he's a skeleton's shadow
born from human remains
black stained wrists
of all mistakes he's ever made.
his face is distorted
sinking in red static
masked by a trance
of blurry panic.
hollow demon eyes
his cold stare is deadly
I no longer cry
feeling so empty.
hissing in silence
a serpent's tongue
of my only friend
a lonely one,
will catch his breath
and count to ten
until blankness subsides
and the parade begins.
swallow me whole
he's all that I know
I can't bear to hear
deafening, slow,
"no fear," we chant.
no fear.

Your soul is beautiful and warm and radiant.
Thank you for being my sun.

1.
I open Her stitches with the dullest screwdriver available in my horrid workshop
I ask her if she wants the agony to cease and she promptly responds “Stop!”

Her request is denied just as my affection was rejected through paper, red ink, and hollow apologies

2.
I assail Him with with a hammer until bony shards protrude from skin
The boastful **** is still breathing when I contort the lumbars of his spine

This gory peacock’s skeletal feathers display my anger in all essences of its awe-inspiring glory

3.
I dangle Her plump body over a chimney billowing greasy smoke
She attempts to strike deals for mercy and I respond with a choke

The bargaining persists all the way down until rollicking flames turn her mouth into silky ribbons of ash

4.
The Next frequently indulges in unspeakably awful chipperness
So, naturally, I make him gulp down a week’s worth of happy meds

While his heart sputters, depression’s taste wipes away all traces of the a smile on his face

5.
My work done, I casually stroll back home
I muse on all the wicked deeds finally expunged and take out a shining Magnum

The cold piece of steel turns around to face this peaceful victim, its trigger pulled in **acceptance

Poet lives amongst people,
in the land of sadness and happiness, where they live,
he dresses up like them, speaks like them,
in their language he had to learn.
But when he is on his own, he speaks in own tongue
to not to forget it.
He speaks with the dead, he keeps in touch with them,
to make sure everything goes according to plan.

He is afraid to tell what he sees,
in case people put him down and disbelieve.
He forces himself to keep his mouth shut,
he knows the price. He can't just die,
he's on a mission. So carefully
he smuggles in the truth in his poetry.

religion should be about hope
not putting fear in other people's souls
should be about about peace
not about starting wars
about forgiveness
not about punishing innocent hearts

imagine all the people living life in peace

but how can one do this when bombs are thrown
instead of love
when moms cry
and children die
peace is impossible to be seen
when music dies and we hear only desperate hearts
praying
begging
wondering why.

we have different Gods and rules
our prayers sound different
our holy books are not the same
and
there are many sins in our souls
but
you're not God, nor am I
and none of us should play
the game of washing sins away
with spilled blood
and shed tears.