I just want to spill my guts to you
let loose every withheld thought
just take a scalpel and carve into my brain
carnage will be wrought and blood will rain
as i empty my mind to you
or maybe not
maybe i'm afraid of what will splash on the page
demons let loose from their fleshy cage.
passion straight out of hell
perhaps ill end up being an empty shell
hollow as the house I sit in
running away from potential
my mind juggles hypothetics
to life we become impartial
"a brains look like hedge maze", and other ironics
in a poem its almost oxymoronic
in life it's just moronic

I am the stillborn son of war,
Strapped on to an unmanned chariot of unrealized dreams;
Ever Since I was born as the heir ,
To the twin kingdoms of hypothetics and hypocrisy.

I am a silent sculpture,
Of the broken skeletons of sorrow,
Nourished by the blood of the vanquished,
And meant to unite the mourners on the banks of defeat,
Under a common cause.

I am an unopened letter of sympathy,
Waiting,
For the last tear drop on the armor of the vanquished to dry .
I am the final abandoned fresco,
Fading to obscurity;
As it graces the crumbling walls,
In the Chapel of fallen hopes.

I am the moan of the heart ,
Where the echoes of my prophecy,
Have greeted celebrations of existence,
Long before I was born to die.

I am the chant.
Immortalized.
Immorralized .
By the reverend voices that preached ,
From the pulpits of divine demagogues.

I am the invincible myth,
Inheritance of abstracts afar,
For I was christened Peace ,
The stillborn son of war.