Oh! The poet in me,
a werewolf is he!
He likes to come out
when the looming moon,
shines it's brightest beams,
down.
Awoooooo!
Down,
to disturb my daytime dreams.
Coaxing howls,
and whines,
injected with subjective lines;
predatory metaphor,
tapping at my chamber door!
Only hollow howls, to those
who don't hear the instinct growl
to this canine condition;
those who don't spend their days,
thinking, or wishing.
Predator of poetry,
prowling over prose.
A beast of the blue moon syndrome,
after the curtains close.

Sometimes for me,
grasping reality
is like dipping my digits into a bathtub,
full of fruit jelly...
The more I tighten my grip,
the more this
belly-filling preserve will slip
through my fingers.
I ponder this problem...
daydream or realdom

Then I realise
**** it,
I have a bath full of jelly now.

My childhood was a lonely one,
sat dust-lunged in my room,
while others had fun,
I'd sit in the gloom.

Surrounded, with old books and toys,
football, at all, wasn't my thing.
Not 'one of the boys',
my own lonely king.

Ruled empires, of plastic and prose,
my imagination, sensational flights of ideas!
It actively rose,
along with my fears.

Oh! But if chance would be given,
to redo those days in new ways,
same way I'd live 'em,
in radiant haze.

I'm a nervous wreck,
my anxiety gets so high these days,
I can feel it in my neck.
Pulse. Pulse.
Beat. Beat.
Nervous as ******-Doo.
As if a monster roamed the street,
to turn me into stew.
But my monster is my self,
I'm my own worst enemy.
He keeps me shackled up,
so the world can't see true me.
I guess it's fine though,
I've become an introvert of late...
I still like an adventure,
but it's usually on my plate.

Bow to
the greatest thief that ever thieved.
I can steal opportunity from
myself
with ease.

Bow to
the greatest liar that ever lived
I can kid
myself
if I so please.

Bow to
the greatest killer that ever breathed.
I can leave
my dreams
deceased.

Words,
they have some arcane power, the
ability of adjectives to steer our mind subjectively.
The presence of nouns, now, they'll denote something of note,
could be a cookie, a concept, a cart, a coat. Of course
there's pronouns abound to substitute these nouns,
from her to him, and from me to you;
it's pronouns that make a sentence feel new. Now
we musn't forget the versatile verb, the essence of to do,
verbing verb is quite absurd though possible, it's true. But how to
enhance the explanation of an action, for example if I'm acting,
who's to say it's great or lacking,
well that's an adverbs job to do.
And...
We can't forget the connective.

Words are like fruit,
hanging freely,
really just waiting
to be plucked.
Some tantilize the tongue
with sweetness,
pieces meeting
our mouth with
juicy meaning.
Others leave
a sour shock
to our senses.
When this
bitter biting
heightens
the now rising
sense of
crying,
we recoil.
Curling away
from the
not so ripe
narration.
Patient,
for a  more
cohesive cocktail's
coming.

Set goals they all say.
I have but one goal to hit.
Enjoy the present.

Bugs, and bogs, and battlecrys,
thieves, and trolls, and dragons fly.

Sword and sorcery,
shield and steam.
Clink and clack,
shine and gleam.

Mythril, chain, and leather works.
Sigils, pain and thrusting dirks.

Student, Teacher
words and wind.
Music, Fae,
and naming things.

Mistborn, alloys, Kredik Shaw,
Kandra and Inquisitors.

Rohan Mordor,
Minas Tirith,
Rings and Orcs,
Hobbit village.

From child, to teen, to present me;
escape, and dreams, and fantasy.

Reborn
on that slimy isle of sea and sky,
I'll bolt the door forever more.
A depth of death awaits my soul
upon the ocean floor.
The scream of salt,
and squelch,
and sea,
more chilling than the roar.
A flash of flesh
was cause enough
for terror thoughts galore.
Returned I am,
my thoughts
beholden to
this deity of lore.

A creature of the night
gazed down upon the world,
stricken by the sights,
aghast at all the pain.
A leap,
a scratch,
a screech,
a flap
membranous wings unfurled,
a flight upon the clouds once more,
is all that could remain.
'No need for me', for easily
fears had reached their peak,
a relic of
a bygone age
when cellar doors would creak.
'Man can make his own pain,
the need for I no more,
below the glen, I'll go again,
like we have once before.
But come a time,
when mankind,
can with themselves peace keep,
from out our dusky homes we'll crawl,
and chaos we will reap.'

