"hexing" poems
Spilled directly from my heart and soul
To you
From some year
In the past
Something
I just need you to know
I'm but twenty years of age
And I know nothing
Of the world
And nothing
Of living
Except
What I do know
Which is close to
I admit
Nothing
When compared
To great lives
Lived many times
Longer
Stronger
Greater
Larger
And even
Shorter
Weaker
Lesser
Smaller
But I am
Who I am
And, again
I've only lived
A fraction
Of what is considered
A
"Life"
But lately
I have an urge
Not really and urge
More of a
Want
But a strong
Want
And that
Want
Is
I want to raise a child
Strange
Yes
In times past
I'd be considered
A man
I'd be expected
To have a job
That paid well
And
The built-in
Instinct
To fight for
My life
And the lives
Of those I cherish
Deeply
But
On the inside
I know
I'm but a boy
I am not a man
By any stretch of the imagination
I am not a man
By any means at all
But
Out of nowhere
Over the past
Year
This sensation
Has been getting stronger
To have a child
And raise it
With someone
I love
A burning love
A simultaneously
Firy, cool, encapsulating, enrapturing, hexing, invincible, forever
Kind of love
And to raise it
With their best interests
For the future
And to impant
In them
All the love
In my heart
And have them know
That
As long as I'm around
Everything
Everything
Will be alright
Everything
Will work out
The way it's meant to
Because it's true
And I know it
It's just one of the things
These twenty years
Has taught this boy
However
I wish to give
This child
Everything
And
All
And
In order to do so
I have to establish
What I need to
Find an adequate
Source of monetary income
And
As hard as that seems
In this day and age
I will
Somehow
I will find a way
If only
For the life
Of my future
Child
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
I shaved away the edges until there was nothing left, but a dream of what could have been, and so with frustration i accepted the jagged.
A common law of common flaws, as my face morphs into mask.
I still wonder, when it all will collide, building up inside ...
So much.
Too much.
Electrified in the the allure of my ruthless retorts, as i struggle in futile resistance to the inevitable.
The feeling is incredible, when you let all just go.
As it gently flows from the empathy into ecstasy, learning to love thy enemy, even as they are metaphorically stabbing me in the back.
Euphorically to react to the sensations in my lap when shes next to me.
Hexing me in a shellacking smack to my mannerisms
Her summer dress to address my cynicism, as it flows back from whence it came.
Detained in her image.
Restrained, in questioned worth.
Worth a thousand words.
Words never heard but seen in synesthesia.
Synesthesia saving my amnesia from forgotten verbs that be-heave us, in forgetful stumbling of the loving mumblings before the kiss.
The kiss dismissing the winded blue lips from the fumbled wits of love.
Love drown the fires ablaze as it spirals away.
Away from the journey.
Journey of the uninterrupted.
Uninterrupted in the hunting of my comforts.
Comfort in the squiggled lines.
Lines that pack a little comfort.
Comfort in the blinds, as i sacrifice my obedience for a little bit of expedience on the smile that awaits, this toothless face.
Bludgeoned stupid, as i pace at half mass, blinded in the tall grass of empty lands amassed in colors unseen with tunneled eyes that refuse to defy gravity.
Gravity in your roads chosen.
Chosen in the glow of abodes ablaze.
Amazed in starlit eyes.
Eyes to dream.
Dream of better ways.
Ways to clean the bad away.
Away with my wayward words.
Words observed in zero.
Zeros the point in which i met her, blinded in the blur, as im pulled to her.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 6:08 PM UTC
☽☯☾
Among the Witch community,
Whether you notice it or not, we’ve resparked Witch Wars
and it’s all been riding on this saying:
-- She who cannot hex, cannot heal.
She who cannot curse, cannot cure. --
Wards & Defense Magick are great and all,
but what about when time comes where you’re stuck in the Offense?
what happens when you or (if you’re a healer) someone who’s in need of healing
comes to you, and you have to turn them away
simply because you can’t identify/fix the problem.
In short, you’re incapable of healing that person;
You, as a “Healer”, are now disgracefully claiming the name.
