to a martyr,
impose your injustice
and cast a lingering shadow
on my freedom
eyes wide shut.
Puppets tuned in
to the same frequency,
a mistaken hero
above the crowd,
only after the rocks were thrown;
they now mark
of such titles,
too selfish and too proud
to endure the exposure
to judgment and
I am the one
who silences himself.
Like a captive, I capture rapture wrapping around stakes that matter
Joan of Arc battered
Also tattered but, easily dismissive
Refracted from fractured prominent phrases people play with
Distinctly persuasive and evasive, dressed boyishly attractive, lax stature, dawning armor crafted by absence as if asked about it-
Protection is principle prerequisite, when fire is lit
I sort of implore your aorta before it’s incinerated to ashes
Dethatched as a habit, with swords or hatchets crafted to singe heartstrings that attached it
While I slash slick Rick as a quick fix,
To fend for pretend pretenses or presumed tricks,
I can’t quit
Cause I hit lips against hash spliffs fashioned with dashes of passion all while rationing fireball cinnamon sips
Martyr to avoidance
I gaze at fabled dazed gossipers galvanizing grips on gritty grapevines while licking warning labels through smoke haze on blurred lines
Other eyes attending scandal circles able to shout lies and rekindle handed arguments on tables with locked smiles stay boxed in
Searching for counterparts when combusted or branded
Toying with matches loses meaning when rules reseed
Those vagabonds claim love is some all end hard bent to mend what the same above can’t comprehend.
Breaking boredom, I pillage pillows with night terrors
And ardent arsonists yearn for flames that churn, turn, liquefy and learn learned thoughts and smoldered feelings
Melting in one another they are completing each other like two candles tryst true at a wedding day
However later the blaze is severed, smoke sears, and charred black wick stands alone for them.
Aggressive and progressive.
As for me never pleading, fire forever fleets to streets between iron bars I built that cage in deep heat and seep dire dreams once desired
Suppose I’m a skeptic
Roasted or disconnected
Just jaded, just met you
Always over it too soon
Burnt but I’m amused.
I hate being a martyr
I hate being a martyr
I hate being left undone and screwed over
I'd rather be the unheard pang
of the rain as it hits the pavement in May
The sound of a kittens tattering feet
as she walks, slowly sounding her to sleep
I'd rather be the unpleasant scent
that ascends from the job I reside myself in
I'd rather be the frozen river
stuffed with the water the fall didn't care for
He said it was filled with hopeless dreams
and not enough beauty compared to the sea.
I'd rather be, a common thing,
a meaningless, real, existing thing,
I'd rather be, left unseen,
than a martyr lying in unmade sheets.
She did not keep the peace, was not the conformist in silence, was not a normal person. She was the rebellious martyr filled with centuries upon centuries of the world's anger and trash. She did not yield for a rule, never stormed for the greater good of currency, and was born to die. But of course, not before she recieved what she thrived for.