I am a writer
No matter what they say.

My pen flows
and my wrist goes;
Writing
words no one will see

My hands shake
eyes tear
wrist bleed in lines of icy scarlet
I am a writer; my cross to bear.

If i loved you
I'd give you my hands
my sacrafice for love
my words would be yours

Like Van Gogh,
I would bleed
for; the one I need
to need me.

Can you still feel their pain?
Or have we forgotten pleasure
Try to bleach away the stains
Blood left on your treasures

Bury the coins down deep
And lock away the guilt
While choking on the key
My inky guts spilt out

I'm sick on melancholy
Numb to what's right or wrong
The ship has sailed, behold her glory
Sirens wail, so great their song

Stories told by word of mouth
Gossip scribbled out a map
X marks my heart, 10 paces South
Tricked again, fell in the trap

The clash of steel, the smell of smoke
Aye, I gouged out his eye again
Nay, just another sad bloke
Who's plans went awry Captain

As I patched up my face, and dusted my coat
A crack in the mirror split across my soul
The two parts of myself, the survivor and the ghost
Both covered in blood from others we stole.

If we find something we are willing to die for, we truly live.

*Not a poem, nevertheless the birth of many.

Pimps and ******
Missiles and guns
Death the score
Sacrifice for fun

Dollars for dancing
Paradise for blood
Money men prancing
Preaching the flood  

Jesus the Christ
Bringing the end
Mohammed given the keys
To Syria, Persia, & Yemen

Religion’s a bubble
Waiting to bust
Propped up by the gullible
Distracted by lust

The Gods are worthless
You better short the dollar
The faithful and faithless
All living in squalor

Mammon, a prince of hell
That’s who we worship
Ring the bell
Ready the warship!

Lightning struck and
Cracked the foundation
I've been building upon
Shaking my tower of
Preconceived priorities...

I'm falling now, slowly
Watching my dreams
Tumbling back in time
To the beginning...

I made a mistake when
I stacked to much pressure
Fracturing the stone that
All other things depend upon...

Now, I'm resting surrounded
By the wreckage I caused
By overestimating my own
Ability to hold it all together.

The six-turned horns with yellow eyes
shivers in the crispy Olympus air
as a wave of clasping hands
claw at his wet blooded hair.

A man of the pebbles and mud,
a crook that grazed the land.
He grazed sixty years, but then,

anchored a fair folk on the red sea,
babes in the arms of the slopes below.
They were green and white, with smiles
and ears that savored his wispy white hair.

But a harsh winter came that
uncovered the black, they
dug it out of the caves; and so,
Gaia took their warm green away.

The people fought and spit as they
stole more slick from shadowed pits.
Friction sparking fires to burn their ire.
and the Ire spewed fire back at Him.

Now, the Horns stands betwixt their heat and the pit
shedding salt over their fall, not his, and
with a bleep tosses his cloven hooves over.
to leave them their green, to drown in black..