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Dec 2019 · 184
11:59:59 2019
Lou Dec 2019
And like that;
It was midnight again.

Nothing new

There wasn't anything cured;
nor there was anything new.

It was just midnight.
And everyone cheered around me.


Happy to be alive. Or for a moment aware of life.


While I stared at midnight,

into its face.

No TICKS to mock me.
Nor a TOCKING back apathy,
to me.

We both had a moment...

          ... alone

for the last time.


And nothing special came from it.

It was perfect.
Almost like it didn't happen.
Nov 2019 · 706
Senses
Lou Nov 2019
Taste is 5 letters long and
I'm feeling all 5 senses on my tongue

Your refreshing lips
Your porcelain smooth fetish of my aches harbors
Your calls echoing and waving into the bay between my ports
The sight up to the sunlight blossoming flowers in your rolled eyes.
The blues and white foam breathing into me.

I want you how you want me.

In between gasping for truth.

Blitzing language and foreign words only your body can understand with my mouth.
Nov 2019 · 148
Pleiad Merope
Lou Nov 2019
I'm so lame
And you are the pinnacle of sway swagger and justice before the judge and executioner
And I am Sisyphus before Hades and Persephone, pleading one last chance to beseech my love of a gaze into her eyes before I am ****** to punishment for trickery.
To con myself into your arms and feel what life was really meant for.
Nov 2019 · 134
Push
Lou Nov 2019
Babylons eroded
Mesopotamia flooded.
Egypt dried
And America polluted.

Murderers and heroes.
Gods are liars
Man tell the best stories
Women dream reality
UFOs are from Earth

Life is Hell.

You are becoming the last person alive to have a pulse and not a cellphone charger.

You are the last voice I heard ever and the one I only needed.

Time are pieces of papers before fire.

And I use matches to unlock doors and free myself of guilt.

I cannot control floods or the turning of the earth.

I can only speak for fires sake.

I can only speak for tomorrow, if I gain a spark for today.

We can burn it all down
And kick the sand in the deserts around the Nile.

Or banish Gods
And scorn men.
And let women dream.

You can live in Babylon or live back between the Tigris and Euphrates.

Or drink from America's murk.

But we are looking at these keys blazing.

And never looking back, dropping them in doorways.

To ash our cigarettes in the rubble of yesterdays pain.

Together.
May 2019 · 388
Severe Bullshit
Lou May 2019
Boy, oh boy
Will boys be boys
And oh boy, that’s gross to say,

I at least get that,
I mean I try to but here’s to trying

Kind of like trying to speak for women
Or anyone that isn’t you,
you should just not do that…

There’s a difference in defense for the good of all
And then, there’s what we were talking about 50 ******* years ago

Oh, excuse me 30 ******* years ago,
Last ******* year…
2 ******* days ago…
OK RIGHT THE **** NOW…

But I really want to go back to 69
Oh, The Summer of love…
Or the summer of forcing a woman to go to court over the ability to receive an abortion only to be decided by a group of old men if she has any rights over her body to receive a safe medical procedure, all while  the media doing no one any favors guiding a blind division nationally between people and God fearing busy bodies, calling her names and questioning her character as a responsible person, in a not very god-fearing tone, all while forcing Ms. McCorvey again, to get burned more for prolonging an unwanted pregnancy due to waiting on a decision that is determined in court by that aforementioned group of men, which is like the sportsman’s equivalent of just killing the clock to win a game but it isn’t a ******* game it’s a woman’s body, which clearly they didn’t care anything about just as long as they get that **** baby in the next 6 months or so, but as stated above it is indeed unwanted, so really who is going to take care of the ******* baby because we know how much people just love adopting ******* children?
Let’s ask 25 republicans!

But some people talk of 69 differently,

Some remember the Beatles.
Some recall Charles Manson.

Kind of like today
Some say we are putting god back in our government
And The rest of us in 1972 to 2019 are wondering who the **** invited god?
I never knew God and every white person’s, “one uncle” has the same opinion.
Amazing!
But Uncle Alabama shouldn’t speak for God.
Wait until he finds out she’s a woman.
That’d be a kick to the unregulated nuts we can just spew anywhere, like a natural ******* disaster.

That’s what the name of this ******* poem should be,
but it’s not.

Sincere, *******.
That’s what I call this one,
That’s what I call the last 2 and half years too.
And this poem.

And telling women what to do with their bodies.

Some people would think differently.
But I don’t think some people think.
roe vs. wade, alabama wants to go to court
Mar 2019 · 232
Fingerbirth
Lou Mar 2019
I woke up with a universe dried to my hands.

Post observable,
Post ****** of;

    water,
    seed,
    death

and
fingernails,

scratching at a birth canal.

Who is hungry?
Mar 2019 · 174
Haiku #2
Lou Mar 2019
In support of health
tired, my mind body and soul
Goodbye to you noise
A lou haiku.
Mar 2019 · 207
Like (me)
Lou Mar 2019
The lie is in the mirror and on our screen.
That like button lies to you
Social media is a salesperson
Each photo uploaded is expired meat
Sold as butchers choice.
We are all tagged and complacent on the block
Glee to be valued and chopped.

Every like charges dopamine into a dope-fiends melancholy viens.
I'm high and heart-liked, thus beautiful.

Where's the button to scream?
Feb 2019 · 1.2k
Food Stamps
Lou Feb 2019
When did I become disposable income?
I was so poor,
I know I must of seemed like a steal.
My bones are made of dehydrated milk and skin of a mothers welfare.

Support came with regrets, you know.
But how you managed to squeeze a penny from a SNAP of my belly-

You must be good with money
How you,
Leave pockets empty with no change
not even a wallet with a memory to care

Eat your heart out through an ***, Jeff Bezos.
Silver spoon deeply exempted and certainly a love affair.
Don't choke on *** of cold hard ****
It's free of charge,

I can't even save a seat for my fathers cooking;
(also dehydrated and distant in taste and substance)
let alone read a book written on saving money for someone special.

I had a bid in those texts you invested in
I hope you are rich and get all the love
Certainly someone must.
Cause I feel I am getting hungry
And you are getting,

delicious.
Feb 2019 · 153
Trip winter of 2012
Lou Feb 2019
5 people just before a walk.

1 decides to stay;
Separate from the flock.

4  people out in the shade
1 saw her shadow and out she plays

3 people who don't want to be alone
2 begun to march and left the other on his own.

