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You are the Titan of Tears,
Sobbing to the unforgiving milkman
Who breaks your ***** bottles
And feeds you curdled milk
From withering cattle.
He crunches around broken glass
With his scuffed leather boots on your front porch
As you watch from a hole in your bedroom wall,
Losing your first piece of dignity
And the last of the sanity carrying you since age ten.
You are the Titan of Tears,
Crying to the cutthroat poetess
Who refuses to send your estranged sister
A collection of misery soaked poetry.
She burns your insincere words in front of the mailbox;
Stanza by stanza the ash coats your mouth
Like lipstick for the ******.
Spiraling into smoke as she walks away
Fast enough to lose her in the midst of your fit.
The Titan of Tears—
You whimper in torn apart doorways
To block out strangers who will never appear.
You, Titan,
Who only feels clean when flossing
In the harshest of summer storms
Because you believe your great God is washing
Sins out of your matted hair.
You, Titan,
Whose childhood feels never-ending like evening traffic.
Childhood is the milky smoke you witness
Seeping from your dying neighbor’s chimney;
Childhood stares at you
Like glassy eyed pigeons outside of your office window
As you weep into your cold black coffee, Titan.
Your lacking adulthood is full of sloppy attempts to silence
Barking dogs in your slush brain,
Pushing down the bile that rises in your flaking throat,
As water floods your eyes like a basement during Katrina
And feeding worms writhe out of your flared nostrils,
Covered in snot and blackened discharge.
You are the Titan of Tears;
Your weeping rivals Mother Mary’s ****** streaks.
i am proud of this one.
Even a full moon would shatter unto the surface of
a dark, deep sea.
Then what light could go through
when a deeper darkness
is in me?
On a bus late at night, while the fullness of the moon warped as it reflected on the sea, I think of the darkness in every one of us.
April May 2
Waves again and again
chant the dirge deeply and sadly.
Petals are sprinkled on the water
for there's no moonlight on that day;
My memory submerges with the tides.
Coldness numbs the skyline,
lamenting the deposited good old times.
Time waits for no one.
Mitch Prax Apr 11
is tomorrow
is tomorrow
is tomorrow-
if only i could
become unstuck.
Latin Mortality

People coping carelessly,
Dissociating, crossly, staring crassly,
Stilled in fantasy and logic phallusies,
Yet time ticks and life leaks,

Money makes me more,
Under false guise of one who seeks,
Love, height, esteem, sight, seeking a dream,
Bulky bags, brimming bucks, books and buffets,

Broad, full or empty,
Doesn’t matter the stacked inventory,
It’s how the items are used,
Momento Mori,

Was your energy used efficiently?
Will you grow in elegance and prosperity?
Effortless legacies echoing down corridors of time,
What will you be remembered for?

Are you fine with what you’ve left unsaid?
Who you’ve led or wed?
Who you’ve fed a lie or made cry?
Always remember you will die,

Ten good deeds?
A score?
Does it outweigh the dark?
Do you care which heavenly bells hark?

Strong formidable, body healthy,
A traumatized mind stares at a reflection,
That of a skeleton,
Drained, caned, infamy preordained,

Bogged down by mental mortal chains,
Social strains, driving him insane,
Perspectively it will never end,
Even death is just another time encapsulated den,

Forever adding details,
To a undefined gory story,
Forever and always,
Momento Mori...
Donovan Mar 29
There is a ravaged, mangled
Cluster of clotted blood and
Splintered bones strewn in the street.
She used to be someone’s pet.
The other cars sail past her.
I try not to think about it.

There is a drunken, battered
Collection of dashed dreams and
Untapped potential displayed on the sidewalk.
She used to be someone’s daughter.
The other pedestrians glide past her.
I try not to think about it.
Sorry if this one's sadder than usual. I was kinda tired when I wrote it.
Ciel Mar 27
I look at the despair around me
and see.
Men, women and children alike lay
on the ground in a sea of blood.
Their bodies unmoving
with their eyes still open wide in terror
and arrows in their chests.
Victims of a merciless quest,
their corpses decorate the ground
of the village that was once a happy place
but is now but a gory catacomb.

In the middle of the ravaged huts,
stands a woman.
With a silver crown sitting atop golden locks
and lifeless grey eyes,
she bears a white armor
stained with the red of the conquered
and a wooden bow in her left hand.

A frown wrinkles her ivory face,
and as she stares at me,
I am not scared
as I should be at the vision
of this blood-covered figure
but rather,
I am overcome with a feeling
of pity.
This is the second installment of the Four Horsemen Compilation: The conqueror on the white horse.
Ian Mar 26
How could you have been so foolish,
As to believe that love prevails?

How could something retain a victory,
When it exists only in your mind,
It daintily persists, so ever convincing,
That surely your fears must be an illusion.

Though, there they stay, before your very eyes,
The dismay that comes with the removal of the veil,
As the twisted husk of deceit grabs your face,
Pulling you close, your eyes glued open,
Force to glare into the visage,

Of utter despair.

Of course this is how it would go,
It always has, and why should the tale you've told so many times,
Change before your very eyes?
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