvia Plath and Charles Baudelaire. Despite my struggles of the flesh and spirit, though, I thank God for the happiness I feel. It seems to be progressively intensifying with age, and I pray one day will overtake my whole being completely.
It took half a lifetime to realize I am a poet, and the various goals I’ve set and fallen short of could fashion a patchwork quilt of broken dreams. For example, I squandered away a few years dreaming of being a full-time, best-selling novelist. I was certain I would outsell both Dekker and King, and could almost see my name in lights, being touted as “the next big thing.” The plan was to create the perfect writing environment by spending part of my vast fortune on a two-story, yellow-pine log cabin overlooking a lake. This would be a place where I could relax and pour all my effort into cranking out novel after amazing novel, all the while smoking a sweet-smelling pipe and taking afternoon power naps.
But I finally seen through this smoky illusion, and allowed life to humble my expectations.
This is not to say I will not write novels; to the contrary. It’s just that I finally understand the poet in me will drive every writing project I pursue. You see, though I may not have the means (yet) to write novels as my ‘round-the-clock gig, there is still, in the recesses of my grey matter, whispers alluding to my impending first work of fiction. In fact, even as I type this, I am planning a future writing project: a story from a trademarked, self-created universe of angelic and demonic characters, called “Demonkill.” In my mind, a Demonkill novel simply begs to be written. Someday soon I will place these characters in the midst of a seemingly impossible situation, and then script their remarkable journey to safety. The “Demonkill” name leaped into my head nearly 20 years ago, and I take the fact that I can’t escape the idea as a sign this dream will be realized.
So remember the name: DEMONKILL. With any luck, you will not be able to graze the Christian Fiction section of your local bookstore in a few years without seeing it.
I also fancied myself a comic book creator for a while, bringing artists on board with me to make Demonkill come to life in sequential art form. I acquiesced, however, after we took nearly three years to complete one mediocre, 22-page edition. Fingers pointed in every direction, our colorist quit, our primary artist moved out of state, and we all eventually went our separate ways. Eventually, all was forgiven, and they remain my brothers. I believe we simply tried to move the hand of fate, which, as many know, is a hand only God can move.
In another season of my life I fancied myself a bourgeoning rock star. While enjoying a brief stint as a locksmith—a career I had to give up after my first back surgery—I hooked up with a co-worker named Mark, who was also an awesome guitar player. I dug the hard rock instrumental tracks he had laid down on his 4-track recorder, and he dug the poetry I had been writing, so it seemed a natural fit. Since a great song lyric reads like a poem, I shaped a few poems to fit the music better, and he encouraged me to sing lead. We basically locked ourselves in one night a week, intent on recording the ultimate heavy metal demo. Unfortunately, a couple of years into our partnership, Mark lost his father. It was quite unexpected, so to cope with this sudden tragedy, he felt he needed to leave behind many things which reminded him of his past. This included our music, so that, as they s
ay, was that.
Some of the lyrics from my demo are included, and being able to use these “poems-turned-song lyrics-turned poems” as a part of the book is just another reminder of my true calling. Despite all the careers and dreams which have arisen in my spirit, only to die, gasping, bloody and convulsing, it is the poet in me who refuses to “go gentle into that good night” (from a cool Dylan Thomas poem; check it out).
Incidentally, writing poetry is what birthed the writer in me in the first place, during my first round of college as an angry and restless 18-year-old. It was then I met Laura, the beautiful, young lady who would soon become my wife, and lost interest in school completely. I was enjoying my new-found, post-high-school freedom and my enchanting new relationship, so “losing” said interest was no great surprise. Since I had no car, and Laura lived an hour away, I could only see her on weekends when I would bum a ride off of a schoolmate. To help alleviate weekday loneliness I began expressing my feelings in the form of poetry.
Once Laura and I were engaged, I dropped out of college and decided to actually live instead of “wasting” my days merely reading about life. So, I stopped writing for a spell, but the poet in me was not deceased; just comatose.
Many years passed, my children were born, a few different careers came and went, and I eventually finished my Bachelor’s Degree in Communication. A couple of years ago, though, while doing my graduate work in Criminal Justice, I was overtaken with a longing to write something, anything, besides 18-page, graduate-level papers. Crafting new poems started as a great way to relieve stress. Since I was extremely busy working 40 hours a week, taking Master’s courses full-time and working on my graduate internship at a state prison, writing poems was all I had time for. It was right about the time I was preparing for graduation that a funny thought hit me:
“I’m a poet,” I said out loud one morning about 5:00 a.m. to no one, and smiled at the thought.
I previously understood that I was born to be a writer, but the gift of poetry is something I can use in other parts of my writing as well. When I read certain authors like Eugene Peterson and Ray Bradbury, I realize the poet in me will assist in carving out even better novels than I could have before I awakened this “sleeping giant.”
While it is possible I will pine away at my craft, only to be discovered once I am dancing barefoot among the angels, I shall at least be dining at the feet of the gods (Poe, Dickinson and van Gogh, anyone?). You, the reader—my partner during this fantastic voyage—will read about my search for the ever-elusive “meaning of it all.” You will entertain tales of love, life and loss; of destruction, death and destination. Additionally, you will not only read about light and laughter, but also of darkness and damnation. Furthermore, you will feel my heart cry out in celebration of my love for God and family.
Among the wide array of poetry in “i bLEed DaRk” are a few poems written for Laura, the great love of my life. As of this writing we have been married nearly 25 years; she is my “Little Princess” (my nickname for her since we fell in love as teenagers), and I greatly cherish every moment with her. There are poems to both my children, as well. First, to my 23-year-old daughter, Jessica (“Jess”), who has slain her own demons of spousal abuse and drug addiction with a smile and an infectious belly-laugh. You’ll also read poems dedicated to my 13-year-old son, Trey. Though he contends with a spirit of fear, he has a heart of gold, and has a love for humanity which is rare in these hurried times. Nearly every day we spend together is a blissful reminder to not take my life and art too seriously.
