"differs" poems
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at ****** are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to **** you
to **** anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art
180k
you make a wish
upon a star
but little do you know
another being, far away
is wishing on it too
perhaps there is
the slightest chance
both wish for one same thing
like ending hunger, poverty
lack of education
or economic stability
but each of us
will take the time
wishing for our own
all i know is human nature
differs prayer from a wish
when we pray, we ask that god
bless all that is amiss
but when we wish upon a star
all thought for others leave
we wish only for ourselves
its what we've come to be.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
the angel amongst us
~for Alexander, master splasher~
*flexibility is important when poetry writing in a warm tub and a long day ahead is scheduled; so willingly accept the autocorrect
for I am both an experienced poet and bath soaker and
believer in wondrous mystery and unexpected fumbles
that lead to to miracle touchdowns
~•~
the two mathematicians examine the angle, measure the degree of difference at intersection and bless it with an identity,
calling it by its name,
perhaps obtuse, perhaps right, perhaps both
two sets of eyes examine the angle,
study its ****** expression
the old man says:
see the angle on the clock formed by the big handle on the twelve and the little hand on the eight?
this is angle of eight o’clock:
time to stop the splashing and start the get-readying
for we have miles to go before the ocean can say hello!
little angel says angle no go
and slashes the water with both
hands to establish the firmness of his views
and change Einstein’s time from present to future
the angle depends on the perspective of the viewer
the old poet comprehends leaving a warm tub is a regretful thing
but he measures the degree of difference at this
intersection
of time and bath and blesses it with an identity
“time to go”
the angle of my angel is now 2 pointed arms, pointed straight up,
at the twelve o'clock,
as he stands up in fevered protest,
my arms sweep his little legs to
a point at eight o’clock,
angel, commenting on his swift flight
disputes the grandfathers physics
"no go now,
now go later^"
though the angle is unchanged
the perspective of time and space
(and traffic),
yet differs
one sees an angle,
the angel sees time
eternally folding in on itself*
that is the angle amongst us
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
the double-glaze and blackout curtains shield me
from the world's uncertainty.
the panes of glass so sure not to allow its overside to retreat and
seep its liquid coldness to reach me. it's neither
cold nor warm at the touch, unlike me.
i am protected by the double gaze and blackout curtains but
some force that differs from the one that is currently causing
the tree outside sway dangerously close to my perch is
causing my mind and body to be insulated
by a layer of ice.
goosebumps prickle and my arm and leg stubble
raise themselves.
but my mind does not provide for itself thermoregulatory
reflexes, i
must withstand the shiver of my memories.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
What I'm imagining isn't considered pretty
You don't want to know where you're sitting
What I'm imagining isn't considered pleasant
We're inappropriately using a pheasant
What I'm imagining doesn't go with God
And is laughed at because it's odd
Into my life they peer
Trying to insert fear
My owl head on a swivel
My rabbit ears perked
When people don't act civil
And decency is shirked
I needed answers
For my cancer
I find them in love and pain
They both seem the same
I begin to view the rain
As a type of gain
Everyone knows love's scorn
Which leaves me torn
I can't help but feel my situation differs
Something about the rejection seems stiffer
So I become a shapeshifter
To avoid the hate gifters
To avoid bearing the shame
Of being called names
I know other people have it worse
Sometimes that feels like a curse
I can't gauge the importance of major events
In my life
I don't know whether to think they're intense
Or just right
Maybe I'm just being dramatic
But these instances aren't sporadic
When those that I love
Push and shove
I start to wonder if I'm broken or stained
Until I realize we're all burnt by love's flames
We all have a path to travel
And they're all made of gravel
Our feet become sore
Which affects our core
We find people below us on the totem pole
To know how it feels to treat someone cold
For when our enthusiasm for love has faded
It's easy to become jaded
There are things we're ashamed of
That morph us into something unrecognizable
In which we should be truly ashamed
In the mirror we look the same
But our actions are toxic
We become radioactive
We see where our stock sits
And become merely reactive
And it's hard to find grace
After being punched in the face
But one must remember punches come in all forms
And we must not punch back to survive the storm
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
…*in every visible character man differs less from the higher apes,
than these do from the lower members of the same order of Primates*.
Charles Darwin, 1871
The Other claims descent from apes
then acts like a violent monkey.
It pillages, it loots and rapes
performing as Satan’s flunkey.
Its actions bear the mark of Cain;
brandishing cameras, smashing things.
We feel its proto-human pain
yet dread the urban woe it brings.
