Goosebumps bloomed on her limbs
like the plague
and this was a relief
she had been waiting for,
ever since her mother
put her hands on her
and turned an angel into a firestorm.

1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm

I see her in every bonfire
In every sun ray
I feel her warmth in every palm tree breeze
and her voice whispers to me in the sea

Without her my hear no longer burns with passion,
only the ashes wither me away
I've started making fires in my backyard
hoping to summon her somehow
I'd make a deal with the devil if I had to.

I'd **** to feel her skin on mine again
To have her share my bed
even though she steals the ******* duvet
she could stab me and I'd say 'thank you so much'
but she didn't
She loved me
wholeheartedly
Even when I couldn't love myself.

Inhaling your breath against my lips gets me high. Love this potent should be illegal, it feels so bad... like someone sold me your heart in a little plastic bag from the pocket of their hoodie in the cover of night. I lit it on fire and breathed in every panted wisp of smoke pushed up from your burning core. I bet distant cities can see our flames on the horizon, and the citizens are rushing to church to kneel before God and pray to be spared from the glowing apocalypse crawling towards them. What a beautiful way to die... but the world has already ended to me, because nothing matters in this moment but you. I think I can hear their screams beneath yours, as the ****** of Armageddon firestorms falls from the angry heavens that generously matched our souls.

Then silence... the beautiful silence that drapes the earth once everyone and everything is dead except for us, at least until the sun returns, and the alarm clock rings and resurrects the world from its hallucinated grave, and I head out to work hungover with love.

lying together
in the last of the darkness...
I awake
to the hiss of flames
and plumes of candle-smoke

I sweet talk to a wishing well, truth or lies, even I can’t tell
My childhood bites, it cut my teeth;
Grounded and pounded like agency beef.
Said goodbye to a vanishing world, did a savage dance with a native girl.
Flashes and chills, it’s a strange sensation
Started from scratch it’s a skilled creation.

Head hurts but it could be worse, I wake up in the morning and it’s
"good night, nurse"
pulled from the warmth of the womb, slapped then cursed
it’s a fine line and it’s ill rehearsed.

It’s a wonderful life filled with terrible things, beautiful cripples who rip off our wings as we silently suffer their arrows & slings, desecrate, suffocate as it smothers and clings.
Brain slowly melting like butter on toast, I use it the least when I need it the most
Martians & cretins, with numbers in millions, they slither and slide seeming rather reptilian.
Love lies and it goes like this, I will garnish your body with my spastic kiss.
Lost my life when I lost control, it’s a fine line, but it’s not my own…

It steals you away with a madness at night, burns through your soul, this acetylene knife.
Takes away all the things that I once took for granted, ravaged my cage as I raged and I ranted.
As loud as the silence inside my head, should have run for the hills, took cover
instead now I live in the streets and the whole world’s my home.
It’s a hard life, and it’s getting old…

Still taking a thrashing with gnashing of teeth, a healthy disguise, a sick underneath. My head is still ringing, better answer the phone
It’s a timeline, I put it on hold.

You can be a go-getter or get it to go, from the firestorms above to the hellstrom below. We can burn and return to the scene of the crime, it’s a fine line, it gets finer with time…

I believed, was deceived, bought into this disease. You can **** it & sell it, or will it to me. Sainted babies paint rattles, then fall out of trees. Legs dissolving, devolving, return to the seas.
So show that you know me, then ******* to bits. Re-assemble the parts and see where they fit. I got holes in the soles of my shoes from a lifetime spent running away, gunning for the fine line.

Left my guts in your gutter, my brain on your stairs. Lost my nerve in your universe, now I don’t dare. I could live like a king in your starvation zone, or I could be Zeus in the ghettos of Rome.
Ignoble and cruel, indisposed disposition. Sue yourself lawyer, heal thyself physician. Jesus died for the sins for which we still atone, it’s a fine line, but it’s not my own…

In that moment she transforms
Unquenchable pressures rise
Rage flares into firestorms
Fury thrives, amplifies

She dances on recent slights
Flinging words of blistering flame
Fires fuelled from yesterday’s fights
She wields with unerring aim

When the fury burns to embers
When logic eventually returns
No one left remembers
The cause of her righteous burns

NCL May 2018

You were not a firestorm
Nor a wild spirit
You were the tide,
the thing I always knew but never saw
Until it came upon me.
You did not ravage me,
But you lifted me up, so that I was floating
In salt and kind smiles.
The one thing you had in common with firestorms
Was that you couldn't stay for long.