1 person out in the cold
Sad and lonely, he goes home.
Wrote this one night out when I was 22
Feb 2019 · 1.9k
Jan'19
Lou Feb 2019
2019
       was
              the
                     year
                          I was
                             to do
                                  more
                       ­        only
                              to
                         find
                      I
           should
      do 
less


One month in

I sent January flowers on the third day
without even telling him.
He needed it after that last week.

White roses.
To creep out the dead
and question the living stuck inches deep under water.

Thursdays were mine.
Everyone of them,
forever.

Fridays,
I fried colons in grease and became an adult
when I was thrilled to be greeted by the polished grill
adjacent to its elder and a former twin.

I became closer to gambling and God.
Or Mammon?
I am all of theirs at this time
and boy,
does it literally say I am not to love both.
Or all.

Also; January you child.

I know you were angry when you had to leave.
Three days cooped wasn't going to pluck a Buffalo.
All of those times you got away with building walls for fists.
Just target practice and misses every time.

Cut yourself shaving and cry for a month.
I don't shame you,
this is your voice,
only you spoke this long while
I let you ignore the roads of the west side for generations
and complain from the heated indoors of mine.
Staring at a bus stop

I'm singing already with her, February.

I given you addictions both grand and small.

One month of January,
thirty-one says and three now, February.
I Stand still; in frame of a calendar,
Reflecting deadlines on my face.
Dark circles around my eyes and dates.

It is due to be the fourth before I know it.

Twenty-five opportunities reside in secret paths.

I can't find possibility knowing her name other than, February.

Soon March.
My life and thoughts in Jan'19
Dec 2018 · 135
Wall
Lou Dec 2018
I watch actors make rules to love only to break and reshape when others enter stage.

How many walls to build to break?

4th
16th,
64?

Solar eclipse wore the chorus
like the string show,
that pulls on his connected joints to the plot.

Sandbags releasing more tension
than stent  
   to artery
       to a heart,
a BURST
               of emotion across this platform,
       rain into the audiences eyes in musical crimson cascade shards of glass for sentimental effects...

That plunger pulled precision ******
from the veins of the actor,
shamed to have said, "I love you", ever again.

Shame on the red spector , the actor and the writer. All shadow, casting doubt into what it means to relate,
to touch.
Dec 2018 · 2.7k
Student
Lou Dec 2018
June 29th, 2017
It’s been 1 year, 4 months and 19 days.
For 1 year, 4 months and 19 days.
Count the acidic tree rings
Nearly 504;
Bright
A.m. eyes
On East Ferry,
in contrast of noir
I say, man;
June 29th, 2017.

It’s time to get a new calendar,
Cause I count 5,000 dollars later
and not a sense of a cent
was fined for my remorse.

I’ve been fine and fined.
Holes in my pockets
dropping seeds of change
planting fines

Into puddles
and potholes
showing deep interest
into the alignment of my car
stalling my engine with debts.

19,000 dollars and growing later;
I learned what trigger warnings cost
and ironically
I wrote a paper on it.

Don’t get me, wrong I am grateful
But, I had to rip holes
into all my jean pockets.
I mean, **** it,
I never had much going in
And I should quit smoking
My lighter is dead
Only blue and red
Sparks lived well in my mirrors
On, June 29th, 2017.


From the wall I was chained to,
I enrolled into college
My mom drove me home from my first class.
My lawyer wasn’t much of a lecturer,
He spoke math for 1,400 dollars

250 and 9 weeks.
106 a month for 52.

That’s enough math for this semester.

I drank with my night instructor on Mondays after 9,
He wanted to hear my music
We drank whiskey salted potholes on Allen
I counted his tree rings to 4/4 measure in regret;
20 years steady.

I graduated on a Tuesday morning,
I didn’t call him back to thank him for the irony.

I acknowledged our acidic rings
With glass cheered laughter
Swallowing thanks for each other’s company.
9 weeks and I don’t recall ever leaving the room.
43 went after,

And today life is that,
Paid for in lessons,
No need for pockets

I am those potholes
bumping coffee all over me
20 mins late to my first class.
I can repave them
but they won’t stay filled
It’s OK to want smoother roads to school.
I’m late but I’m here

I’m a mess.
******* would see art.
People have his eyes on me.
I want to be framed and splattered
on the walls of your home
A household mess .
It’s OK to have a passion.

Look into my tree rings
How old am I?
Its restorative to count
27 rings of rebirth
Look at me still growing
I believe I can grow in Paradise-lost fire
Or in Buffalo salt

I am my flaws
I counted them

My alcohol abuse,
One beat of 2,653 in 2017
I don’t know how to put an apology
On a music sheet.


The Jazz fills my potholes in the morning
before these hallways

My grey area is stained glass in Villas library,
Each step is eclectic
From shoe up and over is stand still art

Lighters flash cigarettes burning
But prints pictures of thankful new memories

With all of you in it.
Thank you for helping me with today’s date.
Its for a course I am taking in college. I hope this doesn't shade me as a fool. I'm kind of self-conscious of this one and hoping for feedback. Thanks.
Oct 2018 · 852
Fire safety program story
Lou Oct 2018
My depression is like being on fire and putting out the flames is hard cause it's like an oil fire where normal tactics don't work.

People will try and give me advice. "STOP. DROP. ROLL" Which in any fire situation is super helpful advice and I'm super thankful someone tried to help me out at all.

So I'm rolling around in flames now and nothing is happening to cease the anxiety. Literally I feel like it's getting worse the more I roll around on the ground with my peers still shouting out advice or better ways to roll.

Now some are so kind that they may roll around with me to show me how easily done it is to dismiss the feelings and 3rd degree burns but really it's a disaster.

A community of rollers find me and we chat online and share rolling techniques and controversies of fire related deaths, support systems and rallies to end our fires by government mandated fire extinguishers for everyone. The fire hurts less that day.

Weeks are going by and I'm here still on fire but now there is a heard of rolling people with me, rolling like potato bugs or how people roll playdoh. Whom inadvertently draw in more people and experts on fire to give advice and some kind enough to roll around as well but they aren't there just for me but because people see their loved ones on the ground rolling, so they assume they are on fire too. Which is great, please help us.

So now news sparks of awareness scortching the nation that people are on fire. So campaigns are established and wristbands with "STOP. DROP. ROLL." on them being sold. Celebrties rolling on TV, talking about their oil fires. Have weeks like, "People on fire Awareness week" and petitions for every American getting the divine chance to get their own fire extinguisher covered by an agreed medical plan.  Which then people who think the fire is a lie gain a voice, even when talking to people on fire. They claim false accusations and attention seeking from lazy rolling people. Also a small group  of nihilist emerge with the belief of letting the flames **** people. No one listens to the nihilist, thankfully.

