There's a spirit softly whispering,
Into the hearts of all the people I love,
Convincing them to ignore me.

I've never felt more alone.

I’m so heavy, too heavy, still dragged on the floor.
My thoughts wriggling, sickening in my mind,
That I call the rotting corpse – decayed and rusted.
Every single cell, more disgusting than the next.
I want to wash away these sins, scrub myself clean.
Hot water? Holy water? I don’t feel the burn anymore.
Like a dead corpse, laying around naked and torn.
What choices can I make while lying dead on the floor?
Forgotten and old, my coffin already caving in on my soul…
Worms, sickening old worms, trying to collapse me for what I told,
But my Goliath was stronger and more righteous that others foretold,
As I lack David and the God that helped him turn the tides of war.
Corinthians said that bad company corrupts good souls,
Yet how can you know a good soul when you wounded yourself,
Beyond the understanding of life and death.
I shall forgive and forget, like Matthew once told,
Maybe then I shall grant rest for my rotting soul?
Repentance and penance – the pillars that shall hold me now.
Without faith, without God, it’s just me and my thought clouds.
Maybe a prayer? To those that shall listen,
Being right – is not easily forgiven.

Who are these people?

I baked them bread. I made them welcome
And they left **** and ***** on my lovely carpet.
They smiled as they stole my Gramma’s silver teapot
They pulled down the curtain in my dressing room
And mopped the bathroom floor with it

They each got a Jeep in ’59, parlayed it
To a better place to be and live
And perfect superior attitudes that
delegate those with rounded eyes
To the lonely space beneath contempt.

Who are these people?

I learned their songs and sang along
But they stole my record player
And sold it for a dollar ten
And gave me only half the money
Saying that was all they got.

They rob their kids of childhood games
To run the shop and study hard
To be the best at everything
And social mores and etiquette
Are something for the native born.

Who are these people?

I helped them when I saw a need
And never got a thank you
I smiled when they pushed me aside
To reach the goodie table first
And take the biggest piece.

They piously bow heads to pray
On entering a holy place
(That serves as Country Club)
To listen to the words of God
And leave to serve the devil.

Who are these people?

They are the winners in an evil game
A hive that can’t be overcome
I watch myself go down in flame
And wait for justice to be won.
                      ljm

I think I'll fall asleep in an hour
I think I'll be dead in a week
I'm sick of bitter arrogance-
it isn't something unique.
In fact it's kind of grotesque
the way I choose to progress
it's like i'm slowly
cutting from my
feet
and stopping
at my chest.
Do you get it yet?
Do you find it hard to understand?
Am I not what you were looking for
or do I need to be better than I am?
I'm only asking.
I think that's fair.
But then again I'm getting acquainted with
despair.
I tell myself it isn't real.
I try to believe that you care.
But all that goes out the window when
I see you are not there.
It's unusual;
the way I trip
over myself.
Therapists and teachers
always said I needed help.
But I didn't believe them.
Ignorant was how I felt.
Trapped, corner,
isolated-
I was ****** with what was dealt.
Just know that I didn't keep it.
I just walked right on out.
And for every moment
I've been defeated-
at least I wasn't

someone else.

You can try, try, try.
Third time's a ******* joke, man.
Don't even bother.