Bow your head and drown out the voices.

This is the word. I say to you and your lips alone.

“Kerosene never smelled so appealing as it did that day

we loved under the mask of fumes.”

Dizzy and lost. Our eyes shut to the heat of firestorms.

Between us, we were burning.

I marvel at the glassy sheen of auburn eyes,
burning like firestorms of fresh winter hair,
and to entwine with mine is but a gift from,
you.

They walk around trying to find faith
But they never want to give their heart to God,
they’re where born to know God
and to walk with God,
but they just turned away,
In the stained sand, they stand,
while their own tears flow,
fire and dust will be all they will know,
they bow down to the ground
worshiping false God’s,
Dark Angel has a wicked grin on his face,
while he looks my way,
The cold seven god’s they put rose dust
upon the graves, crying out in so much pain
come and awake they would say,
while the magic woman plays her games,
her thirst for their blood,
she desires their soul of long ago,
I see her hate and envy in her eyes,
While Dark Angel;
cuts deep pains in the deserts sky,
hell, is what he gives,
firestorms upon on the land of sand,
while he conspires with the magic woman,
While they take on the world in darken dreams
make the ones that dream scream,
while the slaves of darkness cry out to
their false messiah,
from the deep part of their hearts,
rise he would tell them,
Take the cup and drink the blood
of the innocent ones, destruction is the price
they will all pay when they gave Dark Angel
the key to their souls, of long ago,
thousands will fall like stars from the sky,
the old magic woman cast her spells,
to wage war in a nasty battlefield of lies,
The evil magic woman and Dark Angel
are the God’s of the blood-stained land,
black magic rolls into the eyes of the slaves,
they dance around upon on the sand of the desert,
demons flow around the graves
in black rose dust.
Playing games on what they see
while their souls bleed,
The magic woman making wind of fire
That made the slaves confused,
While the bombs fly into the desert skies,
taken down all they can see,
while the weep what they believe,
the religion of their lies hold no power
in their mighty false Gods.

Judy Emery © 1980
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Judy Emery

Would you dive into the darkest depths of memories and fears in the name of Love?

Would you destroy your tower of pride in the name of Love?

Would you be willing to unwrap the ***** cloth around the thorns that hurt you before in the name of Love? For the sake of Love?

Would you be willing to risk your life in the name of Love?

Would you be willing to allow pain and firestorms mould you?

Would you be willing to put all the hate on yourself so that another could feel loved?

Would you? All in the name of Love. All for the sake of Love. All for the giving of love. All for the defense of Love. All...for Love...

smoking horizon
heat gusting this way
firestorms foretell
burning pain coming, raging
anticipation rising

They walk around trying to find faith
But they never want to give their heart to God,
they’re where born to know God
and to walk with God,
but they just turned away,
In the stained sand, they stand,
while their own tears flow,
fire and dust will be all they will know,
they bow down to the ground
worshiping false God’s,
Dark Angel has a wicked grin on his face,
while he looks my way,
The cold seven god’s they put rose dust
upon the graves, crying out in so much pain
come and awake they would say,
while the magic woman plays her games,
her thirst for their blood,
she desires their soul of long ago,
I see her hate and envy in her eyes,
While Dark Angel;
cuts deep pains in the deserts sky,
hell, is what he gives,
firestorms upon on the land of sand,
while he conspires with the magic woman,
While they take on the world in darken dreams
make the ones that dream scream,
while the slaves of darkness cry out to
their false messiah,
from the deep part of their hearts,
rise he would tell them,
Take the cup and drink the blood
of the innocent ones, destruction is the price
they will all pay when they gave Dark Angel
the key to their souls, of long ago,
thousands will fall like stars from the sky,
the old magic woman cast her spells,
to wage war in a nasty battlefield of lies,
The evil magic woman and Dark Angel
are the God’s of the blood-stained land,
black magic rolls into the eyes of the slaves,
they dance around upon on the sand of the desert,
demons flow around the graves
in black rose dust.
Playing games on what they see
while their souls bleed,
The magic woman making wind of fire
That made the slaves confused,
While the bombs fly into the desert skies,
taken down all they can see,
while the weep what they believe,
the religion of their lies hold no power
in their mighty false Gods.

