The slits of glass give way to light,
Which cuts through the air and sun leeched curtains.
It falls weightless on warming skin,
Breathing life into stillness.

A gentle caress, a sultry glance;
Statuesque, they cast shadows on the wall.
Shadows that illuminate and contour,
Express and entrance.

Longing rapture in eyes, incandescent and iridescent;
Loveless yet sensuous silken skin that tells of life well lived.
Your broken heart rests on shoulders, colored and vivid;
A world is painted in timeless elegance.

What horrors has she seen? Said the looker so enthused.
What grandness has passed her eye? Says another just as true.
Oh the colors so earthen tell of pleasures and sorrows, yet whisper of frailty.
They speak in tongues that can never be trusted, only pondered.

The intricate oil work from a badger’s fair coat,
Show delicate and smooth,
All the features of her roistering frame;
Passions of the heart now told by passions of the brush.

The life is still, but forever infinite.

Once in Earnest Doubt did my Faith Suppress,
The First Great Angel accepted my Prayer
Of Random Choice did in Honest Address
Took pleasure in Follow; And found her Fair
And why not from the Bard's State was her Birth
For she the Limestone Guardian of Plum's Prince
Took Seven more Wings; And produced their Worth
Have sung his Growing Concept ever since
You know how leeched I am on your Good Deed,
A Stunning Example I must pursue
Truth avast takes Life's Innocence for keep
Then land on your Incarnate good and true.
Please forgive me. This is all I should know
Now enjoy your Shoot with the Man of the Show.

Expect miracles every minute
Not.

Go away children if you want
Uplifting,
This is a dark adventure
Composition.

Gloomy the mood,
Gorgeous the day,
You have received my disclaimer,
Scurry away.

I scribe smoke that is uncontainable,
Smoke that suffocates, not for decoration.

You are the unrighteousness, not on the list,
Peekaboo voyeurs who read and dismiss.
Why I pen this or this.
Lost in the shuffling cards,
Luck is not inexhaustible,
Mine, bottled in the bin labelled,
The last recycling.

Dark is the blue sky,
White clouds just clothing to disguise
Morose is the vision,
Of eyes that have not seen a miracle
In decades of waiting.

Let us divorce today,
Find good cheer and company elsewhere.
From my finger these words fall freely,
No waiting, from me to you instantaneously.

What ails thee smoke scribe?
I have given and been taken, leeched and bled
and now wasted the last of my
Nine lives.

This is where I stand, edged and ledged,
Miracles are not shown to me anymore.
My quota, used, I'm not us-confused,
Cause I wrote the disclaimer,
The warnings, the risks, well understood.

Write of the good, the bad, of the
Beautiful that does not last,
Wonder if this is the poem  
shall be my Epitaph?

Poetry craft, was the sword I breathed thru,
Unlike you, my motet is completed,
The music, the canon smoke, here, come, then
Gone.

so now im falling, deeper.. faster.. chased by stones made from the cruel words you hurled from your mighty perch.. so high above us all, you peer down your nose like an eagle regarding its prey. cold indifference shines in your once passionate eyes. how often those eyes persuaded me.. how easily they broke down my defenses, allowing you to burrow deep inside my mind, permanently attaching yourself to my soul.. you leeched away at my happiness, a parasitic infestation that left me a hollow shell of what i once was, far from the me i know i could be. it all seemed so worth it then.. carelessly giving you everything i could possibly spare, leaving you in control of every vital part of me.. i was strong once.. now, even i falter before the poorly concealed hatred that is woven through your words. i have all but fallen to my knees before you.. you worked so hard to tear me down that you dont seem to know what to do now that i lay broken on the floor. i have nothing left to give and still you take it all from me.. turn away from my screams, shield your eyes from my tears... dont let my blood stain your shoes.. ignore me as best you can, for you have learned the ***** truth.. even when i can no longer stand, i crawl on hands and ****** knees back to your side, where i patiently await a single kind word that will never come. so smile at my screams, smirk at my pain. it will not deter this pet from her master.
i am your prisoner..
i love you.

i.* It’s supposed to be poetic that our matter comes from stardust, but once upon a time we were shining holes in the sky and now I cannot ask how anybody is anymore without getting an answer like “everything is slowly killing me.” I don’t know how I feel about this. I just know it’s huge. A supernova waiting in the saddest pockets of myself.

ii. I got tired of always going postal and bought some painkillers, recomposed my blood: half coffee and half antifreeze. Half NyQuil and half spite.

iii. I hammered my fear into an altar, splintering between the steel pews and jagged teeth of bread knives. I’m so sorry. I burned us both up trying to be the light in your eyes. Let me audition again, I’ll crawl into your bed and rest my cheek on the collar of your shirt. I’d **** for the Heimlich of your arms, looping over my ribs. At least then I can write another poem about the way my