This all creates this unique  debate of flaming people ethics between multiple sides. People rolling. People showing people how to roll. People debating on the technique of the roll. The people who want people to have fire extinguishers provided by the government. Those who disagree with the concept of fire and then those who don't have an opinion or want the world to burn. Yet still even with all the coverage, attention and debate people a still on fire and no one is bothering to ask how.

So back to me still hot with embers but not feeling so warm. Dissociate deeper with bubbled skin but come to it enough to address my problem even though I am discouraged by all the attention people on fire have been getting and internally debating on if I am burning that bad.

I live with burn marks and scars but i dream of one day having the ability and strength, to jump into a body of water and cool off with steam blistering off my skin and smile back at those who roll and say "I'm fine and you can be too."

All I ever need is time and a cool place to ease my flames.
This isn't a poem but a short metaphorical self and worldly analysis of depression and how it gets treated. It's funny because I need humor to cope. Hope you can relate.
Oct 2018 · 614
Sounds about white
Lou Oct 2018
To all those,

With petty drug
          violations
Who might
         **** ***** in gateways

Or all those,

Whose skin color was too
         whose genders made them less
                               And especially under the 13th

Who they won't allow one to get

To all those,
               stereotyped
ink and by fashion
                   rejected and inappropriate

For those,
who touched too little
or those who have ****** a lot
  
                    And most certainly
        those who were not allowed to tell

And for,
  all who pray and are feared
   all too poor to be there
    all too sick
     all not educated
      all who speak too much
       And who don't say anything at all.

    You are all the least qualified to get a job.
Let they be the judge.
      None of your mistakes or situations
               can be redeemed or validated.
               Does that sound about white?
                       They told you image
                             mattered but,
                                     what
                                        of
                                       his?
All these people can't get a job or are put off on the process due to some sort of discrimination. Your image matters they say as they let a man sit at the Supreme Court with the shittest images ever. Honestly if it doesn't sound about white I would be lying to you. This crap is crazy out of control and only picking at the intent and history will wake people up that these "people" don't care.
Sep 2018 · 1.0k
Thank you
Lou Sep 2018
In an epidemic of black eyes
Cyclops people lose.

                                          A right
of passage into womanhood is

a HANDS ON
approach.

                                           A right
hook with a bow tie in the
        
                Vmiddle Knuckle.

  L
      O
   V
  E

From index to pinky
And all over her body.

Seeing this from one eye
Is the luck of having two.

"Thank you.", I say.

With half my mouth in silence
As muted screams escape the smothering hand that says LOVE.
This poem is about men who don't acknowledge the existence of abuse. Maybe even their contribution to it for ignoring it. The privilege of being a white man in a country that burns victims is incredibly frightening. Having accountability for your actions and checking others. Violence is everywhere .
Aug 2018 · 1.2k
Heards
Lou Aug 2018
We Shepard children,
we raise them on farms.
When it's time to ask them for identity, they form into clouds.

How can we ask them to identify self in an overcast?
Can you see an adult when they experience rain?

I see children in coats holding hands, Staying in line.

I see the Shepard staff,
Still at large.

Automated to wind by reaction.
Punishable and feared.

Straight line children
Along the fence

Straight line children
Group project: independence.
May 2018 · 294
Work
Lou May 2018
I wake up in the East as the Morningstar
To freeze in Pluto's arms in my bed
To be Sisyphus's rock in the afternoon to dusk
I am a hell fire chariot in the coliseum of Mars.
Then I calm down in the evening with Jupiter;
On a nimbus cloud of lighting
Successfully revolving back to Venus.
Settling rains onto Gaia's green.
As I Dionysus, hold my wine glass out the window finally getting the rest I sought from the West's lunacy.
May 2018 · 307
Memorial
Lou May 2018
How do I even begin to agree on my feelings about it?
I don't want to remember all the blood that stains my hands from my birth certificate.
I see all the asphalt decaying infrastructure
Forming drone strikes fueled by my starving dollar.
What about my uncle who fought for the crumbling?
Do you remember my father on the other side of the wall in Berlin?
What of my friends father?
Fifteen minutes to save those forgotten to Communism.
Why must I always remember my fallen veterans?
I should know who they are!
At home, living that American dream.
Or sleeping off it's hang over.
Memorial Day poem
May 2018 · 213
Mmm Day.
Lou May 2018
Happy Mother's Day
to all you momma's.
Independent,
Strong,
Hard to find.
Knee deep in crumbs
On all fours sticking to the floors,
Still able to bench diapers
And my *******.
And to all their Momma's too.

All you new Momma's,
Soon to be Momma's,
To my boys baby Momma's.
All you Momma's full of drama.
Sensational Momma's,
Smoking hot Momma's.
Past Momma's,
Grand Momma's,
Earth Momma's,
Outta sight, space cadet Momma's.

You, time traveling Momma's .
You, hair dying chameleon;
Momma's.
You, extreme,
You, soul relief,
You, highly elite,
You, out of reality,
And in my dreams
Momma's. 
You heart deafening,
Eye crossing,
Hand numbing,
Cosmic beckoning.
Momma's.

To my sister; a new Momma,
To my older sister; seasoned Momma.
To my;
Step,
Bio,
Grand,
Adopted,
And future.

Thank you for being the message this man wouldn't of heard without you.
Wrote this a Year ago. Fun mother's day poem.
May 2018 · 267
Yoko
Lou May 2018
I want to apologize,
Ahead of time
for my, my,
My isolation

I'm certain you've heard it before
If I have to leave I must go
Don't judge me for my, my
My miscommunication

I'm not trying to bring you down with me
If I have to go, just let me leave

Don't want this to be so melancholy
I just want to be lost with nobody

Don't let me bring you down.
I just can't care anymore.

I been so carried up, with all these affairs,
all these stupid affairs
That don't fair with me

I can't complain about a predators trap
If I lazied in her hungry attack

But lately, please excuse me,
And the stomach aches
It's been acidlicy displeasing living as her bait

I'm just trying to make it all by myself
Without that woman, that lady, my mistakes

Don't let me bring you down.
I just can't care anymore

That woman came and get me
And then left my heart to break
I feel the pound gate closing
I feel the cage just the same
It must be so easy to let a man fade
Oh, I'll just hurt you just like that scarred day
Next time someone loves me
You'll be making all the mistakes

Don't let me bring you down
I can't care anymore.
Having trouble finding a partner after being hurt, afraid of hurting someone the same way or becoming your hurt.
Apr 2018 · 5.5k
Crayola
Lou Apr 2018
Every child broken into a crayon box colours the same.

