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well layers
are peeling
for Trump
as they
have come
to light
there in
New York
that still
flashes Hildebrand
deeply in
rhetoric while
Solzhenitsyn has
decried labor
camps and
Putin still
looks blank
The Dybbuk Apr 2017
Does He care if I eat pork?
How about when I ****?
Well what if I only do it for the thrill?
What about meat and cheese?
Does He care about that?
Does he care about knives I put in alley cats?
Does He know all the things that I hide under cloaks?
Can he see through all my ****** red mist?
Did He make me a broken, angry angel...
Does he even exist?
The Dybbuk Oct 2017
Good never came down to say he exists,
He expects me to find him in miles of mists.
                                              Evil has never whispered in my ear,
                                              If he did, it was always too quiet to hear.
    Both speak in silence, even if you pray,
                                              But the silence expects you to live to obey.
                    What you call a tragedy, I call a song.
                    Nobody told me what's right and what's wrong.
I've noted that many of my poems are about duality. Good and Evil. Demons and Angels. It fascinates me.
The Dybbuk Oct 2017
So you think there are monsters that wander at night?
Witches and demons behind every blight?
Laughing hysterically, evil incarnate,
Sowing your fields with their parasites?

So you think there are devils that live in your ear,
Right next to the angel that you never hear?
Examine them closely, and I think you'll find,
None of your actions are from puppeteers.

So you think there are angels that watch over you,
Because they've got nothing that's better to do?
Letting you suffer, sometimes for fun,
Maybe that's why angels go to hell too.

So you think the demons and angels are fighting,
Scratching and clawing and screaming and biting?
Come now, you know it, that if that were true,
Don't you think clouds would be way more exciting?

No, I think you know there's no God in the sky,
No Satan below who can be your bad guy,
No good, no evil, no nothing at all,
We invented them back when our stories got dry.

Scapegoats live down below politics,
Blame is our addiction, and we need our fix,
But there isn't an evil that was ever real,
Because sin didn’t die on a crucifix.
Francis Sep 2017
A poise possessed, in unfulfilling actuality,
Longing for freedom, freedom from normality,
Quelling every bit of counterfeit congeniality,
A taste of reassurance, isolated from individuality.

Driving this jalopy, a man dressed to nines,
His undergarments ragged, camouflaged to blind,
His teeth are pearly, though the pearliness grinds,
A moment of glory, he has yet to find.

Phony fads infesting fraudulent causes,
He sits in silence, while sounding the applauses,
A bittersweet flavor of momentary diapauses,
Every year holds similarity, inevitably with menopauses.

Commitments crumbling, chafing positivity,
Vows are demolished, rebuilt with ****** proclivity,
Reputations are finagled with selfless anonymity,
As society lacks honest accountability.

A shadow he’ll reside’n, distant from sight,
While pleading for nobility and faithful delight,
To remain a man and not out of spite,
As a room filled with vultures ravage his might.
We all hide behind... what, for society.
One could be a moth
Or midday butterfly,
A deceitful demon
Or a cherub on Eden's sky.

An enclosed cellar
Or an open book,
Bittersweet venom
Or a milk and honey scoop.

One shall have a choice
of to be or not be,
Facing one's own path.
Call it destiny.

There is a daily choice
Opened to be selected
Between what's right or wrong
To stand straight, or to be deflected.

But then again life's more than
A black and white selection,
where 'pro's and 'no's run
to create one's subjective reflection.

So we are the sums of our choices
no matter if they're right or wrong,
and doomed to be constantly living
with both beauty and chaos along.
Started contemplating the "To be or not to be" from a moral perspective. Until the moment when we cease to exist, we are. We exist. So the next thing would be... the way we choose to exist. The way we choose to live our lives. Because our choices define the type of our own existence.
The Dybbuk Mar 2017
My compass is broken,
It’s needle is aimless.
Where there should be directions,
Lurk the evil and nameless.
When I wish to go north,
It takes me to hell,
I once wanted a heaven,
But that man is a shell.
When I need to go west,
It takes me to void,
Where my feelings are deadened,
My soul is destroyed.
When I wish to go east,
Yet know that I can’t,
It takes me to nature,
And I am an ant.
When I must go south,
Or suffer pains,
It takes me to myself,
Where it rains and rains.
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