It tries to justify, with words
its primal carnage, childish rage.
With anthropoid designs deferred
it struts the Darwinian stage.
The higher primate government
rewards them well in ripe bananas
for wrecking their environment
(jungle as well as savannas).
Their mate selection (naturally):
a semi-simian solution:
intercoursing sexually,
to hasten their evolution.
The wombs enlarge—they drop their young
then text their friends while getting high.
They swing from tree-tops, fling their dung,
while down below the humans sigh.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo
<>
I, too:
- am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight
I too,
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor, quite similar
- my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
noting, it lives my artifice,
with in & with out
Then, we are a We:
- my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,
- Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”
This duality:
- where the haunting of words providential,
emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out
She, Poetry:
- leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of
externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which
when Poetry’s birthing:
- chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth*
*you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you*
*“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*
just another unfinished work in progress
periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed
and you say to no one and to everyone:
this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
i hope every door that closes on you another one opens,
another opportunity shows,
another chance,
something to hold on,
something better that won't ever close.
i hope the white walls and ceilings you see,
are as clean as your intentions,
those dirts are just imperfections,
that makes up you
you deserve everything you gave away,
you deserve a love that shines everyday, and shows rainbows after the rain.
you deserve the best.
you don't have to be like them,
you don't have to walk, talk or dress like them,
be your own person,
be the one who differs from everyone, that wants to be like any other person.
most girls, are smart and strong and beautiful,
so are you,
the only thing that makes you ugly is the fact that you don't want to embrace you difference.
you are beautiful,
maybe not in the looks but what's important is in the soul.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
Time travel to Dallas days. We were sitting in your Acura Legend. Your face veiled, my eyes watery from the smoke, I know I hate tobacco now.
"Tom, teach me how to write poems, like yours."
"Okay but tell me first, Katie.
What are you running away from?"
We were close to home,
just sound without meaning,
a kid’s drawing on the refrigerator.
So the answer never differs:
I’m not running away, I’m running towards.
I don't remember, do you,
when poetry turned into dictionaries of devotion.
It was the language of tenderness you taught me,
my extinct mother tongue.
To love the ordinary was suddenly easy.
Those memories
the warmth of you
make it hard to imagine
that you are buried
somewhere in Iowa.
Here, read my dictionaries now:
page after page,
in hundred variations:
„Please come back to me“
and
„I will always long to bargain your soul for mine.“
That little toy airplane, the one you gave me
when we were kids,
still stands on my nightstand.
This time it is my turn to teach,
teach you about the cruelty of freedom.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
Such confidence,
To stand as you
Repeling all the cursing
Enduring all the negatives
To be you,
To be different,
Not afraid of the monochrome communities,
Giving opinion that differs from others,
To not bow to the majority,
Just be you.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 1:07 PM UTC
Embrace differs from suffocation
as love differs from hate
in the sense that
your passion of Christ
swings one way
but your compass rose
blooms in both yards
I’d never plant flowers by you.
Comparisons of beauty
pul-chrit-ud-i-n-ous
soil the soil
mark the territory
dog **** couldn’t save you
Bound by situation
a sad plight
out of my hands
not large enough to
cup a sufficient sip
water from the well
I couldn’t fall down
I’ll break the mug
shattered until shards
replace the linoleum floor
walking on eggshells
has never been so easy
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Who is the one, that always greets you,
Happy and friendly, in humans so few .
His anatomy differs, from humans for sure,
Yell and scream, he'll come back for more.
Big or small, it matters not,
Panting its tongue, means he's hot.
Tail wagging fiercely, true to his mood,
Loyal and trustworthy, and often times lewd.
He scratches and licks, whenever he please,
These may be signs, of infestation with fleas.
Have you guessed yet, of the species I speak?
A canine of coarse, some scary some meek!
A wolf its thought his ancestors be,
Domestic now, his spirit still free.
Just watch him run and tear out the door,
The outdoors ingrained, they always need more.
Time in the wild, to sniff and run free,
They know the location, of every tree.
Be smart or dumb, it matters not,
Unconditional loyalty is what you've got..
Rich or poor, your dog doesn't care,
Short or tall or what you wear.
They give you love, asking little in return,
Just food and drink, you may treat them stern.
And still a dogs master, is forever his chum,
Even if the master, to his dog is a ***
We humans with all are gadgets and IQ,
Can't match the canine's ability to be true.
Let's take a lesson, from mans best friend,
Love and loyalty to others, is the message to send.