Jimmy and Bill would know.

The Knight time radio.
Their Daytime TV.

Technology gave us colour in our boxes for entertainment
And Two turn tables to scratch out the screaming.

55 inches in HD wasn't big enough to scribble on

Perfect reception but no one listened to the colours snap.

No one bothered to question why the paper is off the crayon.

I think of all those lost crayolas
being used for shadowing.

A cover inside a cover,
where pages should be in a book.

And here we are,
still drawing in black and white.
*** slavery in the elites is beyond real. Time to start adding light to our drawings.
Apr 2018 · 174
Let's get back together.
Lou Apr 2018
Lets get back together.
I swear this time will be it.

Lets get back together.
My god, how I couldn't exist.

Let's get back together.
Not because it's 3 a.m. and I'm lonely.

Lets get back together,
I was meant for you and you for me.

Lets get back together,
This time I won't leave or cheat.

Lets get back together
I won't text other girls to meet.

Lets get back together,
cause you complete-

"No."

But I love...

"No."
...

...

******* too, I NEVER LOVED YOU !
Very real.
Apr 2018 · 212
Love a Woman
Lou Apr 2018
Love a woman who is smarter than you,
I heard.

Better than you,
thinks more than you,
does more than you,
cares more than you.

Love a woman who makes you
want to be a better you.
Apr 2018 · 9.2k
Jayne
Lou Apr 2018
Simplest of names,
So plain, But how I love to say it
A promise for warmth in igloo block prison eyes
And tone of Daria,
just whelmed enough to respond
A chance of sarcasm is air
Venom in plain daylight.

Plain tone.
Plain mood.
Plain old abuse.
And most would take it from her.
As she would and certainly has taken it from us.

Petit feminine fighter with no haymakers or KO records.
****** face, that rested war and peace between chin and brow.
Baroness of motherhood or is it the queen of hearts and depression?

Stars and music always forever
Anchor tattoos with a key to a heart, now a predator.
Forever enchanted by the la-de-dah and bleeding heart affairs
A savior in no motion or fashion but I dare not call you hypothetical

But a standard broad, beauty and-
So shameless I celebrate seeing you, awkward and so ****
Cleopatra, to be a bit dramatic-
Yes Cleo-mantra, I collectively disintegrate all charm and physical form
And you,  unfazed or unimpressed with either detail of romance

My friend, compromised by style and NO amusement.
There is much more to you than ****** faces and belittling arguments.
There is more to you then practicing soapbox rants in your kitchen.
There is more to you than a shallow mothers intoxications and material.
There is more to you than the new hair dye or the wigs you collect.

The things you store in the boxes cluttering your room with everything not in those boxes
The clothes on your floor, decorations from your teenaged 3rd or 4th personality.
The smell of perfume and coffee and more perfume all over,
stuck to papers, next to wine bottles, borrowed and never returned books, unfinished snacks,
used paper towels, lipstick stained mugs and glasses, your sons toy I stepped on 4 times,
pictures of gone lovers and notes, your license; now found again after the second time ordering a new one.
And…it's expired,
Then finally under the aftermath of years, doubt, clutter, your cell phone vibrating in the fray of sheets.

"found it."

Least we forget that, as we forgot we are both in this room together.
You are so much more than this mess I picked up for you countless times
And though I complain I will pick it up for you and not ask your permission
I won't scold you, I can only exhale failure and help.

Staring blankly into your screen discussing all genres of worldly horror and ways to divert.
Such plans and opinions but no federal funding!
We would pay homage to girl power and the early 90's and call her G.I. Jayne-
(Or not cause she doesn’t have that kind of sense of humor.)
But imagine a solider, a true solider of the meek.
That is theoretically, G.I. Jayne.
Has all of our best interest at hearts, our hero.
Songs of children are said to give her strength-
(She really doesn't like this kind of humor, I must move on.)

My friend truly distressed by the world she can't control from her tiny screen.
I place all comfort I can to her and understandably rejected like a stranger making rounds.
No trust comes from her nowadays, None for me at least. I can't speak for all.
I try to climb over the steep absurdity, alluding to her self-mutilation and task this is
but not going as far as just telling her this is ******* killing me.

I have no lesser or sophisticated words.
I'm dying every time we reach these altitudes.
Fingers and my tone raising at every disagreement .
How you can break me down to my atomic core and decimate miles of friendship.
My closest star in the sky, use to bring me morning tea, flowers and maternity
We now stand in quasar as our space and stardust find mass in thousands of millions of years in development
For me to be sent to the loony bin and you to prison like our heroes from Clinton to Lazaretto.
For my friend.
Apr 2018 · 287
Sheppard's Pie Kebab
Lou Apr 2018
Vampiric lambs feast on their Sheppard's herd.
Breaking bread of thy neighbor
How loves call of fertility
Now the bane Bull of consumption's horn.

The Sheppard ****** to death by panic.
Unable to guide or save, is now on the menu
Prayers silenced over the band of gargling stomachs
His papyrus stand of power dissolved in crimson soup
Milk and honey crossed out of the starving mans Gospel

Warp the plains in sabbath machinery
Capital becoming its own atoned staff
The meek claims of natures *******.
While drawing a line to the factory

The staff now a fork on the dinner table' crossroads.
One seat at the table for Perdition
Groaking civilized parallel.


No hope lies on silver dished entree
Cornucopia is the decapitated Sheppard' head
Apple fastened in mouth

Olive pits replacing holy eyes for edible sight
Pickled tongue to speak holy when the belly is full
Ears dehydrated for the holy word.

As said with Christ, we dine to forgive our sins.

Lambs forgiven
Vampires forgiven
Cannibals forgiven
Meek forgiven
Hungry forgiven
All is forgiven

We are organized and all is forgiven.
God forgives in his name.

For tomorrow, we cut out our new Sheppard from papyrus,
Tomorrow, we ***** his word.
Tomorrow, we take the skewers of the Kebab
And give the Sheppard his staff.

