"All words,
Mother's last
Jesus in Christ,
take the time
for this rhyme"

He suffered for days,
for me its been decades,

How has being whipped,
and enslaved
and being hang,
for 3 days been horribly created
I could have endured that.

I won't wash off my father's
like what was of Jesus's
I was of our family's tree,
just another of the strangling,
Roped of the back yard gum-tree's

Blood is of a reptilic,
Frogs in the swamp,
being caught by kids,
and being splat to death,

Religion is not torturous,
ask the ones on the streets,
and the army of the fleet,
controlled is sacrilegious.

Ask the home-less girls,
who suffered more worse,
just true of their turf
and our minds still burst.

There's a constant sound of a crack,
Naturist sound as cards go snap,
as poisonous sounds
it doesn't goes down so well.
The moles from the grounds
comes up to a beaten map.
The eyes that do swell,
leads to fallen twill bells,
After the midnight hour,
and the beaten of flour.
Prostitution sells
but never-does-so-well,
and the lacking of the tinging
commercialism of tills......
Leads us down a path,
of targeting down a wraith,
sounds of ghosts,
our previous hosts,
Tides between the lost
A cast before dye bleeding.
Taunting of our breathing,
Tuiation of the black seedling,
or smelt the way its rotten?
There's nothing more to be said.
Have you never seen red seaweed?
Or smelt upon the way its worsens "death?"

Sunset rhymes
with ***** bets,
under the table,
for the able
exploit
the more vulnerable.
What we achieve,
and who we deceive,
can mean the guilty,
has no shame but to live,
Money will come pouring
before it's morning.

I'll never be a heaven's save,
To be carried away in the next wave,
There'll be no baptism,
A demon can't change suddenly.

Abyss now lays behind my black eyes
I've been carried away as innocence dies.
My eyes are more dead than a Raven's
My soul is that of a sunken Craven.

Red stains lay in my newly built chapel,
Nothing but my own ****** hand disciple,
sickness drains as the uppers stop working,
soon the opposite side of a puddle underneath.

It was always little touches,
like down on the beach shore,
my uncle and my ears,
fifty cents of the coins,
Reach down and he'll pierce,
and show me the silver.

My Aunty
teaching me piano,

Lost are the choir of God's words,
I am underneath my father's Burdon,
He loves me so true and unconditionally,
but he's my ***** and my enabling.

But he's not to blame,
I brought on all the shame,
and my disgrace-ful  name,
It is and always be broken,
but this is not my destiny,
I still see her little wings,
and lullabies
she would sing.

Strangers are freezing to pierce,
I was handsome in my twenties
I have the dancing in my memories
and short skirts forever teasing.

Now, I am but the movement,
made out of an artist's stone,
Leaving behind my youth,
Creaking and smashing a booth
to a woman that can finally sooth.

Words, perhaps—emotions mirrored,
More than letters, they are—reminds the lover.
As the 5, 4, 3 takes over their vows,
Flaunting its beauty,
They embrace one another.

Beauty she is—perhaps a swan,
Gentle he is—perhaps the lake.
A perfect picture they draw together,
As they ring one another—at 5.

A duel now sparks with fury,
Hearts quickly turn to ashes.
None ready to accept their mistake,
“Sorry” hides behind their fate,
While the red thread turns vague.

"Nothing lasts forever," says the bard,
As Romeo and Juliet turn into tale.
The 5 and 4 meet their end—
A mere word, says the very same mate.

“Lover’s quarrel,” says the blonde.
“It’s the ring!” says the brunette.
“Did love ever win the race?”
Questions the bird,
As it fails to accept their fate.

Forgetful they are of their 5, 4, 3s,
The following numbers turning pale.
Now, tell your goodbyes to the poem.
'Cause you see, my love—
Love’s sour, sorry’s burnt, and bye’s bitter.

I shall go; now, you decide—
Whether you will say your 5, 4, 3s,
Or let the past collide.

Honey never agreed with me
but the bees have never stung
as I brought my white van up
They would circulate me,
but they had this instinct,
of how they knew me.

I wish they stung me to death,
before I hurt the one of twelve,
and of Kate and others several,
in this two stanza brevity.
I deserve and wish for death,
before I can inhale another breath.

Those bees,
if I kicked the nest,
I'll be stung to red.

I was comfortable,
around their buzzing.

I am hiding
under the leaves
can't brave,
but tell me your story,
and if it leaves
but it craves,
A dragon lays.

I don't think,
but too sunken
I've seen your eyes
and your weeping,
leaves me for dead.

Figuratively,
but so tired
to live.
I'm just weary
and I don't fear
over my face
that's bleeding,
Before awaits
the garden
of the seeding,
red composting.

I love the detail of rusty cars,
near the beach and out of reach,
flown down the cliff I can't reach,
too many witnesses for such a breach
many rocks to step down and too afar.

What's to aim for,
when your life is in the plains,
Try to best the one before,
as the clouds growl as it rains.

I live in the lucky country,
but tell that to the immigrants,
sent to centers where they suicide
and sadly purgatory begins again.

The media is killing our children,
They watch and see their lives threatened
Bad news is nothing but good news,
tell that to my aching suffering pen.