M A R C H. 2001

Name or Alias:   Christopher Adams
E-Mail:   klute@bolt.com
Why do you write poetry?  The only reason on why I write poetry is to unfold emotions that help me better understand myself.

Why is poetry important to you?    Well, poetry to me are emotions, thoughts, experiences in life that all belong to me. By writing poetry, I feel as though for the first time I'm doing somethings right.  Poetry allows me to be a part of something, to have a space somewhere in this world that i can call my own.

As a Fiona Apple  fan, can you make a statement that connects you to Fiona and poetry?   Understanding some of the harsh difficulties that Fiona had gone through her childhood, comparing them to mine; I come to no other conclusion than to say, life has no heart, its why life wouldn't care.

beauty of december

At times....
I still recall your deep blue eyes as the December sky
The skin which is pale and cold, that of snow
And whose beauty lies like a rose that has already froze

For you are like winter to me
Of thoughts, you would be the lovelies of memories
The wave of the blizzard much like your hair
That I can only wish to caress if I were the hands of air

Like all seasons you will pass me by
But forever shall I remember
You came along like beauty of December

life has no heart, therefore it never cares

At times it seems as though the world denies to turn
And life brings me down with a lesson I cant learn
Yet I give it my all but receive nothing I've earn
Watching my Rome in ashes as it burns

This is when life becomes rare
Knowing life has no heart to care
So fort the judgment becomes unfair
Facing the world alone feeling you are not there

All tries are forgotten in time
Serving a long sentence for a noble crime
Wishing I were the seed planted to be
And not wonder off searching for a personality

Still, fighting life's endless battles with will that's sore
And in the mist of it all I don't know what I am fighting for
I cannot shed the worried soul
A memory bother not to be remembered anymore.


She lies in the corner of her grey wreckage room of sorrow
Behind purple curtains she hides, waiting, pretending a better morrow
A doll who lies waiting with open arms for a child
A doll who knows is already forgotten, yet puts it all in denial

Now she sits with her dirty, red, tangled hair
And her blue dress now stained was once so fair
Black button eyes and orange red cheeks
With a torn arm, yet a smile full of charm

Her wreckage dollhouse has grown lonely and cold
Her tale is not yet over and her appearance grows old
Inside her grey dollhouse of decay
Where her faded green bed is left unmade

With a coffee table once with the company of stuffed bears
Now a broken table with the company of empty chairs.

nothing is but what is not

Much like candles that burned bright
With your dancing flame illuminating night
And your warmth that took away all doubt
But like all candles you had burn out

Like the season spring
Painting my world with a hue only seen in dreams
Your spring scent much the same
Yet like all seasons, it seems you change

A poem you were to me
Who made my words a language of devotion
And made my soul a body of emotions with thirst
But like a poem, you were only a verse

And to think of such wild beauty as to dream of you
Yet like all my dreams, you never came true

the cold of winter

Running away
Trying to find a way to leave this place
To blur the memory
Burn the trace of every face

Open and reveal
Every secret not disclose
To hear the essence of the conscious I ignored

Fail me from your remembrance
Hold me down in your expectations
Excuse my distance from your reasons
Feeling cold as ice

Judge me with your philosophy
Pursuit me with regret
Let the guilt knot in my throat
Let me sleep in seldom