Tomorrow, we chastise the hungry.
For his spilled blood.
For his eaten flesh.
All classes in social hierarchy erects some sort false omnipotence in some people. What happens when the leader fails his flock? He gets eaten as a sacrifice. I guess the higher you are, the more disposable you become.
Apr 2018 · 221
Morning
Lou Apr 2018
Strength
                                                   is
                                                            gett­ing out of bed
                  knowing a part
                                                of you

                                                               ­  won't.
Get up 80%
Mar 2018 · 228
Sticky Community
Lou Mar 2018
A community that caters to itself and parades;
ego
promotion
Or validation.

For purpose of
self importance,
inferiority complexities,
Knowledge and denial.

And has
No conviction
No components to give back,
And no means for "welcome"

All should be exposed
and recognized
as selfish public masturbators.

The boring stereotype.
The trench coat kind of indecent exposure.

Sad little man on the bus.
Sad little man in the streets.

Sad little man stroking at a park
Sad little man stroking in the bars.

Newton's cradle freely swinging between his thighs.

Yahoo freedom!
As she gives to all

But,
God ****** the double-edge blade

It's awkward,
arrogant
and sticks to my hand when touched.

I'd of rather have a flesh wound.
But I unfortunately must watch him finish.
be nice to the few people who like the same thing as you. That's a community. This one is sticky.
Mar 2018 · 611
Real Modelz
Lou Mar 2018
What do you see in me?
Every time you like a picture of me?

Is it just another pretty face you wanna put to your waist when you PM or do you seek eternity?

I'm told that everyday,
It's always just about my pretty face.

I get it three sixty-five,
I swear I can read minds
I hear it all the time
You think this is news to me?

You're speaking a lot of spirituality
Talking a lot, like you figured everything out about me.
Why don't you finish this conversation real late then without me?

I don't owe no one an apology.
If responding is an obligation consider this revelation
another blank page in your outdated patriarchy.

Do you actually believe in me?
I need more than a compliment,
I starve empathy

Are you a real human being ready for my beat
Or fiend ready to devour me?

I'm not afraid of men who can eat.
I'm afraid of a man I attract with no means.
I'm scared of someone who leaves when the table is set and doesn't eat anything.

I need somebody that isn't afraid of me.
A real head holder,
I don't want anymore fake supporters by likes and boasters.

I need completion and that's my biggest complexity.

Will you always pay attention to me?
Even when I say repeatedly, "I think I'm ugly?"

I have all these anxieties that build walls to society
I need love one second but the next second I can hate everybody

Do you still like me?
Are you willing to take a step with this girl in the darkness under electricity?

I need more than love I need all of your energy.

No more smiles with no teeth.
No one liners that are bold and weak.

If you want me,
fight for me
but this war could be over before the blitzkrieg.

This is just me.
My heart has a lock connected to a short chain
and opens to one key
I don't make copies!

There's one way in
and one way out.

Tell me what you see now...
So I have been trying to dabble with the thoughts of a woman diluted with messages in her pm on social media. Probably a bad representation but it was a good learning experience. Gotta stop listening to rap when I write lol
Mar 2018 · 792
3/14/18
Lou Mar 2018
My anger is a gift.
My anger is a gift

And for, that you will not acquit me.

So judge me.

I get it,
You wanna stick up for the little man
But what are the terms and conditions
you got written on your hand?

Is that freedom?
Determined to rid the vermin
Hatreds poisonous venom
Annihilation of oppression
By concreting a standard that fits your balance?

Fascism
Disguised by liberal ways.
Cause the left won the culture war
And we must fulfill the agenda to save the day.

Or is it about the money?
With a buck in my right hand
And my left fist full of pills grasping in half prayer for rehab

They say I need help.
My mental status is high on bad health
I'm caged in my brain,
All 9 circles of hell
With no guiding light,
I'm always told to tread light
My heart beats questions,
my words start fights.

I am the snow storm of Capricorn
Loose chains around my neck

Pentacles
Cups
Wands
Swords

Astro-Tarot cross burns with no exhaust
At the bottom of the gate,
You can see my bones in Lucifer's mouth.

So why do I feel angelic?
My anger is prolific
Biblical scriptures leave me destined for heathen obsessions.

I am the division
No balance without permission
My air fuels fires and creates unison.

I am destruction
But  rebirth in the same phase.
Cycling the celestial waives
Swearing in God's name.

I can't be the only one
Who feels that condescending thumb
We must create a stage to fit the population
who wants to express their pain to his son.

But its crowded,
About to cave.
The weight of the world will be best defined in mass graves.

And here comes my gift.
My anger is my bliss.
I can't come to grips on why the world is the way it is.
I respect this age for hands raised in rage.
But I will be quick to slap down others who think they are center stage.
I'll break anyone's four walls and follow Shakespeare in a Socratic annoyance.

This is a moment of clairvoyance

Repeat these words with me and find a voice;

Solve
Coagula

Solve
Coagula

Dissolve the paradigm
To form a new life

Solve
Coagula

Solve
Coagula

My gift to the world
Is written on my arms.
kind of a mind dump, haven't written much lately so i decided to just try instead of festering. This is about frustration of knowing who I am and dealing with social Olympics of others and the political landscape. The "in the moment philosophy", most seem to indulge on when arguing to be right, but really the point has been agreed on, just like to hear themselves talk.
Anger is a gift that triumphs over subordination of current status. If you're unhappy and oppressed, dismissed, this maybe for you.
Lou Mar 2018
I over heard a man say,
In all tone tailored misogyny.

"Women only write to gain sympathy;
trauma is the only word that they know to write in their tear stained diary's.
And the only "gentle-man"
kind enough to wash their emotions down,
chasing fire with gasoline.
Secretly wished he drank his filtered water silently..."

In all the heights of talks at the bar.
Shots being set off
like battles to march.
Blitzkreig novelty in subtle exchanged gazes.
Awkward waives of air strikes,
cued me to infiltrate with a statement.

If we could rewind back a bit:
Manson.
Corso.
Frost.
Shelley.

We as men,

we got paper in that social economy.

We've cornered the market with deep pockets,
and I'm personally buying up property.
if you have any trauma on this street
all the way to the corner of Fuckitall and defeat,
your words pay indulgences
to my agony.

We as men sank the dollar down with women walking away thinking we are just crazy.

We convinced ourselves we are rich and strong...
we are rich and strong...
...rich with strong anxiety.

Too bad an ego doesn't have a mirror to flex in proudly.

When things start looking good,
We question everything-
until we ruin the quality.
We wish we could start
handing out apologies
that could clean ourselves off
of guilt and second guessing
while we simultaneously
call out to every hot body we see.

