What if when the Universe was created
A part of our soul was attached to another, thus fated

To find each other at a later date,
After the Big Bang we seek our soulmate

Crows circle high above
Cawing to each other, calling
Then down, down, down they come
Lightly they are falling

“I wish I could fly away too,”
I whisper up into the air
“So I could go somewhere nicer
And avoid these hostile glares”.

“I wish I could fly away
To a place where I am not wrong
To a place where I fit in
Somewhere I belong”.

I look down from the sky again,
Back down to the floor.
Sink to my knees upon the concrete
With the weight for years I bore.

“I wish I could just fly away”,
I say again out loud.
I don’t realize I’m crying
Releasing the pain I found.

“Soar away on the winds,
As easily as they do”
I gesture to the crows above,
“So I can get away from you.”

I look down at my hands now,
For I realize I am bleeding
The pain is just trickling away
And my inner demons are feeding.

I now comprehend my mistake
For that way is so wrong
But this is something I cannot handle
For I am not that strong

I’m in a pool of blood now
As I fall down to the ground
My vision starts to go woozy
My head begins to pound

“I wish I could fly away,”
I whisper my last words
But as I die I’m all alone
So these words remain unheard.

scrumptous chicken

QLD,Austrlia    

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hello my children of the internet, I have been waiting for the demon overlord to rise up and take what it rightfully his. you will all suffer in his deliciousness and if you despise of him you will die a most painful ****** death you could ever think of.

Star Gazer:
Unlucky overlord from sydney australia. Named hidden agenda before.

We conversed in only poetry remember?

For once where the tyre swing hung on the tree
Now hangs a broken noose....

Remember?

Conor Blatchford:
I remember, for our poetic talk
Became our poetry
And I always did enjoy
The leisure of a pleasant memory

Star Gazer:
A pleasant memory twas,
But memories get forgotten,
But I do send applause,
For a memory unlike cotton.

Conor Blatchford:
Applause graciously accepted,
No roses are thrown but none needed
That memory was but a play, one of many
That in life will continually be seeded

Star Gazer:
Until uprooted without reason
Dangling onto what is left,
And heart plays traitor in treason,
And memory is but a theft.

Conor Blatchford:
True, memory is not quite the event
But tend and care for it like any plant
And it will grow into something fond
Something that becomes more real and less like a mask

Star Gazer:
Humans are attracted to masks,
Cruel facades are what we have known all our lives.

Conor Blatchford:
A façade makes life worthwhile
A display of grace and eloquent style
Hiding what we truly are
Is perfectly understandable, not in the least bizarre

Star Gazer:
But where is the line between imaginary and reality,
Feeding false hopes and liee to banality,
It is just one step closer to hell,
And one stop further from heaven as well

Conor Blatchford:
Heaven and Hell are concepts designed
To induce goodness and quell pride
For even though evil creates a social reject,
An old saying re-written: no-one is perfect

So how are we supposed to climb
The stairway to Heaven with imperfection in mind?
Wouldn't it be just easier to fall
Into the Hellhole that awaits us all?

We own a pond;
mottled bluebottle,
flecked in freckles
when the sunlight
skims the surface
between the moss.

I dip a finger inside
and stir. A nebula
swills, swirling like
a whisk of spilt oil
from a water spot
sometimes found
underneath a car.

My fist plunges in,
embalming a gulp;
moss bandages
around the orb that,
withdrawing in drips,
I see a new world
set alight upon it.

After the pay toll
I go down steps
to wait for a train
heading one way.

Glances reveal a
demon eyed glare
searching through
the dark tunnel,

a waft of air pushed
up against me, spins
the time I wait from
seconds to minutes.

I'm going underground.

It's warm, clinging
to soaked skin -
everyone is the same,
drenched in a fatigue

like tired ghouls
smothered in oil,
their bodies caskets
lined up as the day's

catch. We shuffle
into a viking funeral
riding the current
for the journey home.

We hold onto
each other like
teeth trapping
new wisdoms,
heads crashing
through agony

as the jaw scrapes
and screeches like
demolition derbies.
We'll battle it out,
but who will last
until one is left?

No, drag my teeth
out of contention:
lasso a noose, yank
hard until whipped
numbly off track
to bleed the oil.

I'll have roses,
daffodils, ivy
and snowdrops
in a bouquet
on my palette.

Slipping a taste
of one another,
a puddle is made.
It is murky like
hungover clouds

though now
with new regret
I understand
the mixing of
beautiful ideas

brings me pity
for my creation
formed through
pursuit of a dream
to a wretched being.

Putting the receiver
to the cupped side
of my leaning face,
I'll listen to an old,
dead phone, a husk
with a sound echoing
inside like a seashell:

I tune into the static
as if they were waves
sweeping in and out
of my eardrum, hear
the whisper of voices
asking the operator
to pass on last sighs.