My Mortal Dread in Prose

Tyler R. Martin

There was once a time I felt I was the center of
All the turbulence descending down from God above,
For it had been his wicked world which left me marred
And if any love in this scarred world had once existed
Then from this feeling I would most certainly be barred.
For when the sun beat down so lovingly from heaven
It would be only I who lie charred black when it set
And if you told me I was paranoid and hopeless,
I would say, “don’t forget: riddled with regret”.

But now I realize that I am not alone in this,
No living soul has ever wished off Judas’s Kiss
And, yet, still we are all stark alone in how we suffer
The lives of men maintain no pattern, rhyme or reason
So, therefore, each breath is nothing but a fleeting buffer.
For each year marks a dawn of a deeper darker winter
And each winter leaves a mortal man far more froze,
If you tell me that the storm is simply pointless to defy
Then I’ll just decry this mortal dread in prose.

Episode 5: Rotten Man’s Throne

Tyler R. Martin

The fifth episode to my podcast aired today and, like all the other episodes, I was very happy with how it came out. I discussed a wide range of topics, such as individuality, spirituality, the outlaw’s war with life, the need to be combative with authority, Nietzschean philosophy, my own personal war with existence, mother nature and the existential necessity for lack of safety in pursuing enlightenment. All of this stems from a poem I wrote titled “Rotten Man’s Throne” from my first book, Rotten Man’s Throne…you can find a link to purchase it here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08541HSXH/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_9YMTS5FE2QA6D2CB04VX)

Poem and link to video included below:

Rotten Man’s Throne

Been living too long in this wild, wicked world,
With matters of mayhem and black flags unfurled.
Two decades of doldrums and dark, dog days too,
Concealing confessions, I think I owe you a few.
Been waiting too long, desperate to postpone,
As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s Throne.

The words that I ramble and put down on paper,
With each shot of bourbon all reason will taper;
And what I write, every rhyme scheme off kilter,
Smoking every cigarette down to the filter.
Nothing to do, a true poet’s always alone,
As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.

You see me, I’ve got a style all my own,
In this wicked world I’ve got a style to hone;
Tough to dress for success in a world on the brink,
And the people you meet will just drive you to drink.
Because this wicked world tends to bare all your bones
As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.

Burning out my eyes staring into the sun,
After decades of doldrums too tired to run.
I will recline, relax, and refuse to respond,
I’ll ignore the wicked world until dawn has dawned
But now, night never ends, suppose I should have known,
As I’ve been earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.

Been living too long in this wild, wicked world,
With matters of mayhem and black flags unfurled.
Two decades of doldrums and dark dog days too,
Concealing confessions, I think I owe you a few.
Been waiting too long, desperate to postpone
As I’m earning my spot on the rotten man’s throne.