That isn't boys being boys, that's mania.
We beg for a monetary insanity.
We pay for Electro lobotomies
And we take it like a man!

Like a homeless man...
shaking his can empty,
the only reflection
that's relevant of me.

I am the Can filled empty,
emotionally starving for change.

You can invest into our **** measuring moments ,
and track how many times quarterly we lose inches to self-pity,
we trade reason and go all in for compensation!

If we had a board of executives,
they would think for...
Ehh maybe a second; (meh)
Who needs to be invested?
when hair gel and resentment are certified and cost effective?

Blame, shame,
**** displayed disco games.

These are the tools we need as men,

Oppression, projection, beard cream, soggy dreams

We stuff our pants big
With a little tragedy.

All to have this conversation.
When the dollars weak
print out sexist paper statements
to inflate insecurities.

We men, we no speak.
Cause our fathers didn't put money into a *****.
We buck up or pay up.
the only men we can hear talking
Washington, Franklin,
and Lincoln penny's.
We ***** ourselves
And waited 30 days for warranty.
And took one for the team!
One more for someone else's American dopamine !

Kronos out of this time.
the statue we built of Atlas, crumbling.
Can man no longer lift the globe and say he needs nothing?
Has Gaia come home demanding her sons to reap what is printed on a receipt?!

Men who don't talk about trauma are traumatic.
If diaries are more soaked in women tears than ink,
why do we rub their faces into their single word dictionaries?

Is it so they cannot breathe the possibilities
that their tears and ink have formed other words
WORDS that could create sentences
SENTENCES on those stained pages
and all over those PAGES
She would explain it all;

In TEARS
and INK
and STAINS

"WE ALL FEEL PAIN."

Trauma bets against us all and leaves no *** or races.

Write trauma.
Right trauma,
By writing trauma away.

Women/Men.
sexism in poetry
Feb 2018 · 257
Creep
Lou Feb 2018
Hi, there someone I wanted to say hi to for sometime now but yet i never have much more to say after that.

Except you're beautiful and I wanna touch your hair.
I can't do that.
I'm not a random drunk woman complimenting another at a show waiting in line to use the bathroom.
They get away with touching and borderline ****** schoolgirl flirtation.  

That's OK.

But I am not.
I am sober.
I am a grown man.
We are in an office which just so happens to be a place where we
work.
I'm pretty certain H/R wouldn't understand the innocents of my crush.
Nor would you.
Nor would the restraining order.

I wish I had something more to say.
So I'll just not.
A silly short about not having courage and better words.
Dec 2017 · 156
esreveR
Lou Dec 2017
uoy nehW
nwo ruoy ni gnihcraes flesruoy dnif
,ssalg gnikool
.flesruoy ees yllaer t'nod uoy
flesruoy ni tbuod evah reveN
Dec 2017 · 125
Missing
Lou Dec 2017
Passenger on leave.
        Take to whatever may stead.

Your foot steps  
         Time lining distance in hair and laundry.

From galleries
     or hallways,
Or with neon silhouettes.

You're on your way
    And I can't complain.
Letting go.
Dec 2017 · 179
Social Media
Lou Dec 2017
It's hard to know what my reflection is in this window I hold everywhere I go.

Always looking out and never in.
The whole world on speed dial and still have no one to talk to.

This is not a window to the world.
It's a door that locks my curiosity and envy inside.
On the outside my motivation and time.

The key is to log out.
Goodbye facebook
Dec 2017 · 250
Colorado
Lou Dec 2017
Green to grey and foam
Olympic heights and beyond
Free falling snow globe
haiku for where my heart may lay.
Lou Dec 2017
I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.
I wrote this over a year ago, took me a few months to put it together properly but I wanted to share this fun time. Its about this bar I use to go to when I was in my early 20's and I use to watch people a lot act like savages, trying to pick up women, usual bar stuff. I hope this isn't too much of a mouthful, enjoy.
Dec 2017 · 321
Swampthing Trap Jazz
Lou Dec 2017
I been born to lack.
Self inflicting heart attack.
I been born to mourn my death.

I'm a plague dressed in disguise
A brooder of everything in sight.
I been born to mourn my death.

Don't bother to please.
You'll find I need no sympathy
I'm a swamp that takes body heat.

When you're in my morass trap,
You'll find anxiety tracks.
It's a disheartening,
Meglo-mockery.
Oh, Mephisto please.
Why do I do this to you my marsh queen?

Oh, I don't take, I steal.
Hearts, time and self esteem are a good meal.
Don't have any aches for me
I was born to mourn my death.

I must seem like a mystery
With dirt prints I leave behind every scene.
Taking you deep into a quagmire of negativity.

I been born to lack.
It's not my fault you got trapped.
But you were warned before,
I was born to mourn my death.
I feel like when I get close to people, we get trapped. It feels like its a doomed from the start. I feel bad I am like this.
Lou Dec 2017
To be a Poet,
One must **** them self slowly,
To be an Artist,
One must **** them self fast,
To be a Musician,
One must **** them self in time,
To be a human,
One just dies.

We are not just human.
We are sacrifices
Humanity remembers all but one.
Lou Dec 2017
I could while away the hours 
    Conferrin' with the flower
Consultin' with the rain
And my head, I'd be scratchin'
While my thoughts were busy hatchin'
If I only had a brain...


Flashes,
Alms to flashes,
Storms on television sets
Domesticating nature for High Definition ****** fixation.
Suffocating families in screens.
Screens and flashes,

Alms to flashes.
Distractions spurn all my senses
I am hard and flaccid
and want more
but less
but right now
and again!...

I can feel the needle connect to my veins and into my spine
Push the plunger down and connection is made.

I would not be just a nuffin' my head all full of stuffin'
My heart all full of pain.
I would dance and be merry, life would be a ding-a-derry,
If I only had a brain.
Media has a powerful suggestive force on our lives.
Dec 2017 · 457
Net Neutrality
Lou Dec 2017
One last step
Through the forest before the trees are cut down.

One last flight into space
Before the the satellites keep us in.

One last read
Before the library cuts the sentence by toll.

One last champion
Before his logos show.

One last man.
Before he places the devil around his neck.

One last word.
Before they charge me for every other after.

Freedom doesn't have "a last".
Freedom is lasting.
Vote for net neutrality. You deserve to know. You deserve to not be charged to know. Be free. Our one last freedom is this tiny screen in your hand right now.
Dec 2017 · 4.1k
Mute
Lou Dec 2017
If there were better words
I would sing 'em.

