The obfuscate
I find chagrin,
and here we go
around again.
The obfuscate
I find chagrin,
and here to bring
me down again.

Undulating.
Undulating.

Through the echoes,
left for wayward,
lost and scattered
in hereafter.

Undulating.
Undulating.

Hey Shakespeare,
Could you write a happy ending?
I want to sit and read a book,
Where I finally feel I’m winning.

I wish I didn’t care all the time,
But here we are,
I’m wanting your hand in mine

I love being in love,
But it hurts every time
Can someone please explain
why I still try?

He will tie the strings of the masks each day,
Waiting ‘til the set of suns to remove it from its grasp:
Tugging on skin. First, the heaviest of all,
Abhorring the world for granting him the greatest burden;
Infuriated for not gaining the choice of first breath.
Purity of immense emotion, coursing through newly opened lungs.
Second, the hungriest: Shoving the mask aside to consume life,
Delectable love filling tables, now made just to fill his stomach…
Only to fall to the ground, clutching himself at thus, no longer hungry.
Third, a mask stuck to his face and peeling skin with attempts to remove it;
Falling to his knees, he looks up,
Up to those above him, begging the skies for such a life- for such freedoms.
A wide smile forming beneath, teeth gleaming with a chuckle:
He simply wants what they have.
Fourth, the lies of all veils, God, why create such a mask?
He shall look across the room to eye the other, blood pounding in ears:
Pulsing, drumming, begging needing wanting standing to ask for just-
A dance? But he hides his soul beneath the mask and shall continue to the end.
The fifth, an arrogant fellow of such. His branch most sophisticated,
His tree the strongest but the sprouts below?:
Changing too much for his own approval, despite the brightness of their leaves,
For he was the one recognized by the sun.
Sixth, leather with a hollow beak scented with crimson carnations.
Folds and wrinkles, creaking bones soon to turn dust,
Why would he rise from his wooden chair? Rocking
Back, and forth, back, and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth-
Snap. Crack.
But he is not prepared, he is far from hopeful, the sand falling quickly.
He does not wish any longer to wear the last mask:
Number seven.
The previous six shatter and tumble to the ground, now mirrors in the soil.
He looks upon the shards, lungs gasping at the sight:
A man, yet not a man. A demon, yet far from such.
He hungers for the gift of first breath, for the love fed to him,
For the freedoms, for the dance, for the trees and for the petals.
He is not prepared to go,
For wasn’t it once said,
That hell is empty, and all the devils are here?
Perhaps the lenses in this one shall show him truth, or perhaps not.

I long to write
Beautiful things
Like Shakespeare
And elegant ballgowns
Something with more meaning
Then simply feeling down

I long to write
Of romeo and Juliet
Symbolic and deeper then most see
Oh thou arent very good with writing

I long to write
Like egar allen poe
Or any inspiration i claim to love
But instead i write of the dead things
That roam through my mind stirring

Pound pound pounding
My mind is  constantly aching
She's but a young child
Cry cry crying
For attention she seeks but it keeps dying

Plays and music will not be wrote
Of the things i write
For they are not artistic
They are but a jumbled mess
Never knowing where to place
Each
Line or
Stanza

Now I'm rambling
On and on and on
She goes sad and chaotic
Whispering obscenities
And screaming repetitive words and pleas

I adore the poems and songs
That at face value seem
Like they are about love for another
When truly they ring about darkness

Oh sweet child
Your love keeps thy so warm
But it's breaking into a storm
I watch you try to sleep
Why do you weep?
Dost thou not realize thy beauty?
Stab thy heart into shreds
For i cannot breath without the
But i cannot smile when thy fills my blood with led

Sweet little girl
You have made no sense
Get on your knees and repent
For you will never be

Somebody

We are afraid that there is nothing.
We are afraid that there is something beyond, even we cannot know it and so squash it into a box.
We are afraid that cats will scratch out our eyes and someone will release a wild fox into the house letting it scream intensely like the sound of torture.
We are afraid of the deep, dark ocean, that it will eat us whole and a megalodon will slow motion leap from the deep to swallow us in totality and to be followed by a ship wrecking kraken that will cover an island and make us pay for our sins.
We are afraid of God, that he is mad, that he is angry, that he does not approve, that he isn't really there, that he doesn't have a plan for us, that he gave up on us and our disgusting lives and terrible choices that bring ultimate self-destruction.
We are afraid of spiders.
We are afraid of the house setting alight whilst nobody is home and the neighbours hate us so much they stand in their front gardens and watch it burn and only then calling the fire brigade when ash starts to affect their own space, their own environment, and they'll complain till the cows come home about "what an inconvenience all this has been", how it has made them late, how the fire engine has blocked off the road so Saturday shopping will have to wait a bit longer. And they hate us, they hate us, they hate us.
Their dog ***** in our garden. It ***** on our grave.