"antiquities" poems
The Land of Nod (Hebrew: ארץ נוד, eretz-Nod)
is a place mentioned in the Book of Genesis
of the Hebrew Bible, located "on the east of Eden"
(qidmat-‘Eden), where Cain was exiled
by God after Cain had murdered his brother Abel;
According to Genesis 4:16:
_And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD,
and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden._
(וַיֵּ֥צֵא קַ֖יִן מִלִּפְנֵ֣י יְהוָ֑ה וַיֵּ֥שֶׁב בְּאֶֽרֶץ־נֹ֖וד קִדְמַת־עֵֽדֶן)
"Nod" (נוד) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod is usually taken to mean
that one takes up a wandering life. Genesis 4:17
relates that after arriving in the Land of Nod,
Cain's wife bore him a son, _Enoch_,
in whose name he built the first city;
"Nod" (נוד) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod can mean to live
a wandering life; Gesenius defines (נוּד) as follows:
_TO BE MOVED, TO BE AGITATED_
(Arab. ناد Med. Waw id.), used of a reed
shaken by the wind, 1Ki.14:15; hence to wander,
to be a fugitive, Jer. 4:1; Gen. 4:12, 14; Ps.56:9;
to flee, Ps. 11:1; Jer. 49:30. Figuratively, Isa. 17:11,
נֵד קָצִיר "the harvest has fled" ["but see נֵד ,"
which some take in this place as the subst.]
Much as Cain's name is connected
to the verb meaning "to get" in Genesis 4:1,
the name "Nod" closely resembles the word
"nad" (נָ֖ד), usually translated as "vagabond",
in Genesis 4:12. (In the Septuagint's rendering
of the same verse, God curses Cain
to τρέμων, "trembling")
A Greek version of Nod written as Ναίν
appearing in the _Onomastica Vaticana_
possibly derives from the plural נחים,
which relates to resting and sleeping;
This derivation, coincidentally or not,
connects with the English pun on "nod";
Josephus wrote in Antiquities of the Jews
(c. AD 93) that Cain continued his wickedness
in Nod: resorting to violence and robbery;
establishing weights and measures;
transforming human culture from innocence
into craftiness and deceit; establishing
property lines; and building a fortified city;
Nod is said to be outside of the presence
or face of God: Origen defined Nod
as the land of trembling and wrote
that it symbolized the condition of all
who forsake God; Early commentators
treated it as the opposite of Eden
(worse still than the land of exile
for the rest of humanity); In the English tradition
Nod was sometimes described as a desert
inhabited only by ferocious beasts or monsters;
Others interpreted Nod as dark or even
underground—away from the face of God—
Augustine described unconverted Jews as
dwellers in the land of Nod, which he defined
as commotion and "carnal disquietude"
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 12:16 PM UTC
~~~
out of an arid ocean
You came up
hoary with barnacles
grey with skin
a spray of stars erupted
startled . awash
against its own night
and down again You go
to know the
mating of tendrils
the killing planes of seashores
the antiquities of the sun
were we there once?
in the phosphor seasons
we played with You
as You are even then
so self contained we found
no need to surrender
to the patient
winds of change
now You echo in
strange meridians
storming Your gusts
in far off topography
Your great tail
sings its starlight way
homing to its thunder
~~~
they came
oh, yes, they came
to harvest Your virtues
their decks slick
with Your blood
crimson stains ugly with lucre
their forest of masts
peopled by
Your ghosts
sing ! O leviathan ! sing
lift Your voice and
bellow to us
of Your lost pods
Your wonderful oceans
Your salty maternity
*Your
song
is
heard
by
GOD*
(c) soulsurvivor
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
From mud walled homes
these remnants come, artifacts of shell and bone
leather shoes and deerskin coats
woolen blankets and woven rugs,
baskets for storing grain and corn.
Grinding stones and sun bleached bones
antiquities and memories found in fields of sand,
necklace beads of finest hammered silver
now forgotten and lost, and too the river's water.