For now,
Silence is a crowd
And I'm making it as their leader.

Or only true believer,
In words.
Or lack of them,
regardless,

It's a mute commute to what you want.

Was it my bad, behavior?
that was feeling you-
before you were feeling me
around my neck

I get it.
Out of respect
and for heart murmurs

Its true,
I can feel it;
Me, mute is a commute that you want

This train had to keep moving.
The conductors wife is at bay.
Many people are apologetic.
But many more have destinations to make.

Like crying baby.
And a grin,
from a lonely man in his gazing,
fading lying chair.

For you
And me-
In this booth.

Mute is our commute to what we want.
Mute is our commute to what we want.
Wrote this when someone was slowly fading out of my life
Lou Dec 2017
If I had two better hands
I'd write out a list of all my plans
But one of them would be crossed out in a red inked pen
Two words that do nothing but weaken my message
How useful is atonement if it doesn't make amends?

It could be my clown teared eyes
Or the masquerade I use to hide
All my riddles and blues are part of a balancing act
I can juggle while I'm crying and say two offense
I must look like such a fool in my angst performance.

But when you speak to me
I slip into a dream like trance
Where poetry makes love to me
And two words are never at the end of every sentence
But you're not the type to let this go
I can feel it when we hold hands
It's so simple to be regretful
But harder to forget.

I know two words
And That's all I ever say
Time is a glass house mime with silent parties within
I bang on every door screaming, "Let me in",
She comes over to the window just to shake her head.

I could change like a fantasy
Pretend I'm a Jester singing to a Queen
Pulling out a veil of blue and green
Charm her with my comedy and ****** her with magic
If I could pull out more words from my sleeve
I would lead with a compliment instead of plead apologetic
Two words are like a hook and I'm caught on them again.

Wallflowers bloom brightest in the cold
I could be picked if I didn't try and control
I know you need peace
And I just need it to snow
Freeze my words and wait for Springs' thaw
I'll wait for you to come and pick a bouquet
I'll look lovely in your window
If I can just stay frozen.

I promise to be more patient
Hold my tongue and count back from three
On my list I'll take two words
And cross them out of my vocabulary
It must not mean that much coming from me
But I got a list of plans
You and I will just have to wait to believe.
I gotta stop saying, "I'm sorry". I gotta do better to change my words. I'm struggling to show you I can give you time. I just needed to prove it to myself.
Lou Nov 2017
Mirrors stand on trial.
As my reflection has become treason.
Iris' clawing itself out of their sockets.
Screaming for blindness.
This cannot be who I am up close.
This isn't who I am on the inside

As touch becomes apocalypse.
Finger tips shaving and ripping
romantic runs down a spine
into an escape from hell.
The monster, applauding my imagination.
All fears confirmed by reflection.
The monster is me, stalking to taking stage.
Every pulsing orifice oozing out reality,
bites and endures flesh.
Pieces of everyone I try to get close to
becomes food.
Leaving the gluttons pink-red and full.

No dimension displayed without cauterized scars.
Deformation of the mind and DNA
Playing jazz backwards as the big band
Scolds its tune from the inside
I can hear the power tools of natures orchestra.
Brackish change, Chimera's blushing to proposal.
This is my favorite song
And it ends with anxiety of a new face.

The mirror telling it all.
Clumps of hair,
Eyes in hands.
Festering humanity in fetal position begging for death
after birth.
Blowfly meals for two lovers, eaten alone.
God's hands in face peeking through her fingers.
Blood dripping from immortalities ugly head.

Tremors of night and knocks on the door.
Coagulating depression finally answers.

Come in.

This is what I am on the inside, up close.
Make a plate for your eyes.
Anxiety is on the menu.
I'm relating depression to horror. I thought what if my depression took form?
Nov 2017 · 215
Scaramouche
Lou Nov 2017
Cherubs play peek-a-boo in slow forming mushroom clouds
Above us; art and war harmoniously pervert nature Dali
Trolls of heaven scoffing at Earth sipping chardonnay.
Nov 2017 · 327
Dinner
Lou Nov 2017
I am an anorexic with a gluttonous mouth for bad table manners and my own feet.
I relate to 364 licks to the center of the tootsie pop to only find out it was just dirt and high fructose corn syrup.
Like my personality it is a disappointment. Maybe the world would of been better to let this one go.
C'est la vie my family, whom leaves me at the table with a cold meal I refuse to acknowledge as food.
My father's own teachings red on my face and my mother's lessons bleeding from my ears. Welcome to church today we will be eating the lord.

Cause I feel something must fill me more than nihilism which by nature fills me with nothing but more space for my lack of motivation and self deprecating.
I need to be nothing so I must eat just that.
I want to save someone so they can eat me one day.
If I gave myself up to be eaten on Sunday's due to lack of interest in feeding myself,
I'll put a spin on my suicide and say its for my followers.
I wonder what I would taste like.  
Arrogantly I'll claim myself as zesty a flavor of Passover dinner or just Christ. I can picture the burning cross on the sauce bottle.
I'd eat it.
But I may have consumed so much of Christ's body and blood, I must be what I eat.
I wanna be the devil in deserts of my passions.
The fats that I was told not to indulge just for me to steal and hide under my grandmother's shadow without shame as did Lucifer.

"For my sake", she would say,
Force fed in line to ingest the breast and white meat of Jesus with no seasoning. Just gross.
That token of him a flake disk ******* of Bible versus and boxed wine, the same meal to have fed a congregation.
A congregation that must have starved and ate each other to really live, that's probably how we have Catholicism.
My halo childhood head would crave the cheap red dry and knew what the point was to drink his veins and get drunk off of me.
I was fed not my saviors life but my-self lie, placed into my mouth as a tasteless disciple, cannibalizing my identity for salvation.
"Save me", is a phrase I never said,
Cause I thought I was made in his image.
"Feed me", was more like it.
as I chomped on my fingertips and hair.
So I conclude I must be passover for I have been eating myself.
And I am not zesty.
I'm boring and salty like I would be later on.
Chopping from the branches of trees low hanging meat,
hearts and hands boiled into my idle grip cauldron. All theories and none of it stone soup for anyone's soul.
What useless things are my hands without knifes and forks.
I am simply their slave as I was to my addictions to eating saviors.
Now I'm useless, godless and starving.

