A sheet upon a sheet with a thousand more,
Clogging up spaces and fields galore,
Sealed together by blood and disease,
Yet scattered and thrown by a gentle breeze.
These remnants are a danger.
To myself, my family, any stranger,
So they'll be disposed away.
Yet frequency means the stack will stay.

A toxic miasma
An infection in my blood's plasma
It obscures my mind from view
Impossible to push thoughts through
But my poetry will persevere
I don't care for caution against severe
Repercussions for forcing myself to think.
I will not allow my art to sink.

Oh ****

And Lost Nothing For It

I Have To Say

I Feel a Bit ****.

Esoteric rants about meaningless interests,
Taken from too far within to be ignored by
Every person I've pushed my words onto, have
Reared themselves into yet another group.
Nobody can be forced to speak, or should,
And yet I'm casting a line again and again,
Learning slowly that I never learned to talk.

I've looked back over the last month or two.
Read everything I thought to put down.
Sometimes I hype too much about the little stuff,
Or go into too much detail about things being rough
And the metaphors? I really went to town.
But reading it all, I bore a smile too.

Because I can see me getting better.

A frayed tendril of pathetic string,
Run taught above my head.
A blade of dismay, terror, fear;
Standing in perfect contrast to everything I want to be.

'Tis nought more than a fickle thing,
Not a feeling to be felt or a word to be said,
Yet it continues to hinder me here.
It's the waiting doom that awaits all goodwill I'd set free.

A twang of snapped twine,
Again and again and again and again,
It all falls down yet remains in place;
Tying up it's own phantom madness to strike deep within me.

Unpredictable, I was feeling fine,
'Till the blade deemed to split me in twain,
And once again tears stream down my face.
Drowning in a selfish torrent of fog through which I cannot see.