They met while still in high school

Most likely to succeed

They had big plans for college

They were on their way indeed

She dropped out while a junior

He continued to the end

She left to have their baby

Their plans, they must ammend

They married down at city hall

Their parents did not know

He wore an old, ill fitting suit

In her dress, she did not show

But here she was, six months along

Their perfect world was done

They were not sure how they would get by

With the addition of their son

He was trained to be an architect

But he started sweeping floor

Interviews were hard to get

Unless you knew the name upon the door

She got a job in retail

Working afternoons each day

It wasn't what they planned on

But they needed her small pay

They had a small apartment

More a garret than a pad

But, in the area they wanted

It was the cheapest that they had

Two years went by and another child

Had increased their home to four

He was working as an architect

And was no longer sweeping floors

Since college though, he'd had a curse

A devil you might think

For to keep himself under control

He was sneaking nightly drinks

As pressure grew and deadlines loomed

His drinking did increase

He was now a junior partner

At the firm of Flint and Meece

He was fighting with his wife alot

The kids were just more stress

But, he bottled up his problems

And he chose not to address

The fact that they were fighting

He was drinking every night

And when she called him on it

They would end up in a fight

He was going in hung over

Some days, he just stayed home

And when they called him from the office

He would not pick up the phone

One day though he went over

the line out there in space

When the wife and he were fighting

He hit her in the face

He didn't know just what to do

He went down for a drink

He needed time to decompress

He needed time to think

She called in sick for her next shift

She stayed home for two weeks

She stayed home till the bruise was gone

And the swelling from her cheeks

His drinking kept evolving

He was hiding it no more

Plans were being made at work

To take his name off of the door

He'd shown up drunk for meeting

His plans were never in on time

They offered him assistance

He refused..there lies the crime

The kids withdrew and feared him

They'd rather eat with friends instead

They'd only come home after dinner

When it was time to go to bed

Another fight ensued at home

When they fired him at last

He beat his wife up so bad this time

She ended up inside a cast

Her arm was badly broken

Charges she refused to lay

But the cops who came to see them

Chose to lay them anyway

This was her chance to make a move on

She packed the kids up late at night

While he was in his jail cell

She booked them all on a late flight

Her family would take them

She would move them to the west

She would start her life without him

It would be for the best

When he got out and found her gone

He sat down, had a few

He didn't have a family,

He had no idea what to do

Instead of phoning to her folks

To see if they'd arrived

He went on a ***** ******

Which most would not survive

He drank from when he broke the day

Most times, well after four

Then he'd drink until he would pass out

And would spend the night there on the floor

He reached the point of no return

When the sherrif came one day

He said "It's time for you to leave this house"

"Unless the taxes, you can pay"

He'd let things slide, and had no funds

His world was on the brink

But, instead of fixing things on up

He went looking for a drink

He spent some time in missions

Trying to find work he could do

But, when he would only get rejected

He turned to devil's brew

His reputation sullied

There was no work in his field

He tried to find work elsewhere

He would see what things would yield

He got jobs working labouring

Warehouses, car washes and such

But, when he kept on missing shifts

And was still drinking as a crutch

He got kicked out of the missions

He refused to toe the line

He would rather be out drinking

******* on some cheap *** wine

He was living by the train tracks

In the cedars, in the woods

He was sleeping in a sleeping bag

He was existing as he could

His drink of choice was anything

That would make his pain just go

He was drinking aqua velva

And in a pinch he drink sterno

The devil had his soul tight

He was on his way to hell

If his life was a big boxing match

This was his final bell

He had the world at his command

A family, and career

But, when alcohol took him over

He lost all that was dear

He'd climbed on up the  mountain

Worked his way up to the peak

But, his body was not strong enough

When the devil chose to speak

His wife and kids, they did ok

Their lives had turned the page

His kids soon did forget him

He was from a different age

They found him in the park one night

When the volunteers came round

They brought food to the homeless

He was dead there on the ground

His body had just given up

His liver had just quit

He died there in the bushes

This kind of end...a perfect fit

He had no wallet with him

All his secrets, they were hid

But they found inside his pocket

A picture of his kids

He died alone and helpless

At the bottom, not the top

He did not have the where withall

Or strength of self to stop

He may have died with nothing

Maybe, he died full of guilt

But, the world in which he left us

Was a world that he had built.
.

twenty one pilots
aren't you forgetting something?
the twenty second second
second from the one
one you forgot

the twenty second ammend-ment
meant a lot
to the twenty second pilot
twenty two pilots doesn't sound about as right though

stuck in the shadows
waters so shallow
swallow the bitterness
betterness isn't a word apparently
twenty second pilot take a taxi cab

I feel you in every way
I see your mistakes
And I hate you for them
And you fail when you try to ammend them
Because failure is all you know
That's why mirrors are a no show for me
Because the hopeless face of your enemy
It's in truth a reflection of your own

Anesthetized and scoured clean, my mind reflects these halls
Of almost-forgotten ***** spills and madness within these walls.