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 9:24 AM UTC
You're a tornado-
You spin madly around and sometimes carry things off with you. People and objects fall into your vortex and spin around madly with you.
You spin yourself dizzy, to the point where standing still sometimes isn't possible because you might have forgotten how.
You hit the earth below you and blaze a trail ahead, leaving your mark wherever you go.
You rustle leaves 100 miles away and send some flying just as far.
Sometimes you feel like a tornado-
You jumble things up and feel like when things hit your path, you run through them and scatter them around.
You spin so fast that no one can slow you down, that you're always spinning on your own and finding someone that could adjust to your spin is one in a million.
You never stop spinning because that how your mind works; it spins day and night, endlessly. You're always spinning new scenarios and thoughts in your turbulent mind.
You feel like you may destroy people you run through, and sometimes they try to tell you to spin a different way or cease to spin at all, and that hurts. They don't understand that if you don't stop spinning, you may just cease to be who you are all together.
When I say you are a tornado, I mean well-
Not everyone looks at a tornado and sees what I see.
People see chaos, destruction, instability.
Sometimes I know you see that in yourself.
Sometimes I see it in you too.
But as a tornado, you have what others don't-
Someday, someone will step into your storm and be your calm.
They won't be afraid of who you are, like you are sometimes of yourself.
They'll see what the luckiest people in your life see in your storm;
Absolute beauty, uniqueness, individuality, empathy.
Not everyone can see the beauty in a storm-
It takes a special eye, and a special kind of person to love you.
Not because you're undeserving, but because you're different than the rest.
You're one of a kind, that's why no storm has the same name.
It's why no storm hits the same ground. Every storm differs, but there are only so many.
So when I say you're a tornado, this is what I imply-
You're scary to some people you're powerful and provoking and interesting.
You will sweep someone away someday.
Someone will look at you like you're the best thing to have hit his life, literally.
Someday, a man will be able to see the beauty in your storm and spin with you, always by your side.
You're a tornado-
You're one hell of a sight,
Unmistakably one of a kind,
Wild, crazy, enticing and beautiful all in your own,
With a storm inside of you that someone is going to find someday, and that person will be dizzy with how different you are, and will ultimately get swept away by you.
I promise.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
I am a girl that calls herself a planet.
I do this because I look around and I see that I don't belong. I first thought it was the world that was different, but as I grow older I see that it is I that differs. The things I like are deemed weird. I speak with blunt force and honesty- but in this society that is looked down upon. I am not what beautiful is defined to be. In fact, I'm the exact opposite. So, I choose not to be seen.
Yet, I want to be wanted. Though being wanted is unattainable for a planet like me. I have a house, but not a home. I have parents and siblings, but not a family. I have people to talk to, but not friends. I am alone. It's not that I feel too small for this world, it is that I feel too big. I'm not good around people. So, I must be alone for the better of society. And I'm afraid, that I will be alone for the rest of my life.
That is the burden of being a planet; remaining untouchable.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
People communicate too much.
Their arms, their feet, their eyes, their hands.
Each one tells a story.
Each one differs, interfering and weighing the air down.
Then the mouth opens and words fly out,
A whirlwind of ideas, opinions, tumbling, spinning, whipping out.
So much noise.
A message here, a message there.
The noise is blinding.
Outside the garden is buzzing.
Not the droning buzz of conversation,
But the peaceful hum and sigh of nature.
The leaves wave as you walk.
Flower petals whisper to you, succinct words that don't rattle.
Ladybirds, bumblebees, humming birds hurtle and whisk around,
And best of all, the garden listens.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:32 AM UTC
You told me that you
And you never
I will never forget when you said
Because for that one moment suspended in time
To me you were
But then I realized
And it hurt
Because you told me
You called me
And I believed you
My mistake
Finish each Incomplete sentence the way your emotions lead you. Please comment with the version of this poem with the phrases completed, unique to you. I really want to see how it differs between different people.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
Why are people called strangers?
They're just humans too.
They have eyes and noses.
They do what they do.
We make connections to people.
We just don't know it.
Looking at them straight in the eyes.
Creepy, you can call it.
But then we take another look at them.
And somehow try to send a smile.
The he or she smiles back.
You know you felt happy for a while.
So how could you say we are strangers?
If nothing with us differs?
