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Jamie King Jan 20
Deep wounds on my back, I'm gallery of scars. Take a gander feast your eyes, a tarnished heart is my signature.

Vistiges of my soul dangling on toothpicks, dinner well relished by friends foes glimmer with empathy. Malice pleased, who is my enemy?

The excrement of animals drowning in the sewers, is that the existence the best of self I can only persue huh?

Warriors screams with torn diaphragms asking for help will I sleep quietly without a helping hand,
Will I sleep quietly without a helping hand?
Jamie King Oct 2018
With dead dreams
Can you ever sleep?

Struggled, befriended effort
Only to return to  blankets
Of disheartenment where despondency
Warms your heart as it tears you apart.

Do your dreams die
When sleep departs?

Shattered limbs and blisters reposed in your mind.
The blood moon residing in your eyes.
Your resolves never diverging as you hobble.
Paving the path with skin, flesh and blood.

Sleeping beyond the grave
Do dreams live on?

Eyes roped by gardens of thorns and fleeting petals. Dreams whistle wonders kindling hope, in hearts of those still asleep, wandering in dreams.
Inspired by Doyin
Jamie King May 2018
Standing still
Crushed rampaged
  metals collide the face
  splashed with guts of the
      masses Massacras being
            routines in all routes the
                   scenes are blinding
                        as light flashes
                     before the eyes
                  like angry skies
                in  darker nights

           The day is reborn
      the face wiped with
  cloths of sorrow black
bags already gone but
  not forgotten, pardoned
     only when the bones have
           cracked and the body
           can no longer stand the
             pain, with holes deep
             enough to be filled
                    by the rain.
So there I was walking on the road and I'm thinking what does it feel like for people to step on you and walk all over you at every turn in your life.. and so I wrote this poem
Jamie King Apr 2018
Abandoned murals across the boarder, the walls still painted by war. The scrap yard a pile of torn limbs, needles embedded in phalanges divorcing finger from nail the soil still grieves .

Infants don't see the sun.
Autumn leaves with fleeting lives.
a thousands hills with wooden crosses rooted in, What is beneath?

An old man sighs before the last breath departs
Chasing a wind of memories escaping dark pasts. Hands mirror fire remnants, scatter across the vast lands with red tears immersing the white grass .
I was thinking about cities we hear about everyday,  decimated and left for vultures. So I got me digital pen and paper and portrayed.
Jamie King Dec 2017
woe within walls,wrought with wrath wives wallow when wars win warriors while wambling with worn wombs.

The Graveyard, a playground for children,
They dance in the rain born from the eyes of weary widows with rifles in mangers hushing the anger .

Joy is distasteful but longed for.Despair the only warmth known, pain borne as the night coils in fear of dawn.
Battles are infants buried in red snow.
Torn limbs abandoned by victims and vultures
Jamie King Aug 2017
Waltzing under red moonlights
as thorns tear tongues. We laugh
with black roses reposed in the mouth.

Severed Bonds serve savour songs, as Love leaves longing letters in ponds
of heavy healing hearts.

We waltz still, not as statues but  temperative trumpeters tailing tundras with tabinet tufts.
Jamie King Jul 2017
Engulf me with melody only for a moment and I'll walk the forest of hunted wolves and despondent lions.

The once ambrosial aroma of frail lilies, a smothering hebenon hand. The rays shy away from the polygamy of reapers and senectitude relishing valiant men.

Immerse me in harmonious symphonies only for a moment and I'll tread the trench terrane with jubilent feet, blind to the alluring viper's habanera under lacerated hearsecloth worn by the forest.
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