Artificial sleep,
Restless, blood-shot pits;
Reflections, dark and hollow,
Echo visions in raving fits.

This place is said to heal - return sanity from whom it's fled:
Ammend the twisted, save the wretch, cauterize what's bled.

You take a look behind,
of the traces you left imprint.
Misadventures, memories to keep
and pages you might had been.
Circumstances tried to make you
see the sanity of it all.
But, at some point, insanity
was exactly what you were looking for.
People came and went,
some stayed on from time to time.
Chapters you wondered if you could ammend, pages you let it run on rewind.
You kept interrupting conscience,
kept playing around with guilt.
Like if one last could play on,
to indulge further, you would.
Another two years older
but three more steps behind.
You keep looking back on the traces
you left along with time(from time to time).

that writing does not have a face...

and that iron maiden could
have done much more
with the loneliness if a long distance runner
prologue...
        if i wanted trash i'd look elsewhere...
but that's modernity for you,
sometimes you get into these sadistic
teasing narratives of a music,
and you stop to even care to see
and be nimble...
  what comes into the narrative, sometimes:
like (again) iron maiden's crescendo
    in afraid to shoot strangers...
or you get the crescendo constantly,
from the word go...
    music has a narrative,
just like writing doesn't necessarily have a face...
you think writers want to own their faces?
you think that we wouldn't like to have
whispered these words into a lover's ear?
all of this, is based on a sad arithmetic of
two eye blinking, aiming at a pin-point
on a blank screen, within the euphoria of huh?
and it's only that...
         it's not that people like me
cowered from taking to engaging in romance
and piracy... how every emotion
came under scrutiny...
     and was itemised, was given the transition
period of being given scientific scrutiny,
and subsequently, gently buried,
like any religious rite, or thus described
passage.
   we all pray unto Charon...
                    to give us the gravity toward
Hades... we fear more the empty ground
and the scattering of bone than
falling off a cliff...
  the sad reality, that by seeking thrills,
we underestimated the last possible thrill
of having to invest in a life interim...
thus spotted... and on a medical basis:
we can say that some religions are ill...
    islam is ill because the nag hammadi library
undermines it...
         but we can't say christianity is
healthy either...
           not by orthodox standards,
and only in protestant regions are the heresies
rampant...
               would i say this short of crap
to a son i might have had? no.
would i say this sort of crap to a vacuum
so that i might get an echo back?
i proabably wouldn't think twice, once it was done.
writing comes from: you get sick
of talking into yourself...
   it's not that you're talking about yourself...
writing comes from the reptilian remnant
of dinosaurs... the reptile spine abstract...
you write to shed your skin, like a serpent...
and as the biblical maxim suggests...
in the beginning there was word, and the word
was with god...
     writing becomes the closest thing to seeing
god, and maximising the perplexity
of the concept bound to throngs, who have no
personality, or charisma, or a way to say:
     what if it wasn't thus?
there ought to be a Greek noun for this sort
of stereotype of those who write...
  delve in the murk...
                         it's not even a self-imposed exile
from humanity, it's not something abstract,
it's not even a case of trying to sound
condescending...
            even though, beyond appearences, it
is, just that.
                 what i can only call:
blowing against a shadow of a god
     to ignite and become body,
and nothing in the firmament of said verse
to be left unsaid, sense of speaking...
   ah, people dumb down thinking that mathematics
has all the complexities...
   but for a pause to be exacted, in said verse...
the intricacies of punctuation... very much
akin to +, and the same problems of effectuating
the right pause of thought...
      much akin to: breathing fire into a shadow
of a god, for the god to become body,
apparent -
       by law we know satan exists...
santa claus... acronym satan and the law abiding
dimension of having clauses in ultra-maxims
of first ammend this... plumber joe fix that.

She jumps through the whisper
of the wind
To harvest their sweet blood, to
ammend
The loathsome world, and to ascend
In the world with no sheen—a fiend.

Cursed by the painters, and earthlings
For debacles are what she brings.
She lifts herself through the
mutterings
Even when she's shattered in her
beings.

She, who sheens no light at fight,
Has been mistaken as benighted.
She carries not the death of a dead;
She's an art who's known the shadow
of a knight.

what is evidence?
is it dense?

what does it represent?
the truth or the scent?

are we all mad?
or am I extra-terrestially sad?

what to have for dinner?
will i die a sinner?

will the search ever end?
what can i really ammend?

do you care?
or am I just another chair?

Cup of Love Coffee
My sweetheart you are like a cup of coffee
You are my passion and my sweet real lover
You are holy goddess and sweet like toffee
Let love cover and uncover and to discover
My love you are full of fire upto the brim
I want to be like rain drops to touch to kiss
I will be with you all along to swim to trim
According to your desires my sweet miss
Let me take you drop by drop till the end
Let me give exposure to measure as treasure
Let my love to blend to ammend to bend
Let me taste the sweetness just with pleasure
Colnonel Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright July 2020 Love Remains