My wrists are lined with wire,
I haven't slept for days.
My feet cemented to the ground,
I can't go another way.

There are petals in my rib cage,
a bird has flown for days.
There's vines laced on my finger tips,
I'm trapped and bound in rain.

Sirens sing and sting my ears,
I'll never be the same.
Secret scrolls and messages,
taint and change my brain.

My skin is chrystalizing,
my heart has turned to stone.
There can't be something left of me,
in my hardened silver throne.

They'll leave me here to fade away,
until my name is but a fragment,
and my eyes roll over grey.

An ode of me to society
a sacrifice they'll have to see.
They'll shrine my name, but
forget everything I'd ever be.

I see new growth emerging from an old tree's heart.
A new sapling sapping strength from what would enrich generic soil,
contributes something unknown to an unassigned

Future

Instead this exacting branch emerges to claim the universe for itself.
No longer can this unnoticed, rotting stump contribute to the greater good
but feed instead, a unique life so it may one day
die and have the chance to fill the old soul’s soles.

The unlabeled, non enumerated vagaries of our world
cowardly whinge in the background
while the assertive actions of the flowers
and falcons shout out loud for their own preservation.

Food chains serve as feeding trays for those cells
who have bound together with that joie de vivre
necessary to drive the generic engine of nature
in their direction. This predilection
to protect the potent and powerful
among us is not simple chance

but a predetermined proclamation
from our divine protectorate pushing
the proper paupers forward until they find
themselves ensconced in the holy foliage of nature's glory.

A weathered statue stands alone behind
the house I visit in my darker hours
A disregarded sacred space, now sours
in human trash and nature's daily grind.
My eyes hang behind natural blinds
That close the portal to my powers
wasted, mostly on unworthy hours;
no mind so kind as the one unassigned.

This weathered Jesus, heart and tongue and staff
of stone, now hid beneath the springtime snow.
No rest for the weary, no spring for the rest,
I hope one day to be that holy calf,
martyred too soon by the debts that I owe,
Ill matched with life, yet still afraid of death.

It's the pen-equipped rebel, real nutty like pistachios.
Never looking back at the past, or the path he chose,
Tries to keep his passion stowed, but it's such a challenge,
When the world's attacking me, I'm never taking damage.
I use words to my advantage, and the ink stains are my varnish,
Shielding me from any weak attempts to try and tarnish me.
I can weather any weather, whether worse snowstorms or better.
I think I got this poem thing to a Tee just like the letter.
I can turn a pebble to a mountain,
One rebel to a thousand,
Cut myself and bleed, turn my death into a fountain, of youth..