My poetry is open and bare on the examination table
While my brain falls into place in the exsanguination cradle
Pieces fit together like a monster from the old world fables
Set up to disassociate the Kanes from the Ables
We're all meant to die
There's no harm in asking why
Self harm, drugs left in the arms, premeditation, self incrimination
It won't matter when we're stitched up in a Y
Theres hidden meanings in every line
A chance to put aside all the woes and keep feelings burning inside
When things are on the decline
I can write down facts and theories
Like self investigation as to why I'm feeling weary
No Overbearing intoxication here just a rough cut heart of ice melting due to overheating and slipping liquidation
A weathered door of a face.
Her house, captured in a bubble,
on Anterograde Lane.
In the dark; in the corner,
her leg, scarred in cursive, propped,
like the whole of her frailty; on a
budget wheelchair, second hand.
A boy, brand new,
who will soon be old enough
to forget what happened.
What mother? On the road,
smeared with hot, gushing
jet-black highway blood;
encompassing the coagulated
being of what was, and, only
in hushed talks, a mother.
What daughter?
How old are you, this time?
These words slip out of a smile.
And she wishes she could hold him
-- but her frayed fingers fight back,
with every twitch trying to touch.
Delayed comfort becoming devastation
-- 4 years-old. She can hardly believe it.
Pain eats her grocery bag arms,
bulbous in her bones like
confused locusts, frenzied.
The boy's eyes are a deep brown
nutrient-rich soil, perfectly fertile;
needing to be cared for and grown.
Forever, she could, protect him from
The Lurking that killed his mother.
At the very least, for however many
remaining years. Three. Five. Eight.
Becoming a lantern before his sight;
guiding him from dangerous design
drifting between trees, in the dark.
Stopped by an old town
To fuel up my car
Surrounded by cane fields
A figure stared from far
Almost at nightfall
Passing by the wrenched dummy
A sudden chill up my spine
Gave grumbles in my tummy
No ones around
The shack looked deserted
The figure lifted its head
But fell, as if beheaded
I screamed with a cracking voice
And sped up my car quickly
My car drove back to the same spot
Going in rounds basically
This went on till the break of dawn
While the figure gave me a meek smile
A pair of rolled up eyes
Looked through me, from a quite mile
A wink from the torn eyes
That's all I can recall
Ripped clothes, nailed to a post
Certainly it was a drastic call
People say, it's a haunted shack
Never travel alone at night
The dummy would get you
And you'll lose your sight...
©sim
Words unfit for a caged bird;
wasted air on an abundance of tweets.
Withered laurels now rusted in sand;
mustered strength as the bars now meet.
Feathers ruffled by steel words;
free will is fastened to the papers below.
The sunrise beset with faded scenes;
pastures dream in an oil laced flow.
Purpose has flown to trees unknown;
fallacies linger, clouded trance...
Beauty colours a prosaic corner;
wondrous magic, opening chance?
As my vision begins to blur and the voices sound so far , I can't help but wonder...
Is this it?
Outlines of people I cannot recognize ,
And sliding off the chair as I sit.
Like metal grinding together in my head,
And gravity pulls at one side of by body.
There's a witch brewing up a a poison in my stomach and It's put me in a sincape.
When I wake the bright lights make me assume that the great gates of heaven are opened to me.
right when I call for my lord and savior I am again put into the dark by this witch that's now in my head.
When I wake once more I am no longer at the gates , instead I am soiled in a hospital bed .
I guess god wants me to put up a fight,
And maybe what I saw were the EMT's flashing lights.
Right now I feel as if I had broke , and god has a cruel sense of humor . but that's only because I've had a stroke .
She prefers to look at the world through a videocamera
rather than her own eyes,
She is able to put everything on a timeline
and edit out the bad things,
add in the good things;
add special effects to reality.
She is a filmmaker -- every aspect of life will always be a movie to her
whether it is horror, drama, suspense, action, comedy or romance,
there will always be a happy ending.
It was a dark silvery night
And the moon had gone a-hiding
And the birds had ceased a-chirping
When I beheld a bloody sight
A gripping, chilling tale of fright.
It was a high and lofty place
And there I stood a-shivering
And in that terrace a-trembling
When down the lane I saw a face
A tall, thin man walked in a daze.
It was a large and rusty ax
And in his right hand a-swinging
And in its blade, the blood a-dripping
When… ‘Horrors, horrors!’ and I gasped!
He drank the blood, and then he laughed!
It was a round and severed head
And in his left hand a-clinging
And in its neck the wound a-gaping
When suddenly, he chomped and chewed!
He ate the head! Oh God, the head!
Yes, ’twas a high and lofty place
And there I stood a-shivering
And in that terrace a-trembling
When down I gazed and saw a face
A tall, thin man below my terrace.
let me taste your skin,
i want to eat your sin,
give me your ivory bones,
your eyeballs like moonstones.
let me taste your skin,
i want to eat your sin,
give me your ivory bones,
your eyeballs like moonstones.
let me taste your skin,
i want to eat your sin,
give me your ivory bones,
your eyeballs like moonstones.
i am a kolossus
i am your superfluous
are you my star?
je ne sais pas
...the more you talk,
the more they know...
Somehow they are coming,
...somehow they know.
The more you engage it.
Less con-troll...
The sense is over-whelming...
to
A death.
Death is here.
I am good
I am good
I am good...
She still -stalking...
Did break Her code?
cunt
Internet
Come to design,
Dalia ate the pages?
Where are the pages Wizard?
The milk that spoils overnight,
The horse that sweats in the morning?
YOU KNOW THE SIGNS!