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Blood Word Jul 2012
Words fall from mouths and die on the ground.
Lips turn sour from the filth pouring across them.
Ears clog up and hear what was never there.
Communication is a ritual each performs
To feel good about, to protect himself.
There was never anything to feel good about, to protect.

All feel the pull from their chest, the urges, desires.
They give in and never control it.
Haughty are they!
For they look to the heart for guidance
It laughs to itself and prances them around on puppet strings
(Cleverly named “heart strings”)
Gaining delight with each fall man makes.
He cannot remove the cords within.

Admiration has always been on “love”.
Hate is self-love, and that is lust.
Lust and love became one when man grabbed it.
Love is hate in its purest form, yet none ever see this.
They will forever hate, unwittingly.

When a pebble is falling through the sky,
It cannot stop itself.
So is man.
Flapping his arms to stop the fall.
Pulling up on his feet to fly.
Of course, they are only weak, and need to flap faster, pull harder.
The origin of East cannot be reached by walking “more East”.
Perfection cannot be achieved by trying harder.
And what are we if not perfect?
Falling. Like a pebble.

Man lives in a dark room.
He picks up shadows and throws them on the wall to improve his situation.
Black begets black. Evil begets evil.
No matter his feigned intentions, this is the way man kills himself.
I decided to write a poem refuting some of the major kinds of empty encouragement we receive from the media. What is assumed in this poem (but deliberately not clearly stated) is that this is man's condition without God. The media tells us we can do so much good if we only try, but they always fail to mention that good can only come from God, and man is hopeless without Him.

This poem was written July 06, 2012.
Blood Word May 2012
I’m tortured, beaten, whipped, punished, bitten, cut, stabbed, torn, heartbroken, and surrounded by people who love me. I’m abused, used, and tossed away, and not a single person hates me. I’m useless, weak, falling, dashed, and everyone sacrifices themselves for me. I’m struck and bruised when you stretch out a hand to help me up. I bleed where you caress me. My bones break when you try to hug me. My ears ring when you say “I love you”.
I lose my sight when you turn on the light.
So I run from you. I hide so you can’t slice my heart with caring words. I shield myself from you so you can’t shoot me with selflessness. I strike back in anger so your love won’t **** me.
I seized fear as my weapon, for it is the eternal enemy of love. If I make you scared of me, it hampers the love. And I did.
But it didn’t.
This poem was written May 13, 2012.
Blood Word May 2012
When the sky fades, the earth quakes
And everyone is shown as fakes,
What you know is gone, what you fear is near
When real is wrong, and wrong is here

“Give up your ways! Forsake your flaws!”
(They close their ears, march in the jaws)
We will survive, we have our laws!
“You are dying! Drop the knife!”
(In unison they exit life)
We will live, but here’s no strife

They are falling (no, they are we!)
He is dead (it’s us, not he!)
She needs to wake (it is you, not she!)
All are broken and must be fixed
(You must see it’s us, or we’ll ne’er be free)
Blood Word Mar 2012
I once struck a man in anger, with a small statuette.
I dropped it to the floor as he fell, too, and watched the blood flow from his head.
Though as I gazed at the pool of crimson and began to realize what I had done,
I felt a snap and saw a vision:

I saw every drop of his blood.
It was inside his body, flowing, coursing, full of life and giving life.
He grew to raise a family, love his wife, and love his kids.
He helped his coworkers and encouraged them.
He donated to charities, and those charities helped many.
Some of those many improved their lives and helped many more.
As his sons, daughters, wife, and coworkers also were given life by him and gave life,
I saw his blood flow into their veins and spread, infecting countless others with love.
Houses filled with light and laughter
Streets were peopled by happy beings.
A woman comforted a girl in the loss of a friend, holding the sobbing face to her caring chest.
A poor man gave his only coat to a cold orphan boy on the curb, smiling through weathered lips.
I saw all this life,
And it was an ocean.

A flash of light and sound, and I saw another vision:

I saw every drop of his blood.
It was outside his body, flowing, coursing, void of life and stealing life.
As it touched me, I joined it as blood, boiling and bubbling with hate.
As our blood ran down the busy metropolis street of life, it would touch people it came across.
When it did so, they would melt also into a mass of red, splashing outward, and infecting others.
Everyone touched would gasp and turn to scarlet, turning the shop-lined street into a river of blood.
Countless lives were consumed in this manner.
At one point, I finally pooled at the bottom of the street, and stared back from where I came.
The street was now dark and desolate, the bustling life gone.
The shops empty, the skies grey, the ground littered.
A finch plucked strands from a red-stained straw hat, to make a bed of death.
A mangy alley dog lapped up the blood that still coated the street, becoming only more hideous.
And all was quiet, and I was utterly alone, but for the screams of their blood in my ears.
I saw all this death,
And it was an ocean.

A jolt, and I opened my eyes.
I found myself staring at the blood running from the man’s head in front of me.
A few seconds later and I realized again what I had done.
But I realized something else as well.
I tore my shirt and tightly wrapped his head in the cloth.
I lifted him up and took him to the hospital.
There I sat and awaited my punishment.
And took joy in life.
I finished part 2 before the first part, so I'm posting it now. Part 1 is still in the works.

This poem was written March 15, 2012.
Blood Word Mar 2012
Why am I so worthless?
Why do I feel like I just don’t belong?
Like I’m sinning by existing?
That I’m nothing but a bothersome burden?

Everything I do provokes yelling.
Everything I say provokes reprimand.
Wherever I go is evil.
And whoever I am needs to be “fixed”.

All my choices are marked “crazy”
And my parents whisper behind my back.
I let them think I can’t hear them
But I hear every word and feel every sting.

Do I give a ****? I act like I don’t
And shoot down those who think I do.
But I do care. I care a lot.
I’m just so soft that I must attack to live.

I feel as if I don’t know anything but pain
And I’ll never be able to accept anything else.
I certainly have difficulty receiving love.
One loves me, and I feel rotten for having trouble loving her.

Why is this so hard?
I’m supposed to be the selfless one,
The one to take all their strife, so they can live.
But the side-effect is that I die.

Even then, I can’t do my duty
Because of “equal exchange”.
Giving my life helps no one
Because it isn’t worth enough to give.

But then again, I’m condemned even now
By myself, for just voicing my complaints.
Because that’s all they are. Whines.
I mean, there are starving kids in China, afterall.
This poem was written March 12, 2012.
Blood Word Mar 2012
I want your touch
I want your kiss
I want your hug
You I miss
So much

I want you close
I want you near
I want you as my
So much

To stroke your hair
To feel you live
To hold your hand
I would give
So much

Baby, we will
Come together
I'll love you now
And forever
So much
Dedicated to Mary Mueller <3
This poem was written March 8, 2012.
Blood Word Feb 2012
My heart sits here, a scarlet cup
Empty, waiting to be filled up.
Vultures fly through and pick it dry,
A loss I take with a sad sigh.
I'm used to this, always the same,
A drop of love; a flood of shame.

What is this? The sun cried a tear.
This drop of life is falling near.
The vultures flee, chased by its light,
Strikes my heart, brings purity bright.
Filled with pow'r that none can contest,
You are perfect, love, and my best.
Another poem I wrote about Mary, the love of my life.

This poem was written February 15, 2012.
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