I can't see the ashes from the fire nor the fire from the smoke;
Nor can I see myself burning.
I nearly flew off the handle when my cigarello broke;
And yet my world kept on turning.
I'm uncomplicated with how I feel but a mess with what I want;
It hasn't even slowed my sighing.
I'll have to answer for all my poems to my insidious debutante;
Before the clock has done its dying.
I heard a woman can be pretty but a dozen are a choir;
So, what good chance on Earth have I?
I heard the best course on the menu is to resign loving desire;
So, if you ask, I will deny.
A monster lounges in my head.
A corpse beneath my skeleton.
A stench beneath my flesh.
Rotten and disturbed. Poltergeist.
The clouds have gathered and the
stars are blackness. The nothingness of
space empties this void. Senseless.
A bitter cold that burns up the time.
I have crossed the line, screwed up my mind.
Despairing in the trap once again I am faithless.
I never struggled because I never even tried.
It's ok. I'll write a poem. I'll confess it.
My blacks crackle and drag.
Scratching, scaring, scarring, stop.
The world is not mine anymore.
It belongs to those who care.
Of me? I'll accept this because
I really do love my little sister
no matter what she'd do.
Former goals long before gone,
hidden in secret behind friends views,
a life in vain.
Doubtless efforts fruitless taken,
countless beatings endured,
still seeking path to milk and honey,
wondering if it hasn´t already resigned.
reduced to sheer nothingness,
not able to recognize it´s worth.
Neither happiness nor sadness,
behind it´s emotionless face,
killing time with dusty distractions
and waiting for something to happen,
that relightens a fire
well known in former days.
As due by many titles I resign
My self to Thee, O God; first I was made
By Thee, and for Thee, and when I was decayed
Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine;
I am Thy son, made with Thy Self to shine,
Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid,
Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betrayed
My self, a temple of Thy Spirit divine;
Why doth the devil then usurp on me?
Why doth he steal, nay ravish that’s thy right?
Except thou rise and for thine own work fight,
Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see
That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,
And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.
You always slip away,
like dirt within a drain,
Like a knot above the doorway,
like the hurt before the pain,
You resign yourself to irony, resign yourself to rest
Like knives beneath my pillowcase,
Like daggers in my head.