Judy Emery © 2017
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Judy Emery

standing in the eye of your storm
while words are hurled
into my heart once more
I never asked to defend
my right to breathe
when your moods erupt
in jagged shards of tragedy
destroying all the love
we held so beautifully
but I can't fight you any more
no I can't fight the fury of your hurt
It's not about me
this rage you stage
in firestorms whenever  I walk away
It's not about me
when you tell me no one will ever
love you this way again
It's not about
me

The paper
           Mills chuffed pillowy
      Vapours, and rusted freight trains
   Howled mournfully on that imperfect
          Day when pelicans stole by
              Over cornflour
                Creaky sands.

                   I was wrong
               About the Pepsi
       Can and concrete jetty jutting
   Out because sea-oats grew, Oyster-
       Catchers made arches of song
            Above the sea-foam
                    Enraptured.

                    The­ perfect
              And the imperfect
        Elide; they leap-frog along;
    Firestorms regenerate, hurricanes
   Tow tranquilities, and truths
           There in the moment
                    Living lie.

                  In swamp pools
                 Alligators lie by
             Mosquitoes’ electric
    Whine. In the sodden heat sand gnats
       Settle on scalps, but not one
              Leaf goes amiss; here
                     All is one.

                   Whip-poor-wills
                 Call; cicadas whirr
           Through the wordless night.
   Shadows flicker as fire tongues quiver,
          And despite all faults innate,
             Imagined, real, dreamt,
                     Lies peace still.

                     And the night,
                Beautifully wrecked
          In giant live-oak boughs, hangs
   In shreds of Spanish Moss. Wire-grass burns.
                   Stars in their orbit
                      Stare amazed.

Fat Cuban was softened
to his throat for tight cuts,
Abin-Oo Death A Hard von
*****; International Prison
Cell Face Cheating ****
is dancing happily dancing
through **** Baker. Two
white ***** with a galaxy
co-staff double straw; white
***** are very white, chocolate
chocolate, which white man's
meat channels two white *****
spoiling his throat.

CB Sista Nikki B. Dumb Puta,
May White; Chunky Girls On
Two White Boys; Gross White
Boys, Shame, Alibi ban ** Rudy
Pieces Boutbilit Black Bebe's
Invisible White **** Acid.
Invisible Beaches On Hot Lemonade.
Think of Golf Fish Catcher Cats
by the Movement of Western Plastic;
Clot Walking Society Revolution,
Junk Wave Jack Empty Manga Lady;
Cut In Creative Matters Disorganized                                      wrong machine
Club Tom Tom Pictures You Talk
To A Smoker;                                          Babylonian Light Sucre Arab Jordan Japan;                                                Move Top Pluridas Hallunk General Six
Are waiting for you, broken, broken, broken
Astrology, ***** drinkers, poor girls, smoking
Boy's end, planetary weapons.
The country has changed into the system.
Bad return on painting; One of *****'s
Amazing panorama inside the hardness
of the tongue Firestorms are pomegranate
mountains and ad for the TV title Brahmin
/ Drama / Robert's Influence on a Death
In Mount Sinai, Dogs participating
in African Africa and Jesus, Scientist says
that Europe and if you do good? 1 About
other people and what web sites do, including:
strawberries, air, or this public *** web
head, open gloves, wall, blue, blue sky
If you do, please save me as a national
and non-human work, If you want,
make sure but none, You are searching,
no country; Petition For example,
the PC does not If you make a mistake,
no one does 90 years, or 1000, or 1000,
blog, blog, And in this way, you can request
information on Non-employees and others
Please be interested in using others,
Please, if you do, you can fix it
Any account, please; Add a little 500 plus
For example, Mexico, Mexico provides
it. You are with the English location
Company 1: 1 minute English part
United States of America, United States
USAUS promotion in the United States
Wall and Mount Sinai, cities and dogs
have participated. In Africa and the sons
of Jesus, Arabs and dreamers, Scientists
say that You think Igor
Is a Good Musician Your Domain?
For others, the registrar, author,
And the person who makes it
You are a regular person, such as:
English Country, or the way you
are; A new card, if you can and others
As a national and non-human work,
If you want, make sure but none,
You are searching, no country; Petition
For example, no one accepts it
Message or anything else
90 90, text, number,

1000, and 1000, blogs, blogs,
Numbers, full-time books;
Information from free users
This is bad news in other countries,
And so forth and so on

