Mike Virgl

Mike Virgl Mar 2018

Yut lycking

Ctu tcking

**** frumping

**** frazes

To tragedy a spontaneous dance;
Cuts the wire to their own thread.
The spoll they use to measure and examine,
The wait for the murdered to be murdered.

Which is, is what has already happened
See what is, is what is willed.
And will happen.
And thats the epiphany that curses me

Who knew living in the moment, would affect what hasn't even occured, the choices made by (now) a past self, determines the mental and emotional state of what parallels may exist.

Like two magnets touching, but moving hours apart.

Frumping a man

Cut the dof

Uty ylcking

Ibuo tio

lasi siem

Snshk ehesm

Why does it have to mean,
something?
Why does everything have to mean something
to
someone?
Why?
Does someone steal a part of someone when they go?
And so you are left empty
Almost unfinished, but you were at some point.
Finished or whole.
You just left the conversation going and open
Almost a rant, but without meaning.
Since you were looking for a punchline, a final thing to say.
As "Goodbye" would never do it.

"Have a good life"
How improbable.
What a sour

It ended

Mike Virgl Mar 2018

My fingertips are no longer my own.

A headache that
knocks, knocks, knocks
While fingers, are closer and farther, with black dots dots dots

There is no rhythm for a universe to rule, but
Humans pretend; saying chaos is over, done, the lines we cannot cross, are completely white, let these erase all objection.

The tips waver on the light
Touch, touch, touch
As they turn to face my
Eyes, eyes, eyes

Then
Remove one key to the stability and see men flounder
Pressure from the change, defining a stressor, which
Accelerates into a dip;

A free fall
And from this fall man finds solution -

"Gouge out creation, and or the visage.
Self mutilation seems better to be fit
Then to carry such hideous, black, venom
Which is the root, to which man unlocks
What he himself is."

The shutter stock effect leaves me without
Emotion
My own touch causes me to
Recoil, recoil, recoil

Now that man is without fingers,
He has no worries, the dreaded darkness,
Which plagued his poor, unprotected fingers, are gone, as both are severed.
Now he is truly stable.

Mike Virgl Mar 2018

The Duo Dances, Teases, but Never Forgets About that Numerical Moat

I was alone.
With the pitter patter

My solemn mouth
From a bitter shatter.

I still hear.
The waters eating waves

My hearts flutters
Reflecting the knave.

I had fun.
With another rosary

My soul asks,
"Was it just tonight?"

I dont feel.
I dont feel now

My passions stills
With a heart bow.

I feel distracted.
Why do I look?

My senses joined
As my brains crook.

I lose belief.
In self fufillment

My feelings pass
The path to sacrament.

I want death.
Upon my stimulation

My feeling gone
I give a libation.

I am tranquil.
Not sad, or desperate

My face is rational
As emotion is separate.

I offer myself.
And give peacefully

My ending, my soul
And my entire body.

To unlock the peace I found and to keep it forever.

Mike Virgl Mar 2018

For the longing

Hell on earth, of dreams, the rushing of all
Ostensible the making of confessions, a trio.
Levants that pilgrims must travel, to improv
Even the word, which is left, but raw to me.

#words #love #and #im #lost #in #my #mind #the #bouncing

Mike Virgl Feb 2018

the act of breathing in

By god that dragon is back.
and it breaths fire,
or soot clouds
I cannot remember.
all I know is to keep away from it.
Hide, take shelter, remove myself from the temptation.
The taking of the deepest breath, is what my mind loops;
as I wish to ride the dragon one more time.

I'm back, I guess. I was just busy with school and work. I'll probably make another poem in seven years given how long its been.

#dragon #fire #chasing #drug #passion

Mike Virgl Jan 2018

The Light to my Desolation

With pedal's red flush
A rose grew in the arctic
Survivng to blush

How can on interpret a poem when no one has a clue who, what or where it is about? What if even the author is unsure?

#love #red #rose #pedal #hair #eyes #brown #white #snowbank #field

Mike Virgl Dec 2017

Crutch

.
.
.
What have you done?
Nothing at all
Sitting here, as the time
Passes; as a candle
Flickering
Out.

What will you do?
Well at four in the morning
There is not a lot.
Except the cold
And the enclosing
Dark.

Why did you do this?
Well can that be said?
Honestly, and bluntly,
Straight out would the
Answer stick?

It would become lodged.
Because words unravel mysterious
And mean nothing all at the same time.

Who am I?
What a pertentious question to ask.
You have no right to ask,
Nor mind to conceive it.

What am I meant for?
Well to live and to die.
Make an impact on someones life,
Good or bad, time has no universal code.

What am I doing?
Looking for an answer
To a question I have about people,
And also about me.

Should you lean upon a crutch?
What if you are a crutch yourself?
What if someone took you away?
What if you merely were a crutch to a table?
How awful really.

But what is the matter? You've found it!
A place for yourself.
You see, you do not matter.
A crutch, a dime a dozen so cheap.

That is what you get from lack of sleep I guess, and lack of meaning I guess, and lack of health I guess.
A crutch that wanders, looking for what it means to be independent or leaned on, and if it is truly a curse or a blessing.

How silly is this anaology?
I think it is downright clear.
But I am a rambling madman
With an end soon near.

As soon I will be gone, this consious shed.
I will wake up this morning, tired in bed.
I will reach my hands and feel a change.
I will no longer feel; it is quite strange.

And I wish I could say I did resist,
But I did not.
For the immoral base upon my kingdom,
Is founded upon my thoughts
And actions of sin.

I laugh and I laugh and I laugh.
How little will do I have?
I am just a piece of dust,
Moved by the slightest wind
Of dismay.
.
.
.

Thoughts at 4 am

#hopless #sin #love #lost #dark #pit #of #despair #numbness #questions