When the night comes,
Take the Armour,
Swing your mightiest sword,
Like a sudden gust of wind,
Gather in light,
Of thousand angels,
And fight the battle,
Of demons and devils.
Wound after wound,
Yet the victory is clear.
So say the prayer,
O' mighty soldier,
It is the strongest weapon,
For it is,
The Lord who win the battle!
Refined fine arts
Oh! What a scientific disposition?
Kudos to the Big-Bang Beautician.
Anger, Sorrow, Happiness, Jealousy
Gears of my personality
Rotating in the commotion
Shifts in the air making it hard to breathe
Leaving should be easy but
Makes me queasy
Felt the warmth radiate off you,
Hands touching the skin on my cheek,
Your voice vibrating through my body
"YOUR MY BITCH!"
The thought of him makes me itch
I feel your abrasive audio emissions
stabbing into me like serrated knives.
Every coronary coiling confession
that shatters sanity, soul and spine.
I taste every rotten, mangled memory.
Sickly salivations leave an aftertaste
that remind me traces are enemies--
lingering bitterness with no haste.
I hear your twisted tongue tie around mine.
It's lies reverberate down my throat,
and its echoes make my heart cry.
I'm rendered deaf as hopes explode.
I see the torment that you instill.
Visions of my tortured spirit, receding.
Bearing witness as you mutilate my will--
leave my heart beneath floorboards, bleeding.
I smell the state of how you left things:
the wretched scent of vexation in the air.
Like pluming, black smoke that stings,
the throat and shows you never cared.
Back of my back, they talk of me,
Gabble and honk and hiss;
Let them batten, and let them be--
Me, I can sing them this:
"Better to shiver beneath the stars,
Head on a faithless breast,
Than peer at the night through rusted bars,
And share an irksome rest.
"Better to see the dawn come up,
Along of a trifling one,
Than set a steady man's cloth and cup
And pray the day be done.
"Better be left by twenty dears
Than lie in a loveless bed;
Better a loaf that's wet with tears
Than cold, unsalted bread."
Back of my back, they wag their chins,
Whinny and bleat and sigh;
But better a heart a-bloom with sins
Than hearts gone yellow and dry!
I'm trying to get off the floor
Hard and painful to break through
This selfish, superficial glass ceiling called corporate.
I have no choice but to sit and sacrifice to it.
Why is it always about money?
No room for the artist, the poet
No time for the writer, nor the dreamer.
I know I need to be at this nine-to-five
If I ever want to afford my paper and pencils.
Determined to write through this candlelight
But when you take the time to look at my face, or stare into my eyes
You will see a river flowing with such grace and force
It will flood your world and make you cry.
With such emotion in a moment of infinite love
That you will feel like you were ready to die.
I have thoughts I want to share with you, if you have the time.
I'm patient though, at least I'm trying.