She moved with a certain kind of madness that was invisible to everyone else, but to me it glared like a beacon of light calling out the demons in my soul. Her teeth were bleached white but I could smell the blood of all the countless souls she had  devoured over her life. I was dead before she even said a word and I was just another stain on her pearly whites as the morning sun crept over my corpse.

It's all just old news
Letter's rearranged
To form scattered words
Of dead and flightless birds
Dying stars and rotted moons
Cracked ribs and empty hearts
Heavy feet and ghostly dance
Old news printed in new blues

Is it too much?  The weight we have to bare
to accept being human, to take in all the bad
while trying to protect what little good we
have left
Is it too hard to accept?  All the ugly things
right at our doorstep, all the monsters
looking back from our mirrors
Children shooting children and all the parents
crying a day too late, we should have taught
them better
We should have helped them lift that weight
We could have taught compassion, nobility
and reason, instead we threw out food rather
than feed the hungry, taught hate and fear to
justify war after war
It isn't ****** if you're in uniform, minimal
loses of minimal lives
Is anyone keeping score?
Who can tell me whose god is winning?
Every side praying for better days while refusing
to find a better way
And it is too much and I cannot accept...
The weight isn't crushing me
The monsters don't frighten me
I just can't be human anymore

Peel my face away
Let nothing of me stay
Dismember all my limbs
There's no use to being human
Separate my ribs
Crack them one by one
Infest my hollowed chest
With caterpillar's at rest
When wings tear from their cocoon
Let butterflies carry off my heart
To a place so far from here
I no longer need my name

How much time do we have left
Until we take our final breath
Why isn't it enough to know
Our time is finite
To protect the flame of love
Instead of fanning the fires of hate
To work for human needs
Instead of needless greed
Trading hands full of sand
For a fist full of dollars
But our pay is already spent
Before we even touch a cent
We can taste the foul stench
  as we inhale
Of a wick burning out our last
  bit of air

Sundays
come in two flavors-
hallelujah
and goody powder

goody powders
go down easier
with flavored water

not the **** variety
but strawberry
or cherry

wall clock
goes ****
****
where's my ****

hallelujah-
FIRE

r ~ 9/7/14

And here we are, a bunch of
  bad poets writing bad poetry
   liking each others thoughts while
    hating our own words, trying to
     keep ourselves open and free in
      a world full of cages and traps, pens
       full of ink, thoughts full of rage, a blank
        white surface being turned into a stage and
          we're yelling and screaming in vain as another
            bad poem dies on the page...