painted perfection
overrun by ignorance.
corruption-
in the form of societal
paralysis,
in the line of destroying
what others have strived
to achieve.
bathing in determination
to keep
them
down.
enablers demanding submission.
[STAY OUT!]
remain silent.
stale
and mold
in the deep recesses of
discrimination,
hatred,
self-loathing incognito –
a simple superiority complex,
inferiority at its finest.

If I was a mountain

That soared towards the sky,

With craggy snow caps

And stormy grey eyes-



Then you'd be the clouds

That swaddled my peak,

That silenced my thunder

When I tried to speak.



If I was the earth

The desert, in fact:

With arid dry soil

And mud, baked and cracked-



You'd be the rain

The downpour that soothed;

The balm to my bruises,

Relief to my wounds.



If I was the Moon

In the indigo night,

With stars as my blanket

And silver; my light-



Well you'd be the Sun

Just always behind

That lent me your glow

And caused me to shine.

I buried my face
in the folds of your shirt
and inhaled the soft scent
of your cologne.

In that instant, I knew –
more than anything else –
that I could suffocate
in your arms

and die happy.

When I was sad all the time
I had this delusional belief that 
once I had someone to hold on to –
someone to love
and to be loved by –
that I would be happy. 
But now that I have you,
and I hold you as often as possible,
I know what it's like to be pushed away.
And now that I love you,
you're the only thing that has the ability
to make me this sad anymore. 
And now that I know
what it’s like to be loved,
I'm too afraid to let you go.
Because, to be honest,
I really just don't want
to go back to being sad
all the time.

False sermons:
lies given as life lessons.
The pseudo-righteous
committing sins behind locked doors.
They stand tall –
proud and egotistical:
the epitome of hypocrisy,
like narcissists preaching modesty,
thieves teaching integrity,
liars blessing honesty.
They’re glorified, romanticized:
god-like idols feigning purity,
using religion to manipulate,
abusing the devotion of the naïve.
Followers fall to their knees
in the name of their beliefs,
taught to them by gilded demons
dressed up in suits.
But eventually, their masks will crackle.

In death,
their veils will fall.

On occasion we like to be alone,
and soak in the comfort
of our own independent existence,
but we just can’t stand
the idea of loneliness,
the harsh cacophony of silence –
bouncing against the hollow walls
of the abyss we voluntarily
stepped into in the first place.
In that darkness
we find ourselves anew,
but like death,
is change not inevitable
when your past is
forgotten,
and your ghost
f  a  d  e  s  
like memories ostracized
in the blackest corners
of our vacant,
unforgiving minds?

These boys follow boys
playing dress up as men
playing dress up as soldiers –
seeking refuge in uniforms
and helmets and ignorance.
Because war is glory
and freedom is love.
And it’s the thought that counts,
so if we’re killing in the name,
then ****** is justifiable
and slaughter is understandable.

They fight for their families,
but their good intentions
are caked in blood –
in every crevice and every corner.
Because war is hell
and freedom is an illusion.

So they come home
haunted, shaken
by the echo of phantom gunshots,
seeing faces in the black
of the night,
because they can’t sleep
after witnessing the life
of a young boy blink
out of existence –
at the flex of a finger,
and the twist
of an already warped mind.

Our boys go on journeys –
young and unafraid –
and return, not as men,
but as ghosts – as wraiths,
feeding on their own regret
and parasitic guilt.

Why do we indulge
in man-made hell?