Fairground mirrors make the smallest parts huge...

My words ignite the pen, never
Burning my hand, as inspiration
Writes the words burnt on too
Paper to never fade again.

If the fire should ever go out,
Then the words will not flow, but
Dry up never to be wrote till
Once again the spark ignites.

And once again the pen runs ablaze
Over paper, fuelled from the mind
Once again burning black on to
The paper words once again.

Death is a perfume
That can be smelt
Any time in life.

For the odor is
Death telling us
That the string is
Now cut on this life.

The perfume of
Death invites many
To stay, to dispose
Of this shell,
To let the nature
Take it away.

The perfume of
Death is always
Around, as long
As those living
Pass and the
Shell does decay.

The darkness it burnt upon my
Angel wings, they wilted, with
Each moment of this forsaken
Place, my soft skin did  haemorrhage
Tainted with each breath every
Movement that I crawled upon
This acidic land corroded my light .

My white turned yellow, changed
From pure to black, I was in agony
As that which was white should
Never be turned to that. I was
Winged, not able to give motion
To the air, I was a ground dweller
As if wings were a weight a persecution
To the time of air, now dragging like
A weight a conscience upon my back.

I must have walked upon this scared
Land, I must have moved these once
Pure now tainted as dragged like sin
Behind my back.

I was before I fell, I contemplated
That which I had been and that
Which this land whispered to me
Become. The light was dulled, smothered
Like a wet blanket over a fire, Suffocated
What burnt bright, now I was being
Extinguished my dulled light.

I remembered I fell and my skin smelt
Sulphuric with a hint of light, I knew
I had bleed hatred behind me, I knew
That I had been left, abandoned to this
Isolation. My wings had regained there
Imagery, they were like crows feathers
Pure, dark, black as night.

I despised  those above, their light, ignited
Hatred, deep within where something that
Beat but know was just black, I launched
Upon the breeze to take me vengeance
Upon that purity that  glided, flowed.

I am that which will take those of higher
morals and bring them to the place of
Solitude, of loneliness, they will remember
The pain of those they had been left in the
Darkness,  For light can only last so
Long before it becomes what was before.

Poetry
           is
Like
         Cooking,
We
       May
All
         Use
The
       Same
Ingredient's,
                     But
It
           Is
The
                 Quantity
And
             Taste
Of
             Each
   One
That
         Makes
   Each
Morsel
                   Melt
In
             The
Mind
           A
Different
                     Way....

What is a wet cat called?
"Stupid"
That's what the fish gurgled
That's what they laughed,
There bubbles of ridicule
Burst on my submerged ****.

I'm glad none took a bite, they
Were meant as lunch, but a wash
Was all I had.For they were but a snack,
A meal to be had, but I was the
Last laugh, as cats and water don't
Mix like fish and dry land.

I'm glad there memory fades, and
Doesn't last, for how could I keep
This a secret, that a cat out played
By fish in a bowl who got the *last laugh.