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Myron Penwell Mar 2014
Desolate warmth.
Bitter Numbing.
A Tasteless Treat
Fills this void inside.
Devouring up all the pain, sorrow, resent, anxiety. Its unquenchable gluttony also engulfed all the ecstasy, happiness, dreams, and pride.
Refusing to let me cry.
Its been so long, it is hard to remember what it feels like. A brittle illusion of charity has dried my eyes. Still, unforgiving tears are shed. Drowning this once ambitious free spirit in humility.
Tears of,
Old friends seeing beyond my guise. Barely recognizing the friend they see inside.
Tears of,
A family's shame. In a boy, who was their hope, now shamefully set aside.
Tears of,
A brother's anger. At his brother who carelessly dies.
Tears of,
A father's disappointment. In a son who he once pridefully set up high, pushing him towards the sky.
Tears of,
A mothers sorrow. Her baby cannot cry.
My Tears,
Stream down my arm, as my blood writes a story. An abomination of my destiny, my dreams, my life. Relentless bliss, entering my arm painfully kissed.
God won't let me cry.
I do not deserve that blessing.
I have to face the demon inside.
I did not **** it.
Its just buried alive.
Still need to edit it. Just wanted to put the material there, so i can chisel it out later.
Myron Penwell Mar 2014
Sitting here again in the corner of this room. Rotting in my own filth.
****, *****, Feces, Blood.
You get the ******* picture. I hate what i have become.
Sitting here again in the corner of this room, Wallowing in my own sorrow.
Angry, Resentful, Regretful, Depressed.
A pitiful, shell of myself. What the **** have I become?
I only find solace, in this needle, filled with layers of warmth, unrefined compassion, and relentless bliss. A brittle illusion of charity.
Is this what am now?, a careless fool who has been torn from time, locked in a labyrinth of his own insanity. It hurts to fall down, but the climb back up is..... too much, the pain, the anxiety, the horrid feeling, rotting from the inside out.
      Unbearable.
What am I chasing?
Why am I running?
I seek death, for something must be destroyed before it can be rebuilt.
Only in the forge of destruction shall something be made anew.
Only from the ashes may the Phoenix be reborn.
Death.
Rebirth.
Truth.
Freedom.
Still working on it, not sure where to go though.
Myron Penwell Mar 2014
Back to the hole
only death consoles,
many broken promises,
regrets,
hopes.
Yet, so little faith,
a ride back on insanity,
never a different result,
but the expectations remain the same.
still working on it
Myron Penwell Feb 2014
Brimstone from the heathen’s wake, scorches A house of untamed dreams, with time we can see, nothing is as it seems.
The ashes from alps await, every moral is broken for debate, embracing the melodies escape, which lead me.
Scouring the minds eye, brings hopeless thoughts. As the master of material, flood a worthless will into the hearts of my brother.
Striving in this valley of mirrors. flirting with a maiden of insanity, who speaks of a new salvation.
Non existent truths spoken by men boasting artificial pride, as they revel in borrowed happiness.
A hungering emptiness growing inside, devouring hate, and pushing aside anything that may cause it to subside. Broken down, constant shame, seeking the same pain which put me in these chains. Living with the vain, who only see the world to blame.
I am the only one, in this False paradise. A prison of non existent guards, doors, and walls. Just a lost man, drifting in a desolate state of mind.
Praying for salvation without sacrifice is blind. I still hope the divine.... has mercy on me, would give me a chance, or just a glimmering sign. I try to do good, yet the design of my mind has led me astray every other time. Inspiration is what i seek, yet my cries for help are often filled with deceit.
A vanished hope..
Silence.....
A broken man whimpers,
As he listens. To the tune his life.
A tedious melody, disorganized symphony.
Still needs a lot of editing (rough draft)
Myron Penwell Feb 2014
By: Myron Penwell
Beliefs mentor his perception,
Which by principle he pursues blindly,
Leading to the detention of logic and comprehension,
Dimming into a venue of hell and damnation.

A word of god's resignation

Death's cold bliss embraces him,
drawing him in with a empty black kiss,
then dragging him into the eternal abyss,
taken off heaven's list.

Writhing and screaming,
A whimpering echo,
Dissipate into this careless void,
Nourishing the father of deception,
He unknowingly avoids.

Thoughts of insanity barely make a noise.
Myron Penwell Feb 2014
Poison Porcelain
By: Myron Penwell

Over this velvet draped window.
Where constant oppression strives,
Cries from unstrung heavens,
Rarely touch the skies,
Whispers of valiant dreams,
Curses of gallant lies.
Now is the time to release your spirit,
then justice may thrive.

Voice!
That vast free rhythm.
Dance!
To the music of hell's delight.

Open your mind to a diverse plane,
Let knowledge melt those frozen chains,
You will begin to realize these are brittle pains,
and only contain the vain.

This prisoner of poison porcelain,
Whom you shall celebrate,
for you will see,
Evil.
Using the young,
to dictate your reality.
Not sure if i need to expand or work on it a bit more, any feed back would be much appreciated.

— The End —