Animals
Left like animals
Behave like animals
The contrast between us was to great
for any astrological pattern.
The room was empty when you entered
only because you left it empty when you left.
I was nothing, felt nothing, thought of no one but myself.
I am no longer this person.

The duality of man
allows for a forceful angry mentality
While also acting virtuous.
The strongest man understands when to be violent
The weak man is impulsive and irrational
The wise man understands life is imperfect
The foolish man forces it be so
The virtuous man is overjoyed to give more than receive
The greedy man looks only to take
The duality of man, allows for a
Virtuous, gracious action with a pent-up
Rage beneath.
The duality of man echoes repetitive ancestral behaviors
The need to sacrifice in the name of a higher power

She was the vehicle that ultimately was her end.
The beginning of solemnity and sorrow.
Within him, a raging bull grunted in frustration,
as the crossroads were flashing red.
Leaving consciousness dazed,
the clowns pranced around
as the bull charged ahead.
Clowns flew, and suddenly the bull and clowns were one and the same.
It was clear, both share a death wish
With the bull left to bite the bullet.

Do I still write as well as I used to?
Is my writing as lackluster as my relationship,
Or is it eccentric beyond tradition.
Does it contain the same effervescence as those before?
Am I in a time warp, wasting away my days?
Instead of bettering myself,
Self-recognition was my blind side.
When I wrote emotionally
The words spoke of improvement,
Yet what has developed is rather disappointing.

The cross around my neck is a testament,
To remember how I have changed,
To remember the person I once was,
To become what is to be.
Not God, not religion, about myself,
To prove to myself that I must mature through the decisions I make.
To remind myself I am not as selfish as I was.
To become the person I was afraid to be.

I can't see the finish line of my growing sickness,
For you cannot leave like the rest never did.
Born into the solidarity of such an honest soul,
I left, as soon as they arrived.
As we did in our sleep, while no one watches.
A ghost within a haunted house,
Never remembered, Never forgotten.
Love is no cure, only a patch.
I imagined you leaving but how could I?
When you never arrived.

Blood Red is the color of its eyes,
when it consumes the host
controlling the actions against humanity.
Allowing the host to crave the insensitivity.
Leaving the one’s you love to bare the consequences.

Blood Red is the color of triumph.
Against every will of man
to wave the solemn flag of defeat.
As it’s essence lures the heart,
deserting the mind of any righteousness.

Blood Red is a cry for help,
as it’s victims have run dry,
against the impulse it desires.

Blood Red peaks into the soul,
fleeing the mind
as it flows through the body;
overwhelming the host on the eternal drug of following the heart,
and being a mascot for temptation.

Write with intelligence,
Ignorance will speak.
A blissful gift to social acceptance,
And a standard to hierarchy.
Write with intelligence for it is the true testament to one’s self.
Speak with ignorance for it exemplifies the perfect facade.
Write with intelligence for ignorance only reads.
Speak with ignorance for it allows the mind to flee.
Ignorance is not bliss rather a lack of efficiency within the mind.
With the fabric of intelligence dangling at the balance.

The truth is gregarious and sharp with the world being peeled away by its insensitivity.
With doctors planting gourmet pills to feed the emotional,
Although glut is an impossibility to herculean farce.
For the blasphemy has overgrown into the natural industry
Whose characteristics bespoke religion.
Praying to an idol with hedonism reaching for the hand of Theocentric disposition.
For we were taught," Resent the lies, Accept the truth"
Becoming, "Resent the truth, accept the lies for they are not as avarice.”
Destroying such intelligence to comprehend damnation.
Silky like the kiss of death.
Soft and understanding of such emotions.
Protecting such against the false truth of the universe's intentions.

He lived by the smoke and faded into it.
For as it filled his lungs the wall within him grew weaker.
As the ignorant thoughts of a stress-reliever,
became a morbid death discharging the heart of its hobby to pump.
Pump...Pump...Pump...
He forced these tobacco filled killers farther and farther into his mouth.
To shove down the worries of four kids and a barely surviving laundromat.
Putting his lungs in the washer to polish his good intentions,
and dry them off with two packs a day.
Sequestering the addiction from the one’s who loved him the most.
For it was his duty to remain a role model,
and put himself on the front-lines of the tar massacre occurring in the darkness.
And suppress the killings from the kids of the future,
for his past is a piece of unknown history tucked away safely within the Marlboro Reds.
For his heart was of gold yet his actions didn’t let him live too old.

We are all demagogues in a world controlled by despots,
A world where we have grown afraid to denude the powerful
And sequester the impoverished under the sheets,
A fear to stick it to the man rather stick with the man.
Although it begins with one life, it ends with countless casualties.
For our definition of what we believe is right, differs from what we believe is good.
The foundation of good, for it is no universal language rather a universal dictum.
With lessons unknown to all, simply comprehended by some.
For only a handful selected by God occupy the hole the devil burned through.
Leaving the delicious gift of persuasion on earth, awaiting the tasting intentions whether good or evil.
Convinced by all with set beliefs while thy axioms remain unknown.

The devil resides within us.
That devil is pleasure,
That devil is temptation,
That devil has no cure.
That devil cannot be exorcised,
That devil is angel in disguise
With wings as long as its lies.
Its halo as black as the actions it wishes upon us
For its eyes conceal the gateway to its soul.
A soul created in the depths of hell
With a dash of pity;
Pity allowing the host to remember they are descendants of good,
With the thought process of the devil
And the intentions of God.

Abandoned and forgotten,
Dark corridors filled with enigmas;
Morbid thoughts, inexplicable actions
Masked in the walls of this desolate place.
The paint, peeling off like the somber secrets waiting to be heard.
The windows, broken and shattered like those whom suffered.
The doors, filled with signs and locks warning of the danger ahead like the gates of hell.
The ceiling, crumbled and fallen through like the people whom inhabited here.
The obscurity and anguish,
Draws me closer, for there is something to be found.
Draws me closer, for it reminds me of something familiar.
Draws me closer, for I feel at peace.
Draws me closer, for I have found myself within the mystery.

Whom am I?
And what have I become?

Am I what they say I am?
Am I destined for failure?

Whom am I?
And what have I become?

I have lost myself,
Within their words,
Within my actions.
Carried away with the pleasure and never expected to return.

Whom am I?
And what have I become?**

For I am lost;
Lost within myself,
An unidentifiable person I have become.
For the appeasement of others,
While drifting from whom I used to be.
My only question is..
Whom am I?
And what have I become?