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each pocket has a purpose
church bells shatter through the surface

the worthless circus sunday service
a procession past the pickled mirthless

dispersions of persons pass pews
hoping He accepts the time served, in lieu

and thus this pocket is purposed for you

At the masqurade parade all day
That preys on insecurity

youre sure to see a bargain,
sharking, armed with curiosity

but the cost is often hidden, lost
in a forest of desire, in a silk lined pocket

and this is where they keep your wallet

search for solace in a sound structure
then ruptured synapses, flayed fluster

rebuild it all, regard life's lustre
meander melancholy with what you can muster

place them in a pocket, each respective,
one for your lessons and one for perspective

as the pickpocket of fear plays with the reasoning detective
A bit of rhyming fun here with a few feelings expressed against some aspects of life completely biased and brazen.

Sew up those pockets people.
Hark, while the wasteland breathes out silent whims,
And see, as night's aura cloaks distant trees;
A sinister echo of ancient hymns,
Floats up, in a creeping midsummer breeze.

As the miles sum up - an anxious bearing,
Rushes a vague fright up the fragile spine;
But with the city lights on watch, nearing,
This unsettling fear slides down the incline.

The unattended anxiety does go,
Which this travel in the dark did arise;
City lights torch a new fret although,
But far less weary, it, in question, lies.

Wearisome measures of the restless nights,
Merit resistance by the city lights.
Based on what traveling away from home to another city feels like to me.
Invisible money knows your dream,
An untamed pet with secrets
Carrier of midnight visions
Aboard the bittersweet rain train

Free the child with crackling city skin
Calling water ‘gift’,
Plan death with silver hands
For designated sleep it lives
Mr Shankley Dec 2018
You know the ink has already dried
And it’s written a thousand ******* times
Across every inch
of your skin
into your bone

My name

And you’ll carry it down every road
you cross

You can take that blade to your flesh again,
And try to carve it out.

You know you’ll have to take it to the neck.
The Devil wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
Until the fire in his palm began to choke,
In jealousy and desire, there is no messiah,
And so he wrote, and wrote, and wrote.
lX0st Nov 2018
I am no child of God
Something sinister designed me
With a heart that hurts too deeply
Sword tongue that cuts too sharply
Skin that bruises easy
Eyes that don’t see clearly
Some narcissism, optimism
Pinch of pessimism
For good measure
Brain cell battlefield
Truth fronts on both ends
Devil’s distorted spectrum
I falter in the middle
An impossible distance
Clouded by cognizance
And carelessness
There is only now
And now, I am
Everything and nothing
Unbalanced, unfallen
The void in silence
Sudden vacuum of air
White light in sheer darkness
Vicious cause for despair
Sweet surrender is calling
But I don’t belong there
Renai Nov 2018
It was a bleak and dismal Sunday morning, as I baked for the sake of baking. My head was bowed as I sliced apples when suddenly, everything within me started aching. I decided to take a brief recess and rest in my reclining chair.

As I gazed out through my windowpane, I observed that rain was there. It dripped and dropped onto the dense grass, and such a beautiful sight it was. As I continued to gaze, I noticed a faint, human-like figure in the shadows of the trees. At that moment, reason had abruptly gone, and curiosity had jurisdiction.

I found myself leaving the comfort of my chair, walking into the grove. When the rain caressed my wrinkled skin, I then began to roam. I could hear vague, ghost-like murmurs surrounding me; the predicament that I was in then began confounding me.

As time progressed, my visual perception dimed, and as it dimmed, the murmurs became more prominent. I listened to the murmurs repeatedly asserting "your end is right in front of thee." I didn't understand nor had a clue. My fearfulness only grew.

And then out of the blue, I collided with what I assumed was a tree, until I heard a rather stout, raspy, sinister-natured "hello." And instantaneously I registered what the murmurs had revealed to me. My end was unquestionably in front of me.
Thank you for taking the time to read this!
Luke Deggendorf Sep 2018
My dearest friend how great a life,
How wondrous to find us both here!
We share the air in this midnight room,
We are together again and without fear.

The past year demanded everything,
You feared the most tragic end.
But you learned to walk with missing legs,
A gift that gave us time to spend.

Your hair and teeth are beginning to fall,
You must learn to take better care.
But I suppose you always have me to help,
So you will never need to get out of your chair.

Your family was ever so worried,
They say you can no longer speak.
But I hear your voice in the depth of each night,
The only sound that heals my soul so weak.

The maggot gang was back again,
And decay peeps out from your sockets.
The clothes should help to hide these flaws,
The stench concealed by onions in pockets.

There is only one problem with our shared time,
It really is my greatest of fears.
I must wake every night to your anguished cries,
But I still feel like mine fall on deaf ears.
A little pre-October macabre.
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