Tony
was an attorney,
torn between his morals.
He could close cases cleanly,
no matter
the quarrel.
But his impeccable
character
creates a dilemma;
Tony always noticed,
as he sat down for dinner,
defeat,
nepotism,
ignorance abound.
Astounded that injustice
was easily found.
As label managers
drugged
and *****,
judges
excused it,
by calling it
fate.
Men lording it over
with promotions in their pants,
while Trump's on TV,
with his bigoted rants.
Tony feared
for the future,
mutual destruction was near.
In fact it's
probably probable
it happens this year.
He wanted
to vent pent up feelings,
so he
refused the judge's
shady dealings.
He lost cases
but not cause,
won activist's applause.
For the rights of the ignored,
he'd draw attention to the laws,
that were
unfair or
unjust.
With his heart and his soul,
Tony
won our
trust.

She's the kind of girl,
I'd worry about losing.
But she'll never know.

I mutter stuttered syllables
into shut ears,
so I'm not heard very often.
I'm not good with words,
not when
my mouth staggers, lagged behind my thoughts.
But give me time to reflect,
and I expect I could make something
worth hearing,
with your eyes.

Stardust complexities
s
       h
i
       m
m
       e
r
out in golden blue.
The exacting clockwork of the cosmos ticks
ponderously
in Kepler seconds.

Chronology here is kept by
the
pendulous
sway
of
planets.

Aeons as minutes.

We are just dust
on the gears.

Galactic flecks,
swept up
in the filigree pirouette of an
astronomical timepiece.
Here, but not here.
Q        .
.        U
A        .
.        N
T         .
.        U
M        .
and fleeting.

This bleak existence
reeks
of cisterns,
it peeks it's leaky head
above the gutters.
Shuttered **** tight.

Death is the meaning of life.

Sylvia knew it best,
resting under home,
bone heavy
and sleepless.
That jar of hers;
irksome,
thirsts on monochrome
bleakness;
needless, overblown nerves.
Smash it!
Crush it!
Whack it!
Mush it!
Classic glassy mess.
Break it!
Fix it.
Tape it.
Place it.
Back now on your head.

Quick,
quit your cage of crystal screens,
the virus here has came and been.
Seek trees with vines in times of need,
and see Sol
speckle kisses
on crisp new leaves.
Shake the dark rough hands of boughs and bark,
make them whisper the
histories of the parks.
Heed birdsong's swell, find dark clouds part,
as the timid breeze breathes
Earth's kinder art.
Let rocks and twigs crunch underfoot.
Free thoughts,
and give
that
life is good.

Archaic Archeopteryx is my spirit animal,
a fossil in a niche,
not concerned with walking mammals.
Whether lyrics rip sick new tears in reality,
like 666 the beast that's brewing in my belly.
Zack de la rockin', and I'm blocking out my worries with words,
twist a sentence like an arm, feeding my guilt to the birds.
Killing in the name of peace,
please,
killing for that long lost spiritual release.

Pick a part to play in life, but so many covers,
don't concern myself with me, validation from others.
Jolts spark dark with an air of uncertainty,
bleached bones bathing in the acid of society.

Toxic to the touch, lead in the lungs,
a blur in the vision, and a pin on the tongue.
Born of a broken man, bandaged with spoken poetry,
the anti-spider web spun by the flies of normality.
Not born as a ghost,
but destined to become,
gather the people under the sequel of the still warm sun.
Rage planted the seeds,
with rap I watered through,
trimmed the shoots with abstract thought, now watch this flower bloom.

Pick a part to play in life, but so many covers,
don't concern myself with me, validation from others.
Jolts spark dark with an air of uncertainty,
bleached bones bathing in the acid of society.

Does my voice dictate this verse,
or is it yours?

It's perfectly fine designing
poems, not knowing where to go in
terms of content.
I've spent minutes hellbent on it's
problem, so solemn at the fallen
words on the line.
But the worst crime is finding I'm
frequently intent on a segment
that mirrors the open.

Now,
it's broken.

Soaking in regret.

Its whole heart wet,
an open wound.

Wrecked.

Wracked brain.
Passion rattles,
gurgling, like rain.
Cracked frame,
splat, it will,
circling a drain.

Its whole heart wet,
an open wound.

Wrecked.

Now,
it's broken.

Soaking in regret.

I have forged my problems in cold grey steel,
unfeeling still, my reeling will.
Two to my mind:
One,
I hurt her...
and the other,
vice versa.
A forge full of regrets,
to temper my mind
with worry and upset.
Guilty for my mistakes,
problematic,
a blade I've made,
of panic.
Everything said
shimmers on the shining surface,
a reflective face,
that holds the feeling in place,
with a pommel of folly.
If I could,
I would take this weapon of regret,
that fooled you,
both, and steel myself.
Seppuku.

