Within creased paper lie binded souls
Firmly held within my clutch ,
Ideology hemorrhaging as non-opposables only bend so much.
Thirsty i reached for a swig of your cup
This vessel mishandled
the contents soaked through bedrock
Its remains a drink for the decrepit.
From where do our morals spring?
Quite an intangible conditioning,
In society, a necessary thing,
What is your philosophy of life,
or creed? To live with no dull strife,
But who invented morality anyway?
In yet another societal day,
Who does write morality plays?
You can't just write a poem,
With no meaning behind its lines.
It can be about your happiness,
Or what goes on during your troubled times.
I personally can't write about a tree,
Without there being a story.
Such as me climbing up one,
Or an animal that lives in the tree.
A poem is nothing without morales,
And that is how it is.
There always must be meaning,
And I don't mean this as a dis.
You and your morals
get to me.
I thought maybe you would be softened
by my secretly seductive scent,
the way I work my curves,
how I voice your name.
I was wishing
your will might switch off that little song
which is telling you this is all wrong.
I hope that you fall back on me.
Just let yourself go,
Immerse in my sweet nothings,
as our noses rubbed gently.
Let me do everything to you
and leave regrets to tomorrow
leave guilt to old age.
And that's what I love about you.
The rush of blood the face we placed
On every corner on every space
We raced to come to terms with life
With morality a facade for strife
Pointing to the pain as a promise for more
Pointing to old books that might restore
Dignity and respect for the living
While other possibilities are destroyed
And the destroyers are forgiven
Sweaty palms stomach ulcerated
And for the sake of the soon to be liberated
Let me explain how real morals are made
Not through musty scriptures
Not through verses that are immature
But through learning and coming to terms with
How everyone feels and experiences life different
Every stranger on the street
has sunk deep into the night at least once,
or twice, and I'd wager
that at times their thoughts have unfurled
into black dishrags soaking up
the insignificant amounts
pouring pride into the sewer,
praying desperately to recover.
Eventually, time pries a crack
into the soul, and peels back
the skin of morality until the lines
no longer meet and the mind
reels- searching for the baseline
of sanity- save me, someone