An attire of cadaver obsidian
      hangs upon the expiration

of every fluctuation.

Weaving sorrow on every passing.


Considering the folly of her motionless
                                  endeavour.

Her garb falters and  decomposes
              below her narcistic

                                                pondering.


She is neither Earth or Air,
                but a decompaction of

reflections fading over time..

Breakings
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.

But gods without compassion
ordained: "Frail things must break!"
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.

Keywords/Tags: Love, compassion, pity, heart, break, tender, wounded, dove, gods, command, mad, hatters, legislate, sorrow, destruction

Just because you are a good person, people will not treat you better.
They will treat you as they please
They will not consider your feelings, they will stomp on them
They will stomp on them every time.
You are a background character  in every one elses lives.
They will not notice if your gone, so you dissapear
And you will dissapear, cause if there is one thing you know
It is this: Loneliness has killed more people than cancer
And you are now awaiting your destiny.
You just hope that it will come soon
Then perhaps you wont become invisible before it arrives.
Then perhaps it will not only be you're mother there at you're funeral, then perhaps your name will appear in the papers, speaking of the tragedy that was your death.
But you sit still, knowing what is supposed to happen, knowing that there is no other way.
And you stand up, you look in the mirror, in hope that something has changed, that there is another way. You stare and stare, but you see nothing except the scars on your body and in your mind
Nothing but your crooked teeth and the failure that is reflected in your eyes.  
And at last, nothing. you stare and see yourself dissapear in the mirror until you are invisible and there is nothing but the noose around your neck.

And suddenly I've come to realize that my life doesn't actually matter in the large scheme of things.
I pity this world.
It tears apart the good and shoves the aspiring into boxes of conformity from which they shall never rise.
All those creative must appeal to the people and not to themselves.
The misunderstood tend to be the most miraculous.
An artist, for example, could live their whole life poor and unwanted.
When they die, their work is suddenly valuable.
So I've come to realize that our lives don't actually matter in the large scheme of things, it's what we leave behind that counts.
Doing something well and not getting credit isn't worth nothing, it's worth everything.
A painful realization.

Rejection
a roundel by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

I’m guiltless, yet my sentence has been passed.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign:
   Your beauty from your heart has so erased
   Pity, that it’s useless to complain.

Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
   Your beauty from your heart has so erased
   Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
   For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

***

Original text:

So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Giltles my deth thus han ye me purchaced;
I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to feyne;
    So hath your beaute fro your herle chaced
    Pilee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne

Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed
So gret beaute, that no man may atteyne
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.
    So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
    Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
    For daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

I’M FINE.

don’t mourn for me.
don’t grieve for me.
don’t clasp your hands and pray for me.

i am not the one you wanted me to be.
i am not the one you thought i’d become.

i don’t need your comfort.
i don’t need your concern.
i don’t need your stares.
i don’t need your pity.

i don’t need your help.

It’s fun to do whatever I like, to feel whatever I want to feel, but there are days I have this longing feeling of certain emotion, I can’t tell what it is, but it’s closed, locked, and no one, not even me, could find the key.