All because the fact is the harm is rooted in either a hex
or curse, and knowing how to deal with that -needless to say- would take
Your complete understanding of hexing and cursing.
That level of understanding is what you need to identify what’s being cast on them and from that point, know how to reflect or break it;
And in harsher/stronger situations, having that judgement is vital when deciding if/how/what to cast back.
But it's all still somehow a ******* debate.
So Welcome to the Age of Witch Trials: By Witches, For Witches.
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
Confined to the minds barrels,
trapped inside four white, wooden walls
that wash me with light;
creating eternity. An eternity
where your face is forced forth
with splintered teeth, wood grain whispers.
Air evades my lungs
breathing in, panic, locked
away. To stay and rot. My tongue
may become a meal; I don’t need words in here.
This chambers grand design
is an endless emptiness.
My mind’s faced with this shameless
white graceless space which
aggravates my dark creativity.
This great sin in me is great and willing me
to spill the hate hidden deep.
The rays rebound perpetually. The silence
perplexes me. Perplexes me. The silence
confined to the double barrels.
Your face, perpetually, stretching its imprint
across these walls. Blurring, screaming terror.
Eyes open, burning, comfort in the darkness
learning the eyelids inner charms.
Not the vastness. Eyes open. Terror.
Tear away these fantasies;
isolations imagination identifies with my demons.
The blank space is filled with cacophonies,
agony, smiles in the emptiness stretch beyond capacity. Silence.
Whispers, these wood grain whispers splinter my eardrums.
No matter how I try to pick (axe) them out,
this imaginary pencil doesn’t dig deep enough.
I hear no calligraphy. No beauty
finds me in here, this box of light
holds my plight and creates a world where I know no night.
I hold no right, I cannot wrong,
there’s nothing left, I hold no rite,
there’s no day to escape for sleep,
no knight to bring me dreams, no left to take me to the right place,
I am so bereft of time. Am I dead?
Dying? Lying here in wait, lying to myself,
declining in health. Declining life.
The silence is hexing,
dissecting each piece of what’s left of me.
The canvas screams, it wants to know my nightmares,
to feel their bloodied paint on its flesh.
I’m the worm in the water.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
here's a neat trick:
evry time you have to say my name
replace it with RADIOHEAD
"RADIOHEAD has been staring at rooftops again. i'm worried."
"RADIOHEAD just walked into my kitchen and took all my matches!"
"i'd like my hexing stone back now, RADIOHEAD."
"RADIOHEAD, have you been drinking?"
anyway
you should try it
i'm not quite sure what will happen
but it's gonna rain no matter what you do
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 11:36 AM UTC
as a matter of fact
the last time you struck me
right across the chest
i vowed it would be the last abuse
you'd inflict on the living
so you spent your time
hexing the tombstones down the street
because you must have you talons
submerged in the flesh of something
living or dead.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
Golden sands, oh take me
Forest green moon, don't forsake me
Glass blue sea, underneath me
Ash, stone, and blaze now surrounds me
Destined lands that were taken
Stories we made gone and shaken
Oh my lovely drifting memories
Couldn't protect them, so I must set them free
Desperate plans
To make them
Soon chilled by the sight of lights dim
Trials and
Tribulations
Send me softly to vacation
From your hands, you may save me
Come, please, be soon, will I soon be free
There are stories and revelations
Calling curses hexing desperations
Sing while I can
This will all soon cease
Lost
and choked
Forgetting how to breathe
Sing me to sleep, but softly, please
I've lost my land
And now my mourning...
.
.
.
.
.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 6:54 PM UTC
Speakers load destruction, hexing the seem teathering tens of thousands of telepathic men and women who dont know that thoughts we read like books mine one like gold.
Rectify strife stricken knife swiftly puncturing wounds subdue the day that restrains truth with proof aloof becoming gaint higher passing altitudes.
Smoking clouds.
Smoking ******* clouds with the piper.
Spittin truths.
With young mother ******* piper.
Blast, an Aeon shell hit pierced dashing dearest.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC