Lost in sombre details, of what really hangs around morals
-Crucifix, hanging around a sinner’s neck; so choked up
While the devil speaks on my livelihood with his demons
Parading as unwanted guests; foundations of personal griefs
I am unguarded; not well versed in a couple scripture verses

Versions of my weekly self- a relaxed stance, trying to have
Faith in a life of ease. Setting aside everything else, in the
Way of being by my bedside- faithfully praying on my knees

Still if my faith is loosely based on modern people’s commitment
To their faith and integrity, I might as well be faithless as them all-  
Seated in a church; behind on my many debts, sitting at the back
Listening to the loud laughs of the greatest hypocrites,
The usual Sunday gossip, sounding clearer than a church bell
Leaders who burnt me, quick to preach how I might go to Hell

As a failed sense of wholesome community in communal
Around church clicks of skin colour, for Sunday’s different cults
In what my conscious tries to say is a domicile sanctuary:
I’m a bit reluctant to fully agree with my own self

Staring at this phone;-
Still waiting for the courage in myself to call
Your longing voice reflecting in my heart, like an echo
Clearly when I’m alone; swallowing the guitar strings
To play a soft melody in every one of my spoken words

But every time the phone’s waiting sound
Rings in my ear, every reason soon departs; I hang up
The phone before it even connects- feeling we’re no longer
As connected, as we used to be before;

So please, please save yourself, time, worth and words,
By all means, not feeling regretful to pick up the phone…

How the world hoards to see us: a collective
Of compulsive opinions, so prevalent in their hearts
Amid the prettiness sleeping awkwardly in your eyes
You’re so pretty in my eyes- I just wish you could
See what I see, but you’re so blinded by the
Glass splinters in your eyes, remaining something of
A child, still finding themselves- eternally lost

Styrofoam around my heart; a cardboard box around it,
To pack away memories of love. Crustacean lips, for every after
Taste of kissing; once of fishing for the one- that illusive catch
Still with the selfish desire to claim someone as my own, alone-
A greed like cigarettes staining fingers; crying only to myself
But never counting those tears in the broken mirror, of a bathroom

As this hubris of a man, is quite humorous;- truly starved of direction;
Yielded in such a dishonest method. A chance of, “shooting your shot,”
A posing act of perhaps creating your own weapon to **** yourself
Parlour tricks, for the conformality of society- a human preference
At this point. These unspoken rules, carefully set down: find someone,
Get married, do your purpose to multiply, work diligently to maintain
Appearance/experience memories together; as from finding love as
One being single, to leave those you loved mournfully single;
As only those set apart, ironically get to die together. Oh, how
Wonderful would such a pension to love be- but not often given freely.

Acrimonious ******; oh, to such a wanted piece of thought, falling carelessly as a leaf blown in a sceptical kind of winds, and with their goal of rattling me. The present fortunes present themselves as a mystery unsolved, the many spasms in a day, constricted by the extravagance of wanting to be heard; but the audience is so uninvolved

As I sometimes misplace my identity in my own words- as when I misplace worries into the formula of my concerns. The lessor faith in words, frames on the highest platform; in the endless echoes of a writer’s afterlife- where their once idolized muses, are blessed enough to be seen as something appreciated as gods- a Poetic pantheon

Creativity is like two gloved hands, that choke out the reader’s eyes,
suffocating them to see new found knowledge, in the loss of consciousness. As the stage is set; upon the tears of the world, being the opening curtains to such an encore performance; an audience made up of eyes hungry for more. The author’s responsibility to provide to them all,
a due course of sustainable food for thought. As the world feeds the writer the vilest of things, to in turn create something ameliorates in place of it.

There’s something so sinister about being lost inside of yourself;-
I apply Lip Ice before I fall asleep, just in case I have to experience
That cold kiss with Death. But that’s one being, being less than
generous to oneself, and giving out a lot of degenerate excuses
Of not doing so well. Rambling picaresque; engulfed by a hardened
sense; feeding well into my own insecurities, made from haphazard
ingredients- as a soul that tastes like concluded gumbo

Still, I ate a full plate; possessing a ruthless taste; an illegitimate
descendant of experience- that ******* is tapping, watered down
By the chit and chatter of rain; a totem of pain, spoken in haste,
As my lips are a cigarette ember, kissing while heat reveals itself,
As a tiny echoed spark, in a pool full of fresh gasoline

I only hear the sound of peace, in a snoring dream, ha, I hardly
do try to breathe out of my nose. From not being altogether; are we
Really all together- who really knows? But only the dead, who truly
Get to see the entire world, as souls that rise, or of course those who fall
As its truly so sinister living as beings, in this world’s being.

By my life’s imposing conclusion;-
My poetry will all be an additional storyline
It’s words remembered; my memory but forgotten
Surely the beginning of someone else’s inspiration
-Of course, in the middle of their new found saga
  
     And by that, I shall be content.