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I hold up your face in the moon
And see the price you have paid
For loving me!
Bathed in pain
Of years of holding me in your heart,
Your eyes are desires burned out in vain!
I hold up your face in the moon
And see the dried up rivers
Of years of holding me in your heart
Yet never being able to get a start!
I hold up your face in the moon
And see relics of a love
Wasted in a desert of despair!
Sunday morning means ghost town lobbies,
No barking dogs or cracking of doors,
It’s just me; playing with my blue inked pen,
Hiding behind this glass fortress,
Trying to write away my sadness,

I like to walk through my graveyard of unfulfilled dreams,
And listen to my breaking heart that grieves in silence,
Loneliness comforts me, its stays with me,
As I walk through what was or could have been,
Beautiful Sunday morning, I should be living the dream,

Yet, mascara paints my face,
A dark shade of grey that matches what I feel,
This high-ceiling glass fortress allows me to pace,
As I try to make my way through my thought maze,  
And the strong marble desk holds my hands up to my crying face,

Life is a journey, not a race,
This summer sun shouldn’t make my heart break,
Am grateful for that that only the ghosts reside in this morning hour,
They comfort me in knowing that perhaps there is more to this place,
And smile at me when they see my true face,  
They embrace the sadness my smile tries to erase,
Just few more minutes before I have to wear a mask on my face,
Before I have to smile and lie that I am Okay!
My dear old sadness is back to comfort me!
 Jun 2019 David Adamson
zebra
she said
being a feminist
i have forsaken the temples of normalcy
for dark gratifications and base seduction
and discovered that those who know the pleasures
of objectification
and frenzied ****** lucidity with strangers
are wiser then the children of  sweetness and light
as marriage betrays the need to satisfy
secret dark labyrinths desire
and in its place
repeats ad nauseum
blunt fortitudes
in dim sunless rooms
for fear of the transgressive

satans *** nail

is conventions essential creed
exhaustions hand maid
rendered imagine-less
bereft of the new
until a mere stand in
for true desire is left
like a starved ghost
on a dead moon
a desiccated morsel
left for a hungry mouse

is romantic marriage a poetic conception
by love starved victorian imbeciles
vanquished in increments
by petty spats of blood and thunder
who know not the joys of the whips blood toothed kisses
purgation's brutal sensuality
and a creel
of ramming butter **** gang bangs
in secret fetish gardens
of cries and coos
that leave the *** wilted
and the soul lite
like a butterfly in heaven

slave girl asks
as hips sway
to sacred dionysian storms
in the smoldering pangs
of the heart
as backs writhe and arch
flex and sweat rhapsodic
and viscera panic with desire

are not such delicious degradations
pleasures ravage despicable
cause for an ecstatic celebration
kindling
fiery vapors incense
en-flamed dragons blood
for drooling kisses
that talk in tongues
in a language that everyone understands
infinitly preferred
over  the rolling eyes of disapproval
in the tepid marriage bed
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