Citizens of  Hell
~A Collection of Poetry Reflecting the Seven Deadly Sins~
Growing, Fading
He eats children alive
He does not discriminate one feast from another, but takes them both
He slaughters precious animals by the brood and gobbles up entire herds
Most disgustingly, he keeps a young maid by his side
To whet his appetite with a bite from her neck,
To cleanse his palette with a chomp from her shoulder
To clean himself with a swipe at her stomach
And to give himself that special seasoning with her tears.
Tis sickening to watch and maddening to ponder
How a kindhearted boy from a loving home can morph into a monster,
Yes, a monster of a man with only food on his mind
And only avarice in his fatty heart.
There is nothing more to him than that anymore;
For, as his body grows and grows, bulging til it takes over the building,
His person simply withers to nothing and the shriveled up corps fades.
Persistence
I crave my brother’s wife.
I care not for other birds
But this bird!
How I wish I could lure her to my feeder
But alas!
She is not mine to feed,
She belongs wholly to my brother
And thinks of me as family, only as family
Oh what sweet misery is the human struggle!
Oh what sweet horror is the pesky libido!
And lest a dream become far too sweet to bear,
How the subject of such ideas must be taken!
What a misery, what misery indeed is this life!
What agony I have inside me for this woman,
A woman of womanly arts, a woman of womanly graces
What desire I have for this mistress of the mind, heart, and body
But a woman, nonetheless, whose faith lies with my brother.
Must my tears persist? Aye, they cannot go
Until so goes this craving for a woman who is never to be mine.
Cash Cow
Jewels weighing her down
Silk and mink hiding her skin
Custom designed just for her, every stitch
But she is still growing ever-more plastic
Her heart is walled by the icy frosting
That dangles from her ears
And she can’t see anything but the money
That’s all her business has ever been to her
Just acquiring billions, only meant to be a cash cow
And her children are no different- they’re cash cows.
But the joke is on her
Because the runner of all these cash cows, their fortunate owner
Is nothing but a cow for cash herself.
Faith
What need have I for faith
When I have myself?
My superiority brought me here,
So it can bring me farther, can’t it?
High intelligence denigrates luck
And great strength beats luck anyday.
So what need have I for faith,
What need have I for being faithful,
When I only need myself
And what need have I for truth
When I am the supreme truth.
I’d take my chances with myself over your faith,
One Body
This is the embodiment of those feelings that break hearts,
A weeping willow that fertilizes the whole earth with her downpour of tears
A rushing river that rips away chunks of the earth in his messy wallowing
Fearful firestorms that don’t discriminate in their destruction for the loss they feel
This is the curse of  beings wrapped up in emotion that betrays them-
A blazing agony that trickles down full-scale to all it can touch
And this- yes this!- is what makes the earth one body.
This
Nothing like it, nothing that rises in fury to equal its level
There is only one thing just like this feeling,
Only one thing that burns the world down like this
Perhaps that’s why it has no fitting name-
Any description would be a misnomer, an understatement
This is the big bang repeated over and over in the mind
This is the moment your mother is ripped from you for good
This is the swing that strikes you down, forces you out
This is what leaves one broken shell against a world
And it cannot be described with enough raging emotion.
This is what Hell is made of.
*****
Laying on the couch,
Motionless, expressionless,
Just playing dead, and feeling it.
Wallowing in a web of blanks-
No cause, no care, no life in you.
You’re just reducing yourself to worthless
And you’ve lost all your *****.

Agile as the wind
Fast as a pace
I sat myself in a quietsome place
Flinging hopes like duck and drakes
Who cares
Whether the spring of the flings were violent soul shakes.

Drowning in the pond of despair
My unbroken talents got hit with a theme
Which source was a desperate dream.
Opening herein gates of exploding potentialities,
The flames reached the infinity and banished dualities.

Breathing out and breathing in
Fiends of vehemence relentlessly spin
Away from the firestorms of my creativity;
I told you; I am unbroken.
Failure is a phantom I control with lucidity.

Wells of talents would gush
Over the unyielding and the powerful;
Mires of despair await the unskillful
Who bury their potencies under whining
And impede their innate brilliance
From its designed shining.

Creativity is an acquired gift
That’s coupled with ceaseless action
And outgoes mental and spirit fractures
Hurt? Work.
Crying? Move.
Crippled? Think.
Desperate? Never bend.
Griefs are mandates, failures are not the end;
Believe me, they are as viral as a trend!

Create your happiness in every broken emotion;
Groves of happiness spring out of devotion.
Yet, beware the sloth of satisfaction
It seals agility and creativity with encryption