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
Fog Happens
Yup. Not profound, even Jung, Kant and Freud,
wouldn’t deny their eyes, would no doubt disagree
with symbolic, philosophical implications, and the
head banging ramifications for the immediacy of
the spiritual impact while driving in this grey ****
Fog differs every time, and on an island, that’s for
**** sure. Today’s incarnation, the fog comes over
the water, but respects the man-made, timbered,
bulkhead, so the yard, with its circus of ravens, crows,
and other invisible birds, insects, rabbits, is visible,
but absent the inhabitants who are smarter-than-humans,
they remain aboded thinking, only stupid humans believe
they can navigate and forage, in a fog penetrating in air
that is 97% humidity and 100% peas soup thick skinned.
The time? Of course.
It’s 7:36 AM on the East Coast, and beyond the lawn lies a brackish bay that will lead you to the Atlantic and north to the Titanic, direction Newfoundland. Not enough info to geo tag me, but those who know me, knowledgeable in my early mornings scribblings, know my whereabouts, my telephone number. Do you?
Fog Happens to everyone and at random intervals, Nope. Not thinking of the brain clouds of ordinary Lethologica and Lethonomia. (Sunday lazy so just look it up and say out loud, gotta remember them words and laugh out loud cause you ain’t gotta a prayer.)
Fog Happens
in the heart, spreading north to the consciousness, and the lethargy of movement impeded by the lighthouse bells tolling “danger is about,” our light stolen, but you need to know, you’re perilously close to danger. Any action taken when heart-fogged can have awful consequences so stick close to bed, yank out your tablet, write a poem, listen to sad love songs on that Pandora Station, or send GIPHYs and emojis to your six year old granddaughter who is 108 miles to the west of where you both hide beneath coverlets, and laugh out loud with her like the bells chiming outside, and that helps move that heart~fog hanging low, out to sea.
YUP.
Fog Happens
Fog Passes
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 8:00 AM UTC
There is nothing insignificant in walking past someone.
A whole universe just strolled by,
their anxiety caused by that test coming up,
their worldview that differs from yours,
their moments of joy
pure adrenaline
depression
monotony,
their troubles that may trump yours
their Aunt with that terminal disease
or the Dad that's never home,
their mental to-do lists that grow and grow and grow,
their images of reading on that comfy chair,
their time spent by the bonfire,
and their favorite quote that's always in their head.
But we just keep walking despite all there is to see,
and we're thankful for the people that walk by our side,
and share in our moments,
our troubles,
our images,
our time.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
Dear J,
Happiness is a relative thing, or so I've learned. There are different versions of it. Your happiness probably differs from mine, which is most likely the reason we don't talk anymore. Your happiness didn't mesh with my own, causing some friction that lit a fire, at first starting love but then flaming into contradiction. That's okay. Happiness being a relative thing keeps us all from enjoying too much of one thing.
You see, as humans we always expect that the people we love most share same interests and ideas and joys. However, this is wholly untrue. The most compatible couples have completely different opinions on what makes life better than others. This ensures that we have a wide variety of happinesses to choose from. If we were stuck with one our whole lives that happiness would eventually become nothing more than regularity. And that's another reason we became nothing more than acquaintances.
Our happiness became so norm that we abandoned it in hopes that a new joy would come along, taming the fire of contradiction. When nothing was directed our way we instead became bored. And that's also okay because a little boredom reawakens our old happinesses.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I hope you found your happiness. Whether that be the way the sun falls on her laughing mouth or the music you write or the poems you read, I really hope that they make you see what life can be about with this happiness in it. I loved you so much you became my happiness, and then you outgrew the position. Become someone else's happiness now.
Love, Claire
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
I know it’s in me, this word called hate.
It creeps and crawls. It dwells within the
tip of my heart and it blackens my soul.
I can feel it.
Claws out, it tears at my thoughts and it slashes my dreams.
It needs to get out.
I weep in pain, in agony, and in fear of this word called hate.
It is a babe without a heartbeat.
It is a mother without children.
It is a friend with no one to call friend.
It is a lover in need of love.
It is the monster we call ourselves.
This hate is in me.
My trust broken.
My senses numb.
My life stolen before me.
My almost lover lost.
Hate.
Rage.
Fury.
This darkness is all I see. It has a form, whatever it maybe. It differs from each person. It is what we don’t want it to be.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
We are like bread.
Bread has three irreversible modes:
dough, bread, and toast.
many things in life, if not
everything in life
have many different forms.
we are all in the different stages of bread
and yet
we criticise and judge ourselves
for moving and changing
and needing a new environment.
The suitable storage for dough
differs vastly to the suitable storage
for bread
and yet
we do not mock it
but facilitate it.
We could learn a thing or two
from bread.
Oct 25, 2024
Oct 25, 2024 at 2:56 PM UTC
You once asked me why I love you.
