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Shaun Meehan Jun 2015
The poisoned soul, tainted--
victim of its owner's own hand.
tight and coiling as a filth soaked rag;
contentment, elation's enchantment,
wrung like water clouded the filth of grey--
cast from the fibres' binding
binding life to purpose. Worthless.

Popping pills
to cure an invisible ailment.
Smartphones, gems, unhumble hovels,
ineloquent words impotent
to wash the essence sickness--
treating symptom rather
circumstance. Jailing the spirit in
sedation's purchased trance.

The cure found not in
possessions procurement but
by moments in time too brief.
A loving embrace, the hand of a child,
smiles and laughter--
relief to soothe
the poisoned soul poisoned by
Shaun Meehan Jan 2015
paint revealed by wallpaper torn,
layers of peeling; the
faded adorn—a story of life.

joy, of accomplishment and
new beginnings.
children born, playing,
growing up—growing old.
past scars distant
memories; misplaced, obliterated—
by time reduced to dust.

a home
buried beneath the earth,
its walls no more.
the vessel shattered, decaying
stories lost, forgotten,
the curse of mankind’s
Shaun Meehan Jan 2015
fangs dripping
poison—dripping with
yellow eyes slither stalking,
so hypnotic in their convincing;
in pursuit, our every step
pressured into flight’s direction.

a nightmare’s seed
planted beneath pillow,
following into dream.
the serpent’s coil riding
headrest’s rooting *******—
even slumber thought safety

a viper of self-consciousness, the
familiar of societal impositions
fuelling reflection’s hostility;
its venom—an injection of insecurity.
fangs dripping poison—
fangs dripping with
Everyone is beautiful in their own way and to abandon uniqueness in favour of societal pressures does a disservice to humanity. A widely covered subject, but my own personal attempt to adequately contribute to the discussion.
Shaun Meehan Jan 2015
men espousing creation,
the creator,
perfect love infinite mercy
a proclamation—vowing to
adhere to the likeness
in which they were fashioned.
so much faith–so much
creatures wearing blindfolds of scripture
justify deeds so appalling in nature,
contradict the wisdom they
promised to preach;
hypocrisy absent its recognizing.

affirming a dusty word’s preserve,
the honesty,
only the deceit of men do they serve,
failing in discerning
the message of spirit secured
in the hearts of those who seek knowing—
impervious to them who
hound to be dominating.

perpetual fear taught by
people with piety painted inner sight shutters,
their words—
plumes of smoke to obscure their own
heart’s flutter.
a terror of
free thought and consideration,
freedom from labels, dogma and doctrine—
the circumvention
of thumbs meant to pin men
to the curse of subjection.

the deduction of right,
appearing an impossible task amidst
an endless sea of polluted virtue.
by the exam of everything so diligent,
the multitudes of faith and
them gripping absence,
might symbiosis prove true—a
mosaic of liquefaction's perfection
in a world where everything is permissible
but not everything beneficial.
The premise for this work felt good in its early stages but its development became a struggle not long after. I'm not really a fan of this piece, but have invested an amount of time into it that would see me rather share it than just toss it on the no-go stack. I'm really glad that I can finally turn the page on this one and a little proud that I stuck it out and finished it as opposed to just abandoning it altogether.
Shaun Meehan Jan 2015
the seven his assertion
of inspired transgression
over a world wrought with weakness.

by binary adjustment an
image to
program vanity’s conformity.
youth poisoned,
a child’s self-worth corrupted,
advertisement’s teaching destructive.

a conglomerate’s ambition—its
fruition; *******,
giving birth to
a blanket of poverty—
a blanket of
laced infection to
stave the cold of squalor’s tribulation,
while old money
flaunts its fanciful garment of dust.

the ******* of human nature
guiding the hands of men.
women, children—
the victims made slaves to
the flesh of another,
living as shades of potential,
suffering the abuse of
disgusting existential.

pounds of grain
producing pound of cattle.
stores of meat kept spilling to waste,
a carnivorous diets’ diversity
an obese symbol of currency.
ingestion a hobby,
an identity, meanwhile
the faceless scavenge;
suffering sustenance scarcity.

an abuse of a system—
its purpose to
help those in catastrophism.
a righteous gift
bled dry by those capable,
them unwilling to provide;
tarnishing validity of
those deserving of
goodness’ generosity.
a cause for uncertainty and
a deflated right hand economy.

cruel acts
rarely noble in purpose,
the darkest notions of man in
revenge do surface.
chilling reminders of
what used to be—
but has never changed
since this dawn’s reign.
reminders of man’s gruesome nature,
painting battered cities
crimson, stained memories provoking
perpetual cruelty.

an age deemed—
in a world unchanged.
by arrogance of the aforementioned,
our heads
buried in the sands of self-deception.
a falsified claim to reign–
this race,
creation’s self appointed kings;
demand to see but
refuse to witness our own
hideous reflection.

by them his assertion
of inspired transgression
over a world wrought with weakness;
the seven—his market list.
long since infant breath,
something to deplore;
leaving no shortage of souls
in the devil’s department store.
I apologize for the inconvenience of length, but feel this work required it to a degree. Another digital cookie offered if the subject of this piece is identified, and another if the "right hand economy" reference is understood.
Shaun Meehan Jan 2015
a sword to cut though
not to bite, but—
with blade-like tongue a
message to bear,
an anthem of peace sung;
yet war to ensnare
the sons of man.

“I come not to send peace,
but a sword.”
a prophet once said.
Him, called a liar,
though more true speech
never spoken.
a war of change explained but
misunderstood by ears untrained.

words of tolerance
love and understanding,
empathy, hope, and
acceptance by a
merciful hand extended.
yet in difference witness,
its message forgotten—
hope forsaken,
hatred chosen.
Shaun Meehan Jan 2015
I, like a
malefactor surgeon fixing,
fix with a curse unforgiving.
a heart stitch—regret
threading soul together in an
ill fitted reverse dissect;
never again to resemble the
valour of past represent.

I, the guilty party,
a man’s poorest image—
needed not jury to try,
but served as judge to self;
a sentence to decry—to
live out my days absent scorch,
it to be those loved most to
bear the scars of
failures not owning.

I, a man of cursed flesh,
shall upon night’s shutters to close,
dwell upon those
sins of which I chose,
impotent to forgive,
impossible to forget,
the love I did pose.
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