Came a sorrowful war with bullet guns
that pierced the heart of every man
no match for shooting arrows.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
* *A tear is shed
For those who are blind to the beauty of this world
Who can only feast on sarcasm, writhing in irony
* *It soon evaporates.
Pictures of a future dressed in ribbons and lace, cast off and burned
Pictures of the future carrying disdainful dystopia, infamous for invalids
Hung to admire in sublime distaste by those that seek knowledge
And see the repetitious antiquities of time that come to pass
But others care not for plans and the imminent
Those that keep to the light of the gas
And carry the past to the present
Hoping for trends to try again, reliving what they had never lived
Laconic and loquacious in emotions and words
Against the gossip, but paradoxically
Pushing for the creation of their “ritualistic social Golgotha”.
Those who abuse the glory of their munificent, malicious mentality
Pathetically unable to procure authentic happiness
A tear is shed.
Inside the recesses of the soul where emotions dare not dwell.
It too evaporates.
Trapped in fear and the “cliched harlequin speech of suicide”
Begging for the masses to cast them out and find each other
A tear is shed.
Never seen but felt as it evaporates.
Felt by those who envelop themselves inside themselves
Those who plagiarize their sick self-conscious souls
Those who bring about the very misfortune they strive to devour
Those who are effortlessly envied as they exploit their habitual recreations
By those who wouldn’t dream of falsified euphoria
Those who bastardise and deface the name of creative individualism
As waters of the soul are purged and discarded
They are felt by those
And are quickly washed away in doubt and regret
Keeping to the light of the gas, dangerous and warm
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
~
*"Satellite, oh, satellite
who sits upon our skies
how deep do you see
when you spy into our lives?"
This is for when
coyote called
into the ether
connecting heaven to earth
For when
glasnost sang
and velvet revolution
twinkled in the humming air
This is for when
the quiet hedges
of lilies and remains
came out of darkness
For when
the misty curtain man
shopping for codes and antiquities
poisoned the salt shakers
This is for when
a spy in an alcove
twisting the thermos tops
to his dark-eyed sister
shelled the transmitters
of Radio Free Europe
For when
his wife refused
This is for when
working in the glass structure
of a Cold War
made spider and I
a measured room
an arc of doves
For when
the last step from the surface
was the end of a thin cord*
~
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 5:59 PM UTC
Monet, Manet, Morisot, and the tortured Vincent
a long century or more ago,
filled their palates with color,
their canvases with impressions of life, love and loss.
And we, the great masters of civilization,
have treasured these like newborn babes.
I wandered through the polished halls
of antiquities to see them—
some hidden even from the harsh light of day
to protect their precious prinking from decay.
I strained my eyes to see their soulful strokes
and wondered why artists carried such painful yokes
McMurtry’s ranch has no paintings
but sculptures from a vanished sea.
A quarter billion years it’s been,
and yet they’re here for all to see
Rocks carved by patient scratching time
and stock tanks covered with putrid slime.
No lilies float on pools of blue
and no guard carefully watches you
Their sentries are the desert rattlers
and the sun scorched prairie lands,
but these ancient masterpieces
are safe from filching hands.
When I kneel on hard rock soil,
I forget my daily useless toil
and dig in clean eternal dirt
with no canvases to belie the hurt
of gentle men who felt the call
to let their heart be seen by all
Monet, Manet, and Morisot
are now laid to rest, with their burdens set aside,
but their colors are a reminder
that beauty and suffering abide
McMurtry’s rocks no longer feel,
but who could say they are less real
than colors fading from the light
and lonely artists’ painful plight.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
The wind reminds me of her timeless touch
Memories of roads traveled with heavy heart
Always the pull from an unknown source
Calling me out to uncharted waters
As the familiar fades like a sun baked tear
My spirits take flight on a late summer charge
Bursting into the unknown as if a bull tired of antiquities
A new adventure whispers to me
Across the mighty Mississippi
I catch my breath, knowing this is kismet
All roads have led to this one road
This bridge to a new chapter
Full of the freedom of choice
The freeing notion of doing something
For sheer love
Finding passion growing out of cracks in walls
No moment unnoticed
The world is alive and wants to live!
As I want to live with it and embrace every atom
Every heartbeat tapping and pounding
Like a homeless drummer’s bucket in Pioneer’s Square
I’m everywhere
For a few fleeting seconds of time
Then back to this harp-shaped bridge
To meet new eyes, and hear stories from old souls
To create something collectively
Leaving our painted tattoos etched inside one another
And our mark on the wall of the world
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
the worst thing I’ve ever done
was letting the world
know that I write,
it’s not the 2am phone calls
asking if I’m okay,
it’s not the regret of
of relationships or
the running away,
it’s the look in my mothers
eyes when I write about dying,
it’s the regard to kin
when holding certain
emotions in,
forging positivity
and relaying
the antiquities
of struggle,
the minuscule
moments of will
drill into minds
painting all kinds
of doubtful abstracts,
creating spousal transacts
of how to fix their son,
it’s not the questions
about what I mean when I
say my skin spits goose flesh
or my eyes wrap yesterday
in spruce mesh that
eventually frays,
it’s the days where
I get kindred
phone calls
wondering if I’ll pick up
because of writing
the night before
stating that
I’m skating
on thin ice,
I dont want them to worry
I’ll be fine,
but for now it’s the pen
that has to unwind
the noose from
confining words
I refuse to say.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 1:23 AM UTC
I bleed in silence, in
Abandoned cathedrals,
Monasteries, and holy Shrines.
I have looked for you,
Begged the grand idols,
Visited crumbling walls
Of burnt out cities,
And antiquities -
All the places they told me
You had been.
My eyes see red
But I'm blue,
And there's a bruise
On my knee-
A blend of both.
My lips no longer move in prayers
My eyes have no tales to tell-
But my poems scream
And I live - on a middle ground
Between the two
-a whimper on nights,
A sad smile during days.
You're not coming for the rescue, are you?
I ache and long, now
More than I can love
But for what? Is it you?
I never could commit suicide,
But I killed myself, every moment,
nonetheless,
Till I heard the rhythm of that heavenly call
In your footsteps
And how you filled even the silences between us
With grace
And I was seen, and I could see
And I was loved with a love
That I could accept.
If our love had two colors,
It'd be red and blue
Like any God,
You came with your own set of rules.
Passionate red, that you brought
And the blues that I always carry
Red and blue icy veins -
With the same emotions flowing through.
But you were taken away too.
And now I'm neither red, nor blue
But despondent brown
The color of the dirt, the only thing
Separating me and you.
You're not coming back, are you?
I walk on,
I don't rest and I don't sleep.
How can there be a God if there's no justice?
And the moon is not blue with sadness;
Nor does it cry with me.
And the stars are just as oblivious and distant.
And the sun, well, it never bothered
to shine on any of us.
I see a world now, as it is,
Stripped of meaning
and all its metaphorical use.
If I could be colored,
I'd choose red and blue-
Burning bright
with a frigid determination.
To save the soul,
Sometimes you must
destroy its vessel
And when a world dies, its gods must die along.
None of you came, so I had to come to you.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC
The night is a creeper bent laden with brooding meditations and the mists of time:
Tonight, the moon is a distant jasmine bud; nascent fragrance waiting to pour into the world.
I've seen your work, magicienne, how you roll the stars out from your hat.
A wand wave, and the celestial chorus of chants and hymns pours out from the skies.
I've walked with you, on the old beaten steppe, pole star,
I've seen ships dock at ancient inlets of water
engorging in parched lands - they were reed boats before;
they were catamarans later, rafts and sailboats;
This is how we rose from the mollusc, seeking you in the stars;
When thunder strikes the lonely peak and rains wash our plains,
I've seen your footsteps, half-erased by the swelling riverbanks.
I was in your womb, and never afraid of the primordial waters. Yours, an umbilical love.
The clouds part for your evening sojourn through the western sky,
where the larks go forth spreading cheer.
I am the wood, the last refuge of all mysteries.
I am the clearing where a solitary home hangs in time.
I house all the antiquities.
I am the subtle space that hosts bubble worlds.
I am Hyperions.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
We have lived our lives on clotheslines
and antiquities; I carry my home
in the soles of your shoes:
home is where you are,
and happiness is where my arms
always find yours in the dark.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
The procession of the equinoxes
Antiquities dealer
The unspeakable beauty of the amethyst
Gods fingerprints
I don't know what I'm doing or where I'm going.......... But that's Okay. Is that what surrendering is?
Blending, learning, adapting, evolving, individuation in spite of universal oneness. Being less proud.
Happiness. Cinnamon. Cookie cutters from the domain. Keep your herb garden alive. I'm -
A fox. El zorro. Le renard.
Daily rituals,
Water w lemon
Apple
Green tea face splash
A history of happiness
Chickens. Color. Collage.
Yoga. Art. Cooking.
Lists. Recording foods.
Evelyn and Alice.
Vivid, lurid descriptions. High Gothic and almost steampunk. The weather. Things unspoken that leave huge impacts. Small tokens of love. Repressed emotions.
Hx of zodiac.
Constantly working for perfection
Inner outer
Nuts, lemon, lime
Keep fire of dreams alive
Read read write create read
Spells for finance and success
Altar space
You're alive
Preservation of breath
Realness if beauty, tranquility
Overcoming sorrow
Cyclical
<i>Les sorts</i> to make them mad, passionate...
Charms for living. Perfection. Attraction wealth abundance.
Clouds and sky and draping cloth, sandstone and quartz and onyx.
An incredible self confidence.
Don't waste a minute of you're life on unhappiness.
D.I.Y. smudge stick. Driftwood. Feathers. Gemstones.
Secrets of a style maniac. Blog. Hidden treasures.
Be my mercury, the wings on my feet.
Amidst the creaks of old trees and the fallen colored leaves.. I see half the future, gone, cherished and perished
The art of self love.
Devotion. Organization. Keep calm. Its ok to have secrets.
Stories and fables and illustrations to go along. Mix of collage, ink, pastel and watercolor
Refine your life like a black and white ink drawing, the fluttering of pen-lined pages like white feathers.
Floating on dreams, its fun to let your feet dangle into the blue warm water, be swept away into another world.
We try to avoid those moments in life. We plan ahead we keep our toes together and our hair ironed, but one can never totally abate the power of wanton embarrassment or other random outbursts...
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
It pleasures me
That she reads me
Inside her serenity
Parked on our bench of antiquities
I, whom gazes over there at her,
Later in the dusk of candlelight
Shall remove her pink dress
Tiss then
I shall see she derives her pleasures
As I read her
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
They never should have let me out of the box,
these harnesses are coddled in rust and will never do,
I nearly have an arm free now.
Tis the bloodlust,
the ever recurring,
I cauterize so sickly raptured and recoiled,
vile animal reveling beneath fang and flesh.
Tis the beast wrought beneath this parchment bearing,
what is left of mortal means
as the morals feast upon the limbs and lungs of one another.
Ever screaming,
my memories wrench and tear,
torn in ribbons splayed from lung to tissue.
My demon slaughters the remnants packed and hid way
in corner and shadow,
ideals and sockets of life scratch and rip
across the flesh of the air as their lungs flood so violently,
doused in creamy blood liquid.
I die so sullenly,
so intrepidly,
dripped in god’s sunlight beams,
bathed in crackling spine and broken butterfly wings.
I writhe not in brain fractured grenade shrapnel,
not felted amongst iron clad bomb shards,
I lie so serenely,
stomach basking in sun beam,
I bite and suckle upon such succulent fruits of flesh,
human meat and such soft hips of lustful imps,
so untouched and littered in my most precise of bite marks.
I stake claim to the everest of fiendish hues,
chains so kin to my sins,
mind so ravaged in demonish,
all thought is mother to acts so sickly in hellish cravings,
I seek no retribution for ideals so crimped and carved through my bones.
All is relative to one’s fiendish benevolences.
I take care to ratify my most ancient of antiquities,
the very blood line that so racks this mortal sense of the human reality.
This evil is ever bearing and eternal lasting,
nor it’s will softened.
Shackles crease and crinkle
so fondly with every sickly furnished breath.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 4:56 AM UTC
what a calamity i arise to befall
The step i climbed to miss
The ground that drunk of the water i swallowed.
Hissing and blazing, in a count of configuration
The bundles of antiquities flown by the naked ventures of tranquility
Here i bore the question with an empty head of lessonless mind
Look now that i smile nay i show non by the face
See to my lips and read yourself the smiles
Is it all yours
Or you beg for less the more i offer
Many as lame i be to walk, the blind and beauty of those i lead, the bright to line by my back the genuis stuck by my ways.
Aint no way through my heart is taken, hugged in a jar of Love to the hunter of my soul
I see not to venture go by the gone in the
I heal what is hurt in my hurt from the heart
******* the ugly beauty of an angered mind, sweeting gallons of hope to thee that seeks non but faith
Down my injuries i heal of you
To say bye i lie for i stay not to fear but of my choice to go far the worry to stay in one past the known one for joy
I cometh as i leap & leave as i leap, Leaping to stay and to leave the leaper but non for one
Now am there, to stay and to be this to me is further i go to stay her meekness am drawned her thickness am strive her boldness i lay her softness i am dragged
How do i and so can i not be not to run a race past the behind of my favorite front
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
Dead plains
Open air
My baby, my K,
Smells of lavender petals,
Defined despair.
A known
Vowel howls
Like she does at night.
Turning right she lights
All former antiquities
Prove wrongful due regularity.
A pressing matter topples
Next to the standing tower of rubble.
Grey stubble tumbles
Like hours out of the hands of a clock.
A kaleidoscope of horror
Makes the mind entrenched in narrow.
She tells me the name
Of a former lover of another
That pressed no buttons, rubbing
Everything
The wrong way.
We compare, we see a sea of troubles
Illuminating nothing but the past,
Never meant to be free.
Trees shallow swinging singing
Like scythes across the yard.
Burgundy yarn weaves through my heart,
Cold as you were today,
I got nothing else to say.
Pressing matter, dear dead hatter.
Craziness is a beauty
Only the Cleopatra's of the world
Have to truly suffer.
Cradle me naked, cradle me dreamed',
Ain't no love like the
Broken sick and broken hearted'.
At least the darkness
Harkens thee dead ghosts of
Former lives forgotten.
Grey gravestones smell like
Roses given my former lovers;
Each hour with her is
One that will never be forgotten.
Present pasts pass me in the
Mirror; these shop windows are all colored
Green.
Caretaker saint, apple apricot skate, a
Note for the doctor stating
All is forgiven, all is about.
I remember the dream,
Shallow and filled with steam.
Fine patent leather, stitches and cream.
She pressed her face to mine,
Like silk string woven into seams.
Nothing is the matter.
Nothing passes the time.
Dylan hurls the harpsichord,
Gripping the nails,
Repositioning the boards.
The ice was to thick to climb,
The snow to heavy to see through.
Where you see your life is
What you think you can do.
Books on fire.
Trains of heavy steam.
Life is nothing but
An unforgettable dream.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
Another pull of my beer,
another drag on my cigarette.
These are the things
most-worth thinking:
(so this is consumption,
inability to function)
long forgotten is my Alice,
is Laudie, even my Lynette.
There are numerous new reasons
for why I keep drinking.
(Who would ever make that presumption?
Could you prescribe such assumptions?)
Fall deeper and deeper,
like a boat on fire and sinking.
Combustible effervescence;
so easy to keep smoking.
So easy to keep burning yourself,
so easy to keep choking,
yet hard to forget the thoughts
that we've all been thinking.
(My money rapidly dying of consumption.
My thoughts now free from corruption.)
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
He is not only my past, what I see, seeminly
la dangerous eternity
when he speaks he speaks of all antiquities
religiously
He is here with me
I'm tearin' B
I want him to be my past present and future
but I can't seem to past my past
because it speeds up fast
takes me away with one clap
hypnotized in my mind
blinded by
the near by
motions and wavelength
that surround my cloud nine
is this divine?
to feel this pain but maintain
the strength gained
with every moment passing,
with every holding string
striving to achieve higher consciousness so i can free the mindful brain
get that NOS boost to lift me from being criminally insane
Clean
like Poland spring.
Time to tame
The fiercest Beauty in the land
The evil eye has come to tear her to shreds
but she can't let that happen again
Its a time for healing,
a time for growth
pruning this rose bush once again
because I'm committed, its my oath.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
We have a crisis
When the savages of ISIS
Blow up antiquities
And summarily lay siege
To Syria’s ancient ruins
Which is totally incongruent
With the Prophet’s example
Which is recorded and ample
It’s a travesty and a shame
What they do in Islam’s name
Because it’s not reflective of
The religion of peace and love
And the hatred that they fuel
Havin’ broken every rule
So it’s open to debate
If their end game is the caliphate
Al Baghdadi proselytizes
While his true mission he disguises
On the ground are lots of boots
That’s comprised of old and new recruits
As Syria and Iraq get hotter
They’re like lambs being led to slaughter
And many more nitwits he’ll find
Who tune into him on line
Soon they will discover
It’s not one thing it’s the other
And the women can’t escape
From the drudgery and ****
And the men overworked and underpaid
For the devil’s bargain that they made
See they’re all going straight to hell
In a handbasket can’t you tell
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2014. All rights reserved.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
barely a day or a year or a
timeline where i'd chart how far i'd fallen through,
the occasional witty remark. shut, up.
the hours don't matter in the face of a current you can't face
alone. anyway,
you can take my hand.
reliving the poems i’d write with these lips-
different from my mistakes
or your silk-spun kindness and
not a step placed wrong.
you told me it was early in the morning but you’d never looked more
beautiful.
a vignette of something incomplete, a forest
catching me out of breath and impossibly
in love with you.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
The old man lived in a cabin
At the end of the woods.
The logs are cracked and decayed,
They slant like branches would.
The door is ajar,
Leaving a dark cavity
To show me what’s inside
It will soon be no mystery.
Stepping in I hear the clock
Ticking like an unstopped heart.
I hear the loose papers ruffling restlessly
The papers with the blue-red ink clots.
The dusty typewriter assumes its position
On the shaking table edge,
The corners of the books are bent
Prostrate, on the window ledge.
A glass, stained with the ****** residue
Of stale, musky wine left on a chair
Reminds me of the chilling fate
That, to me, never really seemed fair.
This assemblage of antiquities
Stand here, as a memory, like a shrine
We all leave an indelible mark here
What marks will be mine?
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
Childhood toys now antiquities
Smile from the nightstand with
Shining eyes that glitter like hope
Before it has gone stale.
There was honesty in innocence, when
The mundane kept me content and
Restlessness sought no solace in
Tailored lies.
Fantastic epics were lived, not perceived and
Imagination was solid, not the
Amorphous, ambiguous pile of mud
It has become.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
you trace your finger
along my stomach
umbilicus to sternum
but that finger might as well
be a knife
allowing you to open me so you can
carefully pry apart my ribcage
with your demeaning hands
ive let you in
unwillingly
you're seeing parts of me
that God intended for us
to keep hidden from others
your eyes are opened
to what ive kept inside
the knots and
the butterflies and
the cracks and
the broken pieces of me
my ribs are shelves
collecting those knots
and butterflies and cracks
and broken pieces of me
displaying them like antiquities
each separated by empty space
that i prayed you'd fill
but all you do is
stare
unsatisfied
and when you're finished
you sew me back together
with lashes of shame and disgust
all i wanted was to please you
to see you show any type of empathy
or interest in who i really am
but you don't
why would you?
you taught me to truly hate myself
and guided me there with a book
hand written in cursive
illustrated and inspired by that
vicious tongue of yours
ive caged all of my demons
in hopes that ill be good enough
but i never am
i never will be
so i might as well set them free
and see what comes of it
and what comes of you and me
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC