I don't always feel you
nor do i care.
nor shall i fare
the weather of your temperament.
I am exempt of the pettiness, and of the nervous fetishes, in the indifference.
I try not to be presumptuous, in the perceived ignorance, of the plunderers of my wealth
but am more alive.
More willing to die.
More willing to try
anything but sigh
in feeling the mediocre hand of my health.
doling out the breathless help, in the restless stealth, of bland demands, felt, in the smoking stacks of hell.
I survive off the glean, provoking, glass from sand.
I act, as though i give a ****.
Evoking ash from hands, in the defiance of no mans land.
in the trampled giants of the black.
Sampled, the compliant hacks in backless, tackling of the stance.
and cracked the cast, in blast powder, compounding the flames, of the flounder flamed, in profane name calling.
Never to dodge the calling ..
Feeling the falling of doubt.
In the Tao, of mauling my malevolence.
Thought i bled it out, as the stalling turned to insulting rebukes, in the flukes, of lands never lived, but shredded in repulsing lingo, with a flute, to do away with the kids, I mingle, in wait of the sedatives to kick in, than,
Nail it to the cross, of the intended loss, singling and wringing them out.
amid, the somber slayings of bombers praying, for fire to rain from the sky.
of the calmer makings of alarming sayings, for desire to feign from the cry.
The reciprocation of a social spy, trying his best to comply to the prize, and smile.
Its been awhile.
Been a while in exile of thine own heart.
Heart of gold in denial.
Denial of the trials where i shone the brightest, in the mightiest miles of defiled lights.
Lights igniting the nights, in my first rights of passage.
Passage granted in the damaged dues of diligence, where i pursued the villages of my virtue.
My virtues perused the innocence and matured.
Matured in the final words of old birds, dying with dimes, and bagged wine in hand.
Never to understand the last laughs from young chaps blowing off their stacks, just to collapse, in their own mess.
I confess to paying homage in the calmly delusions, of my intrusive self abuses, to the ruthless seduction of my bitterly bitten bruises of seclusion.
I try to loosen up a bit, but instead run this gambit of bankrupt belligerence and hope for the best.
******* in the blessed wishes of the test.
Tested in the vetted nutrients of an institutional bowel movement upon my chest.
My chest giving in to the stress.
I often wake in duress as tears flow through the forgotten, as i brush my teeth of the remembrance of dreams, and clean the dumb away.
Clothe my flesh, and put my gun away.
Locking the front door, I journey into my day.
One day from the mundane
I wont strain to change it all.
I will make the call
but never answer.
Instilling the hollowed cancers
to end it all
I shall befall, the null.
In unbelievable hate.
Conceiving the inconceivable, and cleaning the slate of my faithful fate, in which i ditch the mares of my dared intention.
I concentrate on the beautiful view from the deliberate limitlessness of my vivid visions to another place, that closely resembles the one that i hate.
Consumed of blue suns, and water breathing.
in anger activated guns, and painless beatings.
Marooned from afar
I dare to bare the battle scars of taking it too far, and fainting.
Tainting the waters of life with the ****** knife, of my, positivity.
The imagery of my imagined city
ssscattered across the tattered remains of my naivety.
Sssteadily holding fast upon the mass of men, even though i readily hate them.
In a single flash of rash decision, i forget it all, and go to work ...
smirking in the murky fog, that marks the facade, where i lurk in shirtless shirking from the cold.
The shaking of the folds, in time, in space, in the told, telemetry of the mold
In the boots that birth, the same old, hold of the complaint.
Applying force in restraint
to unearth, and loot
in broken wings, and painted words
that twirl, in the spinning ink
on the brink, of the blur, that births, this sleeping male
to a world, encroached, by mundane flames, poached, from the slain trail of the ordained, tales of Mikha'el.
As others entrails line, the pale comparisons, as mine, are shell shocked in monotony.
i signed with the autonomy, never talked, and marched blankly into the day.
but one day
from the mundane
and make it right.
I will get out of my head