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I have a hard time appreciating Veterans.
My dad was a veteran.
My only memories of him involve a lot of screaming and tears.
He kicked my dog once.
He hit my mom a lot too from what I hear.
I don't remember any of that.
He should've died for all of us.
Then instead of being an *******,
he could be a hero.
I'm not saying you're not a hero, I'm just saying he's an *******. But if you take this personally, you probably are an *******. Happy Veterans Day
 Oct 2016 Devin Ortiz
Devon Haley
I've missed this;
This thing called writing...

It creeps into my mind like a virus
And it seeps into my core as I absorb its kindness.

I never intended to stop this feeling I get of
Becoming myself when I write; it just happened.

Every night the virus clung to my lungs
And asked me to produce ****** poetry.

Just when I thought the pain was gone,
The silence would tear my heart apart.

I realized then and now that I cannot fill that void.
That void I feel when poetry is not present in my veins.

The doctors tried everything.

Observing my perplexing behavior and
My countless fits of crying and depression.

They didn't know that writing was still nagging me
to scribble my unending thoughts on paper.

Writing was one of my dearest friends.

He was always there when I needed to express myself.
In a way he was my shoulder to cry on or my happy sun.

Although I tried to **** him,
He forgave me and gave me another try at this thing called writing.

So here I am.  
I'm back from the literary dead.
And this is where I plan to remain.
 Oct 2016 Devin Ortiz
Devon Haley
•••

If the clouds during the clearest skies
Come down and hug me as tight as they can
And whisper, "I don't want to let go."
They would have given me their love.

If I dropped a micro milliliter  of water
On the softest grass and something grew and grew
Until he promised,"I'll  always protect you."
He would have given me all his love.

If the moon and the sun were to talk
And they shined a secret path way to my future
Where they told me "go, be happy, be free."
They would have given me all their love.

If all of a sudden the Earth started to shake
And I felt myself falling, I'd scream until I found
A steady hand pressed firm against the small of my back,
It would be proof of his love given to me.

If he could sing me a lullaby in my ear
As we both lied next to each other on the floor and
He says in a hushed tone, "kiss me."
He would have given me all his love.


But
If I wait I can see there is no one in sight
I stand, alone, lost within my soul and with
My mind spinning as I crumble and burn
I realize, no one has given me their love tonight.

•••
 Jun 2016 Devin Ortiz
Astral
The singing rotted chimeras, of the oozing blood church

Sing their disemboweled hymns, as the somber bell chimes to the dead

Along the pews are dried blood bibles, words of horror and sorrow

Written by men who thought to play God, and reap the values of the meek

As the suicide clocks strike their hands, and the blood soaked ravens take their flight

The blackened sun sets on the streets of acid, and the blissful dread plays as a music box
An old poem I wrote one evening when it was raining heavily, and the news was playing softly on the tv
every 28 days,
the human skin replenishes itself.
my hands are tired of building new homes
on top of old eviction letters.
I am aching for a body
that treats me like a cure,
and not the disease that needs it.

I live as a counterfeit version of myself;
I am a kleptomaniac who steals the breath
from people that would have found a use for it.
tell me how to refund
what I didn't buy.

my veins are a breeding ground for despondency,
my bones a shelter for malaise.
to try to be kind to myself
is to cauterize a wound
after the infection has already spread.
Darkness hiding in the tree's.
A lonely crossroads.
No man's land.
Ancient rituals.
Ancient tortures.
Blood,
upon the soil
and sand.

Through the hills,
a shadow seeker.
Seeking out somewhere to lie.
A lonely soul,
lost with the seasons.
Underneath
a blood red sky.

And as the blood dries,
on the tarmac.
A winning smile, a wicked fate.
Gypsy ghosts,
no longer vocal.
Shadows waiting
at the gates.

Through the hills,
a shadow seeker.
Lost upon the darkness still
A lonely soul,
Lost with the seasons,
Forever lost
and wandering.
Who is a poet?
What is poetry?
Does it bleed from the mouths
Of those oppressed by tyranny
Does it stick to the lips of lovers
Like freshly ripe strawberries
Does it lie in the lines of the workman's hands
Like the dirt of the freshly tilled land
Does it exist in the hearts of man
To be struck out, serenaded, or wizened
Does it seep from our fingertips
As a sap that heals our aching bones
When humanity is the illness
And suffering the symptom
Poetry is
The desperately sought after medicine
I conduct the symphony of hell
In the earths bowels overflowing with sin
Silence rules momentarily as my infamous symphony begins
Horned demons of ancient tales and nightmares
Eagerly pluck their human strings

Shrieking and pitiful wailing
The crescendo of suffering starts
Moans of the forever ******
Music so terrible and dark

Burst forth the voices of guilt ridden souls
From sulfur fumed burning pits of fire
Each must bear their own punishment
The offense of mortal desire

Sounds of tortured emotions
So shrill and high they scream
Those wrapped in flames until the sun dies
Drowning in insanity's seas
Their pain only adds to the haunting composition
In my arrangement of demonic melodies

So into the depths of hell I delve
For notes of the cursed
Can be found no where else
These are the lyrics of the lost
I am the conductor
Of the symphony in hell

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby April 19. 2016
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