Spitting, wisdom of the snake,
injects me with paralyzing venom
damage done, what could I have been?
I contemplate softly, to devil seen.
There's no comfort of warm blanket,
My eyes are open to satanic lies,
but also to the un-truth of a God who died,
Spinning top, to cries in wind as I fly.
There is a dark shape that follows me,
Beneath me, over me, swallows thee,
guilt builds up, like a circus which never stops,
I hear the whispers whenever I eavesdrop......
I get swallowed by pain that's hallow,
I am but cargo to my evil shadow
I sit and sip my intoxication bliss,
I am but the this to what I'll miss,
I am all but innocence in my own eyes,
I can't live with my own sins and lies,
I am but anyone to catch dove as she flies,
I am anyone to turn to with questions why.....
This demon, it sits and watches over me,
waiting for vulnerability that it will see,
I am the guilt lit up for all flames thus seen
I am the in-between to what could have been.
All of my poetry today have been old ones. This one actually caught the attention of a poet who would mock me when I wrote too intoxicated. He actually liked this one, the only one he ever liked of mine.
