i bLEed DaRk: Poems About Pain, Life, Heavy Metal and Jesus Christ

By Rob and Trey Weddle, Jr

Many have written about the clichéd “tormented soul of the artist,” but the great dichotomy of my soul is 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 the book's Introduction.

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.

As is obvious by the authors listed, my (as of this writing) 13-year-old son, Trey, also wrote some of the poems in the book. 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, Trey drudged up a half-chewed pencil with no eraser and a gnarled-up notebook with a crooked spiral binder. With this he was all set, and 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.

Regarding my aforementioned struggles, it is vital for you to understand that, while my spirit struggles with depression, my body also dwells in a prison of pain. I suffer from four different spinal conditions, 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.

But nevertheless, I press on, for God, country, family and heavy metal, the obnoxious and arrogant music which has carried me through much distress and physical agony. 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.”

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.

So, 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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob and Trey Weddle, Jr
• Release date: Mar 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476142661

Rob and Trey Weddle, Jr

I'm a 46 year old husband, father and metal-head. My son, Trey, is also a writer, and penned several poems for our poetry book, "i bLEed DaRk." Though I could be described as "passionately spiritual," my chronic pain and love for heavy metal makes my writing, well, "unique," to say the least. It's been said that our poems appeal to people who don't normally read poetry, and this suits me just fine. Email me at [e-mail] with any questions or comments!

Book preview

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 say, 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