As is obvious by the authors listed on the cover, Trey also wrote some of the poems in the book, and they will be marked with the words, “By Trey Weddle.” All other poems were written by me, and thus, do not list me as author. Upon what I perceived to be the original completion date of this book, when it only contained three poems by Trey, I told him if he wanted to write a couple more, he could feel free to do so.
“No pressure,” I assured him, putting my arm around his shoulder, “Only if you want to. You are listed as co-author whether you write any more poems or not.”
He just muttered, “Ok,” and went back to his video game. A few days later we were visiting my in-laws. My wife and her mom were at the nursing home tending to her dad, who is in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s disease, while Trey and I stayed back at her mom’s apartment. With nothing on television, we began searching for activities to pass the time.
“Hey, I know,” Trey said. “Does grandma have any paper?”
After drudging up a half-chewed pencil with no eraser and a gnarled-up notebook with a crooked spiral binder, which my mother-in-law uses to keep score during any one of a dozen card or dice games she and my wife play during our visits, Trey was all set. He sat about writing a poem immediately.
Scribble, scribble, scribble he went on the old tablet, and then ripped out the piece of paper, smiling, and asked, “What do you think?”
“Wow!” I replied after reading the poem he had written in less than five minutes.
Ten minutes later: scribble, scribble, scribble, and then, “How’s this one?”
“Cool!” I answered in shock.
This was repeated three more times, until, creatively, he felt drained. Meanwhile, I was absolutely floored, and even more so when I read them and realized they were great, just as they were. They are in the book untouched, word-for-word as Trey penned them (well, except for one suggestion I made for “Your god, as told by God-haters,” which you will read later).
“I don’t write poetry very often,” my (at the time) 12-year-old said to me that night, sort of wrinkling up his nose, as if the idea of writing on a daily basis was almost nauseating to him. “But when I do,” he continued, a broad smile creeping across his face, “It just flows, dad.”
This is but a minute example of the talent which is housed within both of my amazing kids.
Regarding my aforementioned struggles, it is vital for you to understand that, while my spirit struggles with depression and an underlying sense of self-loathing, my body also dwells in a prison of pain. I suffer from four different spinal conditions—one which also causes hip and leg pain—and have had two major back surgeries in the last decade and a half. I also suffer from tendonitis in my right shoulder, which some days feels like an angry, little chimp sitting on my shoulder, clawing away at my tendons.
Some days I can scarcely breathe, heavy-laden with burdens which nearly smother me at times. With the bleak clouds of chronic pain and depression ever-looming, it is no wonder some of my poetry has a somber tone, something the great Johnny Cash so eloquently noted about himself in his classic song, “The Man In Black.”
But nevertheless, I press on, for God, country, family and heavy metal.
“Wait…what?”
Yes, heavy metal, the obnoxious and arrogant music which has carried me through much distress and pain. For me it is the loud-mouthed, crazy relative at family reunions, who I am equally amused and bewildered by. Metal’s loud and ambitious nature calls to me, and the escapist quality it so beautifully exudes helped me vanquish a grueling adolescence. It remains a vital emotional escape for me, and its drive feeds what I refer to as my “16-year-old soul.” A person has to be driven to choose hope amidst winding tunnels of despair; driven to succeed amidst a life of so-called “failure.”
I have been a great lover of hard rock music since an uncle introduced me to KISS as a child. This make-up wearing, blood-spitting, fire-breathing rock band forced its way into my life uninvited one scorching summer day in the 1970s. When I was 10 years old, my parents purchased a new house. On moving day my grandparents and their youngest child, Aaron, who is only two years my senior, came to town to help us. The windows of my new bedroom were painted shut, and with the box-fans packed away and no way to raise my windows, the heat in that second story bedroom was almost unbearable. To get our minds off our misery, Aaron unveiled a double record album he had just bought, which had the
words “KISS Alive II” emblazoned across the front. The dark imagery immediately captivated me. After digging out my little, brown record player from countless stacks of boxes, I unfolded it like a suitcase (anyone else remember those brown “suitcase” record players from the 70s?), plugged it in and started the first record. The music was bombastic and mesmerizing, and I was immediately enthralled. In fact, I don’t remember uttering a single word the entire time the records were playing. By the time the second album finished, I was drenched in sweat and addicted.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for my wife and sister, my passion for metal has influenced not only my two kids but my nephew, Zakk, as well. Zakk is one month older than Jess, and I took them both to Ozzfest 2001 (a secular heavy metal music festival which Ozzy Osbourne, or in this case Ozzy with Black Sabbath, headlines) when they were 12-years-old. Ironically, Trey was the same age when I took him to see his first hard rock concert: Brian “Head” Welch, former guitarist for the secular metal band Korn, now playing Christian rock. Zakk, Trey and I decided to go see the show, which was held on a Thursday night about an hour away from our home in Springfield, Missouri. Although we were all exhausted for school and work the next day, it was an absolute blast, and we deemed it totally worth the gas, time, money and post-concert ringing ears. Trey had also made some new friends there, a couple of whom he began contacting on Facebook in the following days. We were horrified a few weeks later, however, when an F5 tornado tore through Joplin, Missouri, where we had attended the Spring, 2011 concert. It broke my heart to watch my son desperately search the growing list of fatalities each night on the news, looking for the names of his new friends. To our knowledge, none were killed in the horrific storm, but that made it no less heartbreaking for the people in our region to see the destruction brought upon this quaint little town.