When she found him,
he was a brittle bag of broken.
Drawstring taut.
Tight.
Holding thoughts that went unspoken.
Opening up isn't easy,
though they say it is in theory.
When putting it in practice,
words slowly flow uneasy.
But she found her way to his heart,
started to slowly pull it's strings.
Looser and looser.
And now his words he sings.
His spine was cracked,
so she blu-tacked it back together.
His mind, a map they scrawled
on scraps of black leather.
Bandaged his ego and plastered his past.
A perfect example of a person well matched.

I’m absorbed by my apathy,

like pineapple in jelly,

it’s hard for me to escape the grasp of this gelatinous path,

the further I traverse this sticky boardwalk of indifference,

the harder it becomes to see what the point is-

The way people live their lives,

there is no thrill in 9 to 5.

The reason seems to evade my sights,

past the golden horizon and towering heights.

I’ve resigned myself to this winding trail in the middle ground,

with no hatred to spare, nor love to be found,

maybe someday I’ll spot a stray oppinion,

and then I’ll know where to begin.

I'm no Wordsworth,
but I'm a wordsmith,
and I'm definitely a Wood.
Watching films and comic books are the things at which I'm good.
I'm romantic in my heart,
but my mouth has rational shout.
My namesake is a forest,
so it's no surprise I'm branching out.

My head is a haunted house,
filled with windy ghosts,
and skeletons that battle,
that will rattle,
in the closets,
like the chill upon my spine.
The basement filled with vampiric comments,
******* self-esteem,
as though they were starved of it.
A tower stands where I have crafted a monster,
from the old corpses of guilty thoughts.
The streaked mirrors on the walls reflect twisted visions,
folding my reflection heavy-handedly,
as if they were packing them in a hurry to leave.
Hell,
if I could run, I would too.

It's terrifying in here.

You brighten up my day,
like a lightbulb does a moth.
You illuminate my way,
so I can gorge myself on cloth.
You know that it's to you I flew,
you like to play your games.
But if I get too close to you,
I tend to burst to flames.

I feel I've found a home,
in this self-deprecating zone.
Like minded...
and I don't mind likeness.
Kites though,
I do like those.
Soaring without care,
but carefully full of direction,
directly diverging from our reflection.
The zenith of our spirit,
battered but full of its name.
See that's the beauty,
it still fights,
and takes flight,
though it struggles all the same.
Let it fight.
Let it stumble.
Let it rise from the ashes like a phoenix.
stronger for it's struggle.
My spirit will be a kite.
No lightning strikes my tether.
My spirit will be a kite...

...and it will defy the whims of weather.

The country is ******.

No need to stand on ceremony,
eloquency can take a backseat,
because the country is
F. U. C. K-ed.

The innocence of  your youth yells,
as it is mashed between the ******, gritty, fingers of reality.
The faces that entertained the nation,
now assess success by how many kids they've touched,
rather than how many lives.

Parasitic politicians nesting on their mother,
'de-mock-****',
mocking the masses
with two digits raised,
pass it of as a V.
For victory.
But wash away the Crocodile smiles,
and it stands for something a little less inspiring.
Violence?
Victimizing?
Misers of moneyless citizens,
sitting in,
a generation of tiny Tims,
because the oligarchy hordes,
the power and our sense.

The problem is we allow it.
Yeah the country is ******.
But so are we...
"Yeah but what can we do?"

Well...

Now you're asking the right questions...

Sometimes I read poetry for a little reinforcement...
I'm not the only one with a mind like fine china.

An eldritch aura permeates
a palace, long forgotten.
I fell. Which may illuminate
my place amongst the rotten.

How long these ruins slept, I fear's
a desert measured aeon,
for sand has creep'd and crept in here,
a structure so protean.

This place it whispers death and dust,
a sister to the barrow.
I must escape this depth. I must!
These halls are much too narrow.

The stench of age, it fills the air,
with hints of green and purple.
Appendages, they slither there,
My thoughts they now encircle.

A mutter on the wind calls me,
it sends my digits lame.
Fluttered eyes. Where two should be,
five globules cry my name.

That fickle murmor, foe at first,
but now I know my error.
He tickles thoughts and quenches thirst.
Come, how could it sow terror?

All is well, I've found a friend,
His hug is warm and tight.
His many arms they do not end,
but wriggle, kiss, and bite.

They say write what you know...

But I know nothing.

My name is Jon Snow.

A clipped voice,
slips noise-
lessly
into
the fray.

Yellow
and shaky.
Bland, I know.
I hate to
Say.

Butterfly
in a storm,
normally deep.
I crack,
lacking wingspan.

Headcave retreat.
Feet save
my mouth.
Because the wrong
thing ran.