Battling myself not to break something.
Insides twisted from head to toe.
Desperate for the anger not to show.
Taking all my will.
Flooding out the gates.
Almost nothing left and still.
Turmoil rising within.
What do I do?
When all I want is to give in.
When ****** isn't enough.
Genocide couldn't keep up.
Anger the deepest black couldnt colour.
If only all my personalities would materialize.
Standing by to ease the pain and shoulder.
The things I cannot.

How could we explain our plight
to someone who's a stranger
when they can see so clearly
how we put ourselves in danger.

Of course we feel anxiety
and struggle with the doubt,
for we could die on this journey
but at least we're getting out.

And out, is our priority,
out, is what we strive.
Getting out is probably
what keeps us all alive.

Because if this was not an option
and we could not at least try
we might as well just dig a grave
and lie down and wait to die.

So we pay malignant couriers
to float us out to sea,
we take this dangerous consequence
and what will be, will be.

Our journey is horrific
and many of us die,
but the alternative to staying here
is the reason that we try.

Insatiable bile rises at the precipice of ecstasy, undeniably
life lived is a rolling wave of emotion as I rise and I

fall with the sequences of the sun at my back and
these oceans under my feet. One day may I strike a

balance? To arise and not to plunge from these summits,
simply then to collide with the challenger deep. For now

torn moments do sustain me and drain me; I cannot
win against water whilst water cannot last against light.

The bright, yellow paint is chipping.
The  ivy vines are climbing the walls.
The war had started and it was abandoned.
A once beautiful house neglected in fear.

The windows are broken
and the door is hanging by one hinge.
A tornado had come through here.
A tornado of men, guns and turmoil.

Clothes were strewn across the house
Antiques were shattered on the floor.
The war had killed the beauty of this house,
but had enhanced the tortures of its story
The story of a peaceful family.

A table flipped and dinnerware on the ground.
A teenage boy dead on the floor.
****** handprints on the walls and bullet holes in the stairs.
A broken railing and a dead man at the top.
Shot gun shells and holes in the destroyed door.
A woman lay dead by the edge of a cradle.
The mothers blood slicked down the edge of the bassinet
A blood soaked mattress
And a baby that lay unmoving with a torn and ****** onesie.

The destruction of this war is terrifying
and the World War 2 veteran can’t erase the scenes from his mind.
They stick with him as he ages until the day he joins the peaceful family
in the land of the dead.

The rain beat down like a ferocious lover
On cracked windows
And creased curtains.
Barren and dry outside
This tumultuous storm
Lay inside my eyes and kept
The raging wildfire abreast
If only momentarily.
Sorrow as my only defense mechanism
Pleading innocence and defeat
I may be laying low
For a week or more
But I will not be beat.
Go ahead
And bring the heat that swells
In the late august
Of good intentions turned sour.
Age out all the promises
That have rot in the back room
Before ever reaching their destination.
We have reached the boiling point,
Now slipping into disintegration.
You were a caricature of yourself
And I, the animator.
Maybe I’ll see you later
When you’ve rearranged your display.
I think we’ve had enough
For today.
c.e.m. 2.9.14

Sometimes a poet has to ponder upon:
substitutes
suspense
building
breaking
glueing
grooving
gazzillion
broken pieces
put back together
Love
Heart
Rhythm
pace of words

Rhythm !

Shall words be beautiful ?
Or aggressive ?

For some opponent heavy readers Lovely words just don't suffice!
Love words, cheesy romanticism and odes to beauty
turn out to be:
too easy
too light
not a delight
a psyche's cry is heard:
"Where is some drama!? For God's sake!!!"

We hear annoyed reader's comments...
"Brother, this cheesy woobadaloo, smoochy kind of poetry ain't nothing but pure ****!
An effort compared to one, two three, slight steps in muddy warm water
nothing much to do, a lurking pudding, fibble will... oh, my my
oooooohh"
no harm done
but boring
but! - there's always a - but!
some badass poetic freak
with it's head in
the clouds
tell me about Love
dear!
till
the day's tiles
are done.

"Where's some culmination!!?!!
Crime, anger, passion!!!?!!!
Terriffic twists of turmoil, sweat, deceit... !??!
At least a bit of dark matter puked on a silver platter!! Where is this abruptly amazing, abolishing lust for hedonism!!!?"*

fortune
torture
pain
lust
give me some more!
blood, thorns
screams,
tears
sweet ****!!!!  

Does beauty suffice!?!
Without duality?!
Is there a Real Poetry without
Suffering ?

Tell me poets!!
Is there a Poetry- Divine without ugliness ?!? of words, energy, meanings without a constant fight!?
inner dialogue
characters
opposition

HAIKU!?!

Enticing us in, sugar coated doors

for sticky fingers,

Doors of mystery, keep out, staff only

nettled in barbed wire.

Half open doors full of promise,

chocolate soft centred

Exciting doors, silk covered

in lace suspenders

Inspiring doors, Leonardo bold italic,

uppercase only

Lonely doors all shuttered in silence,

cobweb covered

Sad doors, tear stained

and umbrella wet

Happy doors,

candy striped in laughter

Forbidden doors, Pandora boxed,

best kept locked

Revolving doors covered

with the same sticky mistakes

Trap doors crocodile sprung

to catch you out

Doors that slide on tram like runners,

buffered into walls with imprint of face

Secret doors of camouflaged chameleon

Troubled doors

thunder clapped in turmoil

Doors enticing us.

I am a manor
with two masters
I am a house divided
a soul in duress.

Half of me
sweet, happy, carefree.
Half of me
wants to dress up
to find  love,
to be neat.
Half of me
wants peace,
wants happiness.

The remainder,
is an *******.
cold, hardened, bitter.
The remainder
has lost hope
lost love.
The remainder
is tough and strong
never needing anyone.
The remainder
wants anarchy
thrives in chaos.

I am a house divided,
a manor with two master,
a soul in duress.