It's all done with smoke and mirrors.
Look you can see the trap door!
This isn't magic,
It's all a trick.
She's not really dead.

Wow! Big explosions, flashy lights!
It looks real, and really cool!
This isn't magic,
It's all a trick.
She's still not moving.

It's all going strange, or so I think;
'For whom the bells toll,' ringing all week.
The truth is told, witches do not sink,
Burnt at the stake, for the lies you speak.
Presecuted; superstitous men,
Accuse and choose; God fearing, they ****.
Eradicate if you don't fit in;
Wipe out those with the strongest free will.
Witch hunts aren't exclusive to the past,
Each day we read about people burnt;
In the tabloids, reputations last;
They are not killed, but families are hurt.
Witches; daughters of humility,
Not called a witch but 'celebrity'.

Old Harry talks too much,
Devoted to onomatopoeic sounds.
He listens as consonants
Emanate from his mouth.

The gentleman, patriarchal
In his way, deprived, solitary;
Talking to the hypothetical
Companions in his psyche.

Old Harry gets no reply,
Devoid of company is the liar.
They used to sing years ago,
The devil's only friend is fire.

Pray the price and stalk and slice
Talk in tongues and you're never right.
Go to church, dog collared dictator
An abundance of love, plenty propaganda;
Heil Jesus, pretty painted statuettes
Holes in water, quick to forget.
Make me a prophet, make me a saint;
Cover all sinning with a lick of paint.
I love the sound of church bells;
Oh pretty stained glass, stone stair wells;
Cut the pomp, ceremony and biblical rants
And fables of miracles with a moral slant.

Jesus wasn't Christian and he turned out
all right.

There was never paper
only ink,
I tried to talk but
couldn't think;
and as I watched the pigment
I lost my train of thought;
my argument
lost or maybe was just
a figment of my imagination;
Is this just?
A placebo numbs the pain
that was never there to gain;
for existence is an only child
to a parent who never was.
Tragedy is a mellow colour
mildly wild in a forest of loss.
Careless stutter to find an answer
you write and write and write.
What was the question?

Wouldn't that be so much fun?
A whole page of nothingness!
Just potential, imagine;
Everybody's happiness!
Untarnished and untainted,
Clean slate for a masterpiece;
Poetry or picture painted,
perfection, yet unreleased!
Blank page does intimidate.
Too much space to fill with verse.
So much pressure to create,
drained of ideas, such a curse.
This blankness does need a genius;
Wasted canvas, so meaningless.

Everyday I grow a little bit older,
Every now and then I get a little bit colder
Towards my friends who supplement nothing
Towards my existence and leave me falling.
I can't trust anyone when I feel cold.
Dark thoughts emerge when the water freezes,
Below zero; I have no feeling.
The dead trees stand; river of paper leaves
Will break my fall, when you trip me.
I am a shadow on your graffiti wall.
Dark clouds on my mind, I am the dirt;
Created in cold, through darkness I'm birthed
Dead to the world, but with toughened skin;
You'll cut me down, I'll stand tall within.
I don't feel anything when I'm ******.
Food for thought; I'll be a buffet for worms.
I change when I want, leave on good terms.
Carved and scarred, and never caressed;
I hope I'll be missed when nothing's left.
My body might rest, but never my soul.