Gandhi was bony, spicy and tasted like young women.
Crowley tasted like young boys and patchouli
LaVey was chewy dark meat but too Gainey for me
And Nietzsche...Nietzsche was good,
in spite of the syphilis just not enough to go around.
Had to overcome that man.
I tried just about everything to cure my hungry nihilism.
I've binged on fortunes from cookies that have more faith in me than I have in myself. Sentiment in sugar, not so sweet but bland and stale as my eyes and heart.
Confucianism is a light diet kind to nature but I am not willing to share my plate nor am I that kind.

My teeth still picking saviors out.
The taste of the lamb of god hasn't washed out of mouth for years
I tried to burn it out with the devils fruit but its just humanities ******* in a gardening hose blasted in my mouth.
I can still hear the nails on my dinner plate go into his wrists,
the blood being dropped on  marble as the nuns lashes crack me,
To lick it off the basilicas floor.
I am the last at my families table undecided to starve at a feast of philosophy.
Or gnaw on the bones of those I already ate.
I'm certain with a good cookbook of my creation,
with remnants left over of condiment hymns,
two slices of existential crisis,
One molded cheese of absurd ideas
and a garden of seeds I planted from the bowels of dead Messiah's.
I will have a meal.
One that maybe you all would like to partake in.
Aug 2017 · 586
I am human first.
Lou Aug 2017
Throwback dissonance, results in future social dystopian conversations. Tormented lives swept under rugs, in between the cracks of floor boards. Dust and filth, years of names. All scratched into the bathroom stalls of so called neighborhood's, subordinates of time and "hush-hush" the city to the suburbanites. Shocking to them eating dinners still in the 1990's, fastened tight in seat belts of self esteem, MTV news and 50 inches of reality. You must be joking, not ever knowing, folly box dwellers, why they say all "white".

The back doors were shut and locked when you looked left and double took right; as jokes from the safety of your water stained walls and cigarette burned carpets, to joke hatred like art and we must pretend not us though? Wall to wall, our prison starts here and ends in our front lawns as the country shouts "white man" and we must remain silent.

My father's land,  nearly 20 year cultural hiatus that split our family in two,  came back from time, in a paperclip, over the wall, east to the west side of Berlin and  delivered in a rebel DeLorean with bumper stickers of second amendment speeches and pro-life Bible out of contextual arguments. These retrospects, taking advantage of sales on tiki torches while stealing phrases from my great grandfather class of 1933. And the whole country shouts "white man".

No, my country,
not white men.
In skin yes, in history, no.

They were never men.
Never did my father speak of men.

I heard the gang rapes of Gypsy's.
Stories of slain Catholics.
Murders of homosexuals,
The bones crushed of opposing parties.
The staple mascot of pain, Judaism extermination that swept through culture like a bad advertisement tune.

Gassed.
Tortured.
Worked.

They come for us all.
Not as white men.
They come as their own.

This is not man.
They maybe white, but not man.

I am a white man,
but it's always been human, first.

That's black.
That's white.
That's purple.
That's life.

They come for our progress, not our skins.
Virginia showing its color but I am not allowing them to show my skin. They are not white men. We don't want them. They are lesser, an insult to monsters and dogs.
Jul 2017 · 424
Chelsie
Lou Jul 2017
Have you ever heard the wings of a Phoenix burning in the cold?
Have you ever heard the rain come down steaming every drop on her face?
Have you ever heard the Phoenix sing rebirth songs in the cold son?
Have you ever seen the bird a blaze, flying with the sun.

Flying with the sun
Flying with the sun

Have you seen the ashes of her wake?
As she is due to rise again.
Have you seen the way she brings life back into a man's dying eyes?
Have you ever seen the phenomenon she makes just cause your in her life?

I called off to a man once who taught me about her ideals of love.

Asked for her name and when will the time come?

He said her name isn't for all to share but look into the flame,
the circle above.

Her Love rises and sets the same, now forever for everyone.

Her love is the only thing to remain.

Have you ever heard the wings of a Phoenix breaking sound?
You can hear her way, like the beating of a thousand drums.
Have you ever heard of a day a Phoenix doesn't return strong?

I cried out to the man, how long must I wait?
I have done all I can and patience isn't my strength.
The man gripped me with his sight shaking coal and brimstone from the sky.

He said 20 years or more and that could be more than a lifetime.
He said 20 years or more and that could be more than a lifetime.

Have you ever seen the blaze of a burning bird at night?
Have you ever seen her flame, can you imagine it could subside?
Let's cut the power before the day breaks and throw ashes into the wind and see her rise,
and fly one last time.  

And fly one last time.
My dearest of friends. She left us January 31st, 2016. She really represented the spirit of the Phoenix.
Lou Jul 2017
Petite and concise
Short doesn't always convey solidly. 
Though it trends immediately.

I'm suppose to relate to this?
So, this is what keeps the masses?

The few stanzas.
Holding a shallow briefing.
Arranged extinction of meaning.
This Sparknote poetry.

I'm a short fuse.
Time bombs set faster than a haiku,

Lazy.
Apathetic
Medicating
Entertainment,

What's to appease ? Do you think I
retain a story in a few breathes?
Is it folly to those who take strides?Tormented by creativity and pages of effort?

Maybe it's personal preference.
Or maybe I'm just bored.
Rarely do I complain but,
enough small talk of weather.
Bored out of my mind reading tiny blurbs. Let me sink my teeth into the meat of your brain. Give me more.
Jul 2017 · 354
Monster to Monster
Lou Jul 2017
Devious self-interpretation of motive in silk webbed mind, stuck in the trench warfare with the bugs and captured flies.
Squirming, disarmed, rattled teeth approached by death of the natural spider.
Slender and tormenting its captives in her somber lullabies, perverting happiness into altercation.

The ceremony is stretching its legs and fangs. The dinner table is set. The knives and forks, the cups and plates.
Mangled apathetic corpses, travel the distance from television to kitchen.
Slobs and lumps gather to de-funk the contents.
Inhales. Down. Waves of hands. Snickers of teeth to stomach. Grinding, turning, swallow.

The head of the spider appears.
The waves of hands, inhales, teeth.
The spider smiles and observes the meek as they gouge in their eyes with chicken legs and apple fat pies.
"With all eight legs and all my eyes, have never seen such cold gluttony, what does that make I?"
Who is to judge the beast ? A civilized beast ?
This was written 4 years ago yesterday. Wanted to point out I have been in this game for a long time. I thought I lost this one. You could say it crawled back to me.
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