The mascara of curiosity outlined the questioning glare of your eyes, and your fruity scented lipgloss covered your worrisome words with a hint of doubt – and strawberries.
And just as I was about to pluck the ripest answer from the back of my mind you interrupted me and planted seeds of insecurity you so desperately try to force under the earth – away from the eyes of those who live above it.
You remind me of the way you push me away whenever the going gets tough, even though together we're tougher than anything rough, pushing back harder than any kind of force that you apply on me whenever I'd ask, "What's wrong?"
You remind me of the way you cling to me like magnets on a fridge,
of the way you can't hold much of a conversation because you're awfully shy,
Of the way your interests differ from mine,
Of the way your smile lacks luster compared to other girls' smiles.
So I remind you, that whenever you'd push me away I'd pull you in even closer,
that my hands cling on to your waist, like magnets on a fridge,
and that we'd stand there with me embracing you, and silence embracing us, because worrying about words to say would only get in the way of me appreciating what's in my arms,
I remind you that my interest in kissing you, differs in your interest in kissing me.
And that your interest in my smile differs from my interest in your smile, unique and perfect on you and simply only you,
Never will it fit better on anyone else.
So you ask, and I reply,
The answer is quite simple love,
My heart is forever yours, because all of the above.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
When an issue does not get solved it takes the form an obstacle
An obstacle if not tackled, over a period of time it’s becomes a hurdle
A hurdle if not crossed at the right time, then most probably you will miss your aim.
Time is taken to understand, realize and accept an issue as an issue in it’s present form.
An issue can be in the form an obstacle,
it can also be a hurdle,
it can be anything.
Most importantly one must know how things started,
where did an issue crop up,
initially where did things go wrong.
Once understood, accept the same,
accept the fact that you made a mistake.
No point in going for reconciliation, since time is important.
See that habits change, attitude differs
Make a note, issues like this will not crop up again
Once decided, be determined in your mind and follow the same
It’s important to keep going along the right track,
since once the track changes,
it’s not the destination that comes to mind,
what one feels is what is written in fate.
So no more of an imagination play and also what else is there in the mind that the mind desires.
It’s important to follow your aim and keep in mind to maintain your focus on the same.
Definitely a moment in time will come when you will get what you aim.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Everything is happening so quickly
so many negatives surpassing the
insignificant glimpse of positives
that never seem to suffice,
there’s always this light at the
end of the tunnel that everyone
speaks of, yet i continue to see darkness;
a journey down this long tunnel brings
no illumination but only a continuance
of nihility, the damp walls
seem to bring the chill humidity
closer and closer with each step,
the droplets echo the narrowing,
flickering lights dissipate at passing,
the gag sparking stench of sewage
and ***** make the voyage to
light even more unbearable than the
previous hesitant inching towards
the so called spoken about bearability of life,
sudden scintillations of light bring sight
of russet, worn doors, consecutively placed,
discoloured of crimson roadkill,
I open the first door and see a woman
tied and bound, gag in throat,
beads of sweat turning the white gag
to watered milk,
the dirt beneath her nails entwines with skin
and blood dredged by her own fingertips,
to front is a tray of what seems like
torture tools
*intrigued, I slam the door
and avoid a kiss
from Judas*
The next door, I open and see a man
sitting facing the corner,
wrapped in a flickering fan,
staring at a wall of carvings of ticks and dashes,
to see arms of cuts and gashes,
with a tray next to him
comprised of razors and knives
he sits picking at skin of bruises and hives,
tempted to grab the tool and corrode self,
with the reflection of whats within, I slam the door
and avoid
Finally the third door
eagerly stares to
me with anticipation boiling veins,
I press my ear to foreshadow,
I hear a cries; a man of hatred
and a woman of pain
I open the door and find a bottle of whiskey
I take a swig and feel as if Judas kissed me,
Within the third door; walls
with peepholes to confirm the calls
on the left I see the sliding knife
over-panting roadmaps of russet to
the neck of the bound woman,
the screams are deafening,
they present a vibration,
stuttering thoughts, and releasing the fixation,
prompting the admiration
to view the second door,
I see myself, in door 2
tremors and convulsions
seeing blood expel every vein
as the verticals
halt oxygen to the brain
Departure brings me
to the abysmal realm of society
where the burden of negativity
proves to provide no proof towards what
differs between the endless, narrow
tunnel-visioned cesspool of bone marrow
and psychosis driven visions and the
narrow pathed voyage of life.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC