"diabolical" poems
How deadly is the sight of the flying witch,
she's mighty and flawless, her name is Lynn
elegant and graceful in her broom she'll go,
All of her victims had that exact same thought.
She seizes you with kind words
and for your soul offers you gold.
With her, you enjoy flying,
for you trust you won't fall.
Once in her cave, she speaks with friendly words
she fills your belly and fabricates a loving home,
It's hard to see her as from the underworld
It's hard to see what's about to come.
Before you realize she attempts to take control,
eating the brains of whom you call your own.
She's yelling and screaming, how putrid is her soul.
The witch is evil, but no one cares of what you know.
Now down the stairs she complacently goes,
raises an eyebrow, it's diabolical, it's smug
she then smiles to her husband, a mere puppet of hers
Satan is that woman, the witch who yells.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
I don't desire to share my opinions with anyone
Too long, have they been bashed upon by peers or anonymous figures
"You should respect their opinion."
What hypocrites, even opinions could be wrong and hurt others
"For the sake of arguing."
It doesn't matter if they humiliate someone.
It doesn't matter if they turn others against them.
It doesn't matter if they were wrong as well
Even if you understand their perspective, they refuse to see yours
I long to be mute
I hate my own speaking voice
If all my words are unheard
"I can't express myself, this secretive awkward human."
If only they knew of the true cynical and diabolical thoughts locked away
Would anyone bother to accept and understand
Or would I be shunned
Isolated like I had been since so long ago
I don't mind singing
The rhythm and flow much better to the accented jumble words
However I'm merely a ghost that no one notice when they have stars to illuminate the room
"Ahhhh.. The jealousy and bitterness will consume me."
"Please see me."
"Please acknowledge me."
"Please talk to me."
"Please hear me."
*I'm fading away.*
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
The night has been commissioned
to awaken in me
the ubiquitous longing for your touch.
The mindlessness consumes me
when I wander from dream to dream,
fantasizing the ever after
that’ll mysteriously become present
once you touch.
The exuberant charm in every swipe
of the breeze broadens a smile,
reminding me of the endless passion
for good humor and intense delight
that you decree in large measures
whilst I quail in love.
It is diabolical, this game you play
of keeping in shadows
while I wither,
in the unremitting glare of the sun
that keeps me on the banks of the dark lake
leaving me with only
a few drops to wet my hand.
I will implore to have an end
to this ceaseless battle of restraint and abandon,
But am only left with a tremulous belief,
it is all not false what I see,
in the glorious mist that night casts,
I do not only sleep.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
Today, suddenly, I reached an absurd but unerring conclusion. In a moment of enlightenment, I realized that I'm nobody, absolutely nobody. When the lightning flashed, I saw that what I had thought to be a city was in fact a deserted plain and, in the same sinister light that revealed me to myself, there seemed to be no sky above it. I was robbed of any possibility of having existed before the world. If I was ever reincarnated, I must have done so without myself, without a self to reincarnate.
I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breathe life into me.
I'm always thinking, always feeling, but my thoughts lack all reason, my emotions all feeling. I'm falling through a trapdoor, through infinite, infinitous space, in a directionless, empty fall. My soul is a black maelstrom, a great madness spinning about a vacuum, the swirling of a vast ocean around a hole in the void, and in the waters, more like whirlwinds than waters, float images of all I ever saw or heard in the world: houses, faces, books, boxes, snatches of music and fragments of voices, all caught up in a sinister, bottomless whirlpool.
And I, I myself, am the centre that exists only because the geometry of the abyss demands it; I am the nothing around which all this spins, I exist so that it can spin, I am a centre that exists only because every circle has one. I, I myself, am the well in which the walls have fallen away to leave only viscous slime. I am the centre of everything surrounded by the great nothing.
And it is as if hell itself were laughing within me but, instead of the human touch of diabolical laughter, there's the mad croak of the dead universe, the circling cadaver of physical space, the end of all worlds drifting blackly in the wind, misshapen, anachronistic, without the God who created it, without God himself who spins in the dark of darks, impossible, unique, everything.
If only I could think! If only I could feel!
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Calling out for help with zero intention of being heard.
Inevitable change is a diabolical fear.
A life without such nonsense is what I’ve always preferred.
Deep pondering views inside peel back the layers of irrational fear.
A life without adversity is a life without growth.
Embracing change creates a blank canvas.
A dark void inside craving the vibrant colors of new experience.
A life without risk is a life dictated by fear.
Regret seeps in when change is avoided at all cost.
A life without change is a life not worth living.
Aug 21, 2022
Aug 21, 2022 at 2:47 PM UTC
Sharp breath
Carving out the carcass
Shaving away sanity
Cringing.
Shallow plunge
Into sinister sea of shards
Crinkling cracking
Cringing.
Cowering for invisibility
Hiding behind folds of
Crunched eyelids
Cringing.
Hollowed by fire
Raw red remnants
Crumbling, ashes ashes
Cringing.
Projected perfection
Diabolical demons dream
In absence
Cringing.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
I watched the water rise. Creeping down the muddy street. As if a divine force was attempting a stealthy act of insurrection. I didn't have the heart to fight it. Had I only known.
I watched Hell's Half Acre silently succumb to the whimsical (however so pleasantly devastating) path of Gaea. Through this empowering incident I felt redemption like I never had before.
I jumped down from the platform of the livestock pen to personally welcome the satisfying force of nature's purification. The water lashed out and grabbed my leg. At that moment my jubilate spirit spoiled to uncontaminated terror. It was not a redemptive Spirit winding its way through the rail tracks but the serpent Lucifer. Had I only known.
And so in the West Bottoms Tavern I found myself under the ***** shoe of The Machine. A wayward phantom rising from our precarious Kansas River. It drifts through the sweet Midwest like the coal black locomotive smoke that paints a suffocating thick haze above the Stockyards.
A welcome slate of provision. A shelter covering us from the racial tension and poverty smothering the outside world. To those in the Bottoms with unruly desires, a saviour. To those at City Hall with loose morals, the messiah.
And it was at 1908, I nervously pulled the covers over my vulnerable body and sealed Satan's foul kiss with a diabolical red scrawl. We skipped hand in hand through the freshly paved streets of our "wide open" town. I always tried my best to look the other way but I knew full well that I travelled with a gang of thieves.
Nonetheless, everyone votes in our town. A brutal party whip keeps the Jackson County Democrats in line and "Charlie the *** prevents any Rabbits from multiplying.
But I've been working from within the belly of a "whale" for years and I fear we've now run out of ocean. Our arranged marriage has robbed my capacity for faithful navigation. I'm seeking a radical divorce from The Beast, the cost has become inconsequential to me.
So I found genuine redemption. Finally. I closed the driver side door to my sedan and walked out to the edge of the bridge. The water below seemed whimsical (and so pleasantly devastating) in nature, much the same as it had 36 years ago. I pinned this note to the window, and with a Ready-Mixed Concrete block tied around my waist I watched the water rise.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
#
*River running..
That rushing sound in these parts
spell out the words, crystal-clear..
Tree-lined banks, giving way
to the Dark Hills, upslope
Giving way, to
granite-rocked outcroppings
giving way to elk-hidden quakeys
Surrendering their holy-huddle's
pristine stances
to tall prairie-grass, waving
wild raspberries and tall pines
And I, myself..
am surrendering also
She is watching the water, believing
That as it flows,
she will not lose herself in it
That it will not steal, but heal
That I will not rage again
within my fear
I am watching her,
watch the water
I am watching the water-- believing
That as I give of myself
further into the flow
that I will not become diffused
by humanity
By the love of man
and all of its dishonesty
and all of its diabolical treachery
Of its lack of concern,
or understanding
Or ability to break through
its own, self-centeredness
Or its need to swallow me up
into the mundane.
Her hands are in the air now,
praising..
Worshipping
the true nature of the flow,
Believing..
that I will let all of this, go
And as she wades in
I ease, back--
Retreating
up the Dark Hills, slope
Clutching tightly..
To granite-rocked outcroppings,
weeping.
Hiding in the quakeys,
among the majestic elk
Begging for the tallgrass, cover
among the wild raspberries.
Now, fully concealed
in tall pines.
Her hands
are stretched out, now..
as if hovering over the waters,
participating
While I hide from it all
While I hide, from humanity;
From the fallen, love of man
She is wading in,
Believing
.
As I am leaving;
Believing
As the cloud-hidden sky,
starts raining--
playing the most incredible, of tunes.*
#
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 8:01 PM UTC
Surrealism gone Awry
Watch, I open my skull on pneumatic hinges,you must have a hungry compulsion to peer inside and see the steamy tomato soup.
There is a certain blasphemy in believing.
See the dictator swill Avalanche in his mouth.
By decree the narcotics language
of surrealism states, that in the hierarchy of apples
Those closest to the sun murmur the sweetest, and in dreams the diabolical devil is obliged to meet you, but a committee of angels will arrive with Uzis loaded with enthusiasm... In time!
Surrealism is the proprietor
Of flowers fervently whirling like dervishes until... It is a place where I narrate lovers melting like pennies at the sight of each other, where home appliances long for your touch.
My fetish is my imagination, wild, wild imagination extravagant as your birth child,
Gaudy and beautiful like a coach built Cadillac by Saoutchick.
Where everything utter is true.
Welcome wide eyed wonder
To my simple things,
Fuel injected heart
Needle and thread
Enameled soul made from a French mind
Small animal pelts and bones for superstition
German precision
With the eye of a Xerox machine.
So one emphatically dream
Emphatically live
Emphatically believe everything uttered is true.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
The dream haunts me
often, far too often, building
in intensity but is initially
disguised in absurdity and the
nonsense of a young man's lusts
with an old man's deficits.
This woman-like entity,
ill-defined at first but forming
voluptuously, emerges from
swelling curtains. She moves, more
levitates, toward my bed, buoyed
by what I don't know, but angelic-like
it would seem. Or perhaps
an Aphrodite reincarnate?
Oh this goddess, what pale
skin, as Parian marble, full bosomed,
jutting ******* ***** that
beckon, nearly drool, and pursed
red lips beaded with sweet
juice stolen from the wild cherry
tree beneath my window.
Far too much clarity for a simple
dream. But such a dream! And what
seething testosterone I feel!
I am become a hedonist, raging,
pulsing spermatozoa, renewed
of time and youthful energies.
Nerve into nerve we join, ecstacy
compounding ecstacy, bodies wantonly
impaling the other on this love bed
to the result that each cell of our
individualities melds. We are indistinct,
yes - as one, and any ****** impulse
between us is shared to the point of
utter exhaustion, depletion. I am
nearly drained of life, it would seem.
Then, as it always must,
the scene changes, Act II.
Inexplicably, shedding a ******
serpentine-like skin, she slings it away
and drops limply upon me - entirely
skeletal, dry cartilage, sinew, lifeless,
sexless, motionless. The horror
of a diabolical hollowness
stares through me, and I am
suspended, fully terrorized, in
this paralysis. So, this is
succumbing to the Succubus?
God, my dear God, that I should
never dream again!
--
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
#
Don't be fooled
By the smile that seems graced by the sun
The aurora around her glow with radiance and flare
Behind it she hides lies that will send you on the run
She's cunning, malevolent and bitter
She will not be outdone
Don't be fooled
She's warm and kind
Loving and affectionate
She walks on broken glass
Till her feet begin to bleed
She'll hold back the tears as the pain kicks in
But look within her eyes and they are as deadly as sin
Don't be fooled
She plays games with your mind
What's the truth? What's the lie?
Nobody knows the reality
As she is especially sly
Is she putting on an act
Await those to fall in
Or she simple alone
Faking that diabolical grin
Don't be fooled
Her reality is different from you and I
Mind a scatter, broke pieces they lay
Destroyed by self or others
We'll never know
As this place is secured away
Like the land underneath the snow
Don't be fooled
Warm hands and cold hearts
Wreak havoc together
Destined to heal others while tearing them apart
love her, hate her and everything inbetween
She will find your stitching and undo each and every seam
Don't be fooled
Each line holds some truths and fair few lies
But the talent of distinguish which is which
I've seen many people who have tried
The truth is that not even she knows herself
So how is it possible for anybody else to know her true self
Don't be fooled
I can hear her voice quietly
whispers falling to deaf ears
You are a fool
but there is nobody here
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 2:49 AM UTC
Watch out, or you will find that you're
On President Trump's Enemies List,
For democratic values and Donald
Trump cannot coexist.
Former CIA Director
John Brennan, now has learned
That when it comes to silencing critics,
Trump will leave no stone unturned.
After hearing Brennan's critical
Words, the angry Trump was stewing.
Bam! He revoked Brennan's security
Clearance despite no wrongdoing.
The crazed, vindictive leader called
John Brennan's behavior "erratic."
Muzzling the freedom of speech, Trump's
Becoming more autocratic.
The office of the presidency
Has never, ever been sullied so.
This vicious attack on our First Amendment
Rights is a terrible blow.
Trump accused Brennan of making
"Baseless charges." Real translation:
Brennan didn't hail Trump
With sycophantic adoration.
On Trump's list are others who
Might lose clearances as well.
Here his lack of integrity
And pettiness have no parallel.
Another motive for Trump's action
Is more diabolical yet:
He wants to strip the power away
From all people who might be a threat
Because of their connection to
The Russia probe. That makes sense.
As more dots are being connected,
The situation is growing tense.
While servile Republicans in Congress
Defend their despotic president,
Let Brennan's powerful words
Resound: "I will not relent."
-by Bob B (8-16-18)
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
some say im cynical
satanical
that my minds mechanical
diabolical
spoken essence erotical
detestable
jaded imagery hypnotical
unstoppable
liable to solve the unsolvable
while prodigal poets drown in their nautical modules
im a criminal
a cannibal
storming the street like an animal
shooting cannonballs
through prison walls
splattering the generals
in bathroom stalls
hostil
leave you poppin pain pills in the hospital
uncontrollable
my temper is flammable
mumbles illegible
choking you with your pentacle
leaving onlookers speckled
the abominable
mental protocols unstoppable
the unfeasible constable
shooting up the card table
willing and able
to call your fables
and smash apart a label
i raise babies in unstable cradles
let you bleed out
like cracked ladles
engorged in unholy wars
exploring
the corruption of the core
deplored
uniformed for
the clash of the double edge swords
taking control of vocal chords
a meet of the hordes
of the horned
misinformed
adorned
in sunlight
trying to shine
just 1 line
at a time
until my life signs decline
almost time
light and shadow combined
Horus and set
by hindsight blessed
yet to contest
to the rest of this mess
by melancholy caressed
as i arise unrest
from the cess
of the un confessed
blessed
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
War of the worlds,
men bartering money
Dollar bills left abandoned,
blown to smithereens
Battling dusts of torment,
acceptance of surrender
Waging a money war,
business men flee
In the shadows rises,
a fallen angel
Akin to a phoenix,
from the ashes
She symbolizes a renewal,
dying in fires
Sparks burning a nest,
immortality supplying coffins
Diabolical legacies of past,
bow & arrow
Punctured wounding broken heart,
wings disallow flight
Stumbling a splintered hip,
reborn a chance
Of independent determined autonomy,
la Cuesta Encantada
Fallen at the gates,
an enchanted hill
San Simeon seeking redemption,
death awaits her
Carrying body & soul,
Santa María Maggiore
Of Roman baroque temples,
small cascading pools
Death releases her body,
the Neptune pool
She floats without dissension,
sinking in grace
In all her glory,
Hearst Castle will
Entomb body & soul,
memories of her
release release release
Absolution.
© Sia Jane
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
The thoughts stay awake in my mind
bullied all my life even when I was kind
Struggling, yearning for my weight to go back down,
to where it was when I didn’t frown
Constant reminders of myself
Shopping windows, mirrors and family,
they even put me in therapy
“Brush it off” they all say
talking,screaming,shouting so abruptly
The voices so loud I can’t even distinguish my own laugh
it doesn’t leave
I want it to cast me away
Take me to an unknown island
Forget about me, leave me with the grass
my “flabby arms” and “visible stomach” are my worst enemy,
worse than the seven trench built army
The bullying soldiers both inside and out
They must be right?
I do not doubt
Somebody help me
Tell me I’m right
Young girls find value in appearance
This diabolical and alluded kite
This will **** many like me,
who’ve suffered enough and cannot breathe
So please teach them to be smart
you can do more with a brain than you can a face
but in this age, it is a race
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 9:58 AM UTC
I want to write a bad poem
A cringe worthy, generic, forgettable poem
Maybe something along the lines of...
...your bruised arms around me
left a hole where my heart should have been....
That was a good first attempt at bad, I reckon.
I shall litter said poem with words I found in a thesaurus,
(iridescent, luminous, diabolical, sacrilegious, egregious etc.)
and elements of nature,
(infinite blue skies, bubbling starfish pond, burnt autumn leaves)
and vague ****** references,
(satin bedsheets, steamy phone booths, glistening skin)
and unremarkable idiosyncrasies of past lovers
(you always filled your pockets with loose change;
you always peeled the apple bottom-up;
you always blahd the blooh blah with your blah-like personality)
and lastly,
but most importantly,
the stray allusions to a life of tortuous heartache and unfulfilled dreams.
Zzzzzzzzzzz
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 5:18 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
As the Protagonist expects
*** as a pretext
Baffles intellects
In an election context
So it’s no mystery
That he does this ya see
When ancient history
Can be so blistery
Given the nomenclature
Of its prurient nature
Clearly I would hate to
Be forced to debate you
But the Protagonist
Has long been doing this
Although he gets me ******
He doesn’t feel remiss
As long as he’s untoward
He won’t fall on his sword
And you can rest assured
That the past won’t be ignored
In any given broadcast
He can be put on blast
Because if one chose to ask
They'd learn about his past
Right down to his hair follicle
The man is diabolical
And also quite methodical
What I’m saying is he’s horrible
Like excrement stuck on a shoe
He’s nasty and it’s also true
Like a bowl of witches brew
He’s impossible to misconstrue
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
the orphanage's walls
tell a story grim
what went on inside of them
so disturbing
up to twenty children kept in one room
crammed in so tight
together they huddled
both by day and by night
the children's elfin frames
deprived of proper nourishing food
their eyes had within them
little of love's light
they cried incessantly
a cry which implored
someone to deliver them from
the wall's fright
stale ***** and excrement pervaded the air
the odor hovered in their despair
the institutes cleanliness
lacking of hygiene
not much was kept
too well cleaned
these children
shall be impaired for life
for they were caged in a warehouse
of diabolical neglect
by the Romanian authorities
as you tuck your children into bed
tonight
give a thought
for a child devoid
of benevolent sunlight
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
her silent monologue inside the cage of her mind
leaves fleeting expressions catapulting across her vacant face
like a strange circus act
the pasty face clowns in silent repetition
weakly grin as they grind through the dance
the lovely high wire girls seeking the perfect tuck and roll
her expressions move through this deranged carnival
of the mad again and again
never releasing its warped players to
the solace of privacy's ease
over and over they dance and roll
her lips stumble through misbegotten phrases
ten word haiku's written by the voices in her mind
written in lipstick on the mirrors of gas station restrooms
and truck stop shower stalls
haiku's of loves desperado warring against loneliness
the heart dose not actually make a sound when it breaks
her hearts deeper waters
like tidal pools in moonlight
the surface reflects the beautiful sky above
but in its cool depths other things live
some have no name
her silent monologue slows and fades away
the exhausted clowns of her madness laughter crawling
to lay their pasty white faces in reflection of sleep
the high wire girls to dressing rooms where they moan
for long departed heroic villains
who were last seen folding up diabolical schemes
and her silverware and making for the sun coast
where you can find them on beaches of paradise
sipping cool water under a neon moon
she slips into slumber
and dreams sweetly of all these players
in her silent minds story
she loves her madness
as she loves the rain
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
I am a poet because of you.
It's the way your being
delivered a tidal wave of
poetic awakening to my
once dull veins.
Your lips watered
the flowers in my tongue
that were once called prose
but now they developed into poems.
Your fingers latched
perfectly into mine and
your nerves reacted to my nerves so right
and in that moment I knew our hands were designed for each other.
And although
your tongue left my tongue
and your hand left my hand,
the diabolical mixture of your blissful and painful memories
kept the flowers in my tongue alive.
Soon enough, the flowers
crawled through my arms and hands,
begging me to write
the poetry that they bring.
You will never read this
but I forever thank you,
for I will always be a poet
because of you.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
By: David W. Clare
I sorta knew better but became intrigued at the notion...
It all began with one lonely emotion!
Like a poisoned love potion...
Out of the blue she sent money to the front desk of my flop house hotel deep in the city!
More came later along with promises and lies...
The bellman was asking way too many questions...
I told him it was from an old debt. I bet he saw right through that alibi. He acted shy then the word got out I was a creep, I'm no little Bo Peep!
She and I made plans to meet I was convinced by her intense sense of essence...
She sent **** pictures in the mail, the front desk had opened to inspect!
I suspect an indirect suspicion, the coat-check girl even ran through my pockets stole my coins and matches.
Tough little ***** likes to rant, wants to flaunt her wants my way, asked me to pay for a roll in the hay after she got off work one day...
Then the diabolical debutante went away...
(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC
I left the home of the meadowlark
For a land found more oft' in my dreams.
A more noble land than my native park,
With its rubble of meaningless schemes.
And the song that the meadowlark sang to me
In my heart will forevermore burn.
I can only say that it seemed to be,
"Once you've gone you can never return."
So I set my course for the highest mount
On a path where few have tread,
To the great unknown where the masters roam,
Through the valley of the dead.
Neither bard nor sage ever wrote a page
Of diabolical lore
That could ever compare to the evil found there,
Past the gates to the valley of horror.
Men had left their bones as stepping stones
Which glowed with a phosphorus light.
They lighted the way for my feet of clay
As I stumbled through the night.
But I sank in the mire of my own desire
While I groped along in the dark.
And I thought I would die to the mocking cry
Of that dreadful meadowlark.
Then the helping hand of a dying man
Reached to pull me back on the way.
And I rested there in the August air
Where I longed for the light of day.
And I sang a song as I traveled on
In the light of a new day's sun.
'Twas a song of hope I could reach the slope
Where great battles had been won.
When I reached the glen at the mountains end
Then I knew my journey was done.
I took pleasures there and with utmost care
I sought for a course back home.
And now I knew that the bird sang true;
I had aged in the course of time.
And the past I had scorned; now I deeply mourned
And with sadness learned his rhyme.
Although your road runs true, you can never undo
A life born of your own desire.
Nor, ever return from a destiny earned
By deeds lit from the souls own fire.
And the song that the meadowlark sang to me
In my heart still continues to burn.
I can only say that it seemed to be
"Once you've gone you can never return."
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC
"my soul to keep"
this prayer
elegant, simple complexity,
comes me haunting,
every evening,
this notion,
a faint ghosting,
repeatedly reappearing
and nightly leaving,
disappointed,
from between my crumpled, sweaty bedsheets,
departing with a demanding unsatisfied, incessant,
coated with a diabolical, unfeigned challenge -
write of me,
relentlessly commanding,
right me
only,
no notions,
come realized,
no poem body, resolved solutions,
are easy offered up
your inner voices,
fettered and deterred,
begging you,
screaming,
this one,
defer, defer,
for better days,
for better poets,
who require
no assembly instructions
cannot improve upon it
my distress, sensed;
the lady of the house,
over the shoulder peering,
sees the moody poem title that
has self-selected to core this poet's core,
for endless torture,
raining down ruinous lamentation
she, ever softly spoken
*"good man,
your soul,
your poems -
both mine to take
and
mine to keep
this title,
this poetic obligation
fulfillingly, fittingly,
my responsibility
mine to write
mine to keep
mine to right
mine to mine
for its
bejeweled contemplations
render easily unto me
what I have Caesarean seized,
pried lovingly and forcibly
from thee within
though seemingly rightfully thine,
title has passed,
legally, tenderly,
into your lover's arms
banish poet thine troubled assembled,
ensemble senses,
this particular poem's journey
and the soul that bears it,
released and relieved,
for now,
mine to take,
mine to keep,
and
thy soul,
in mine to dwell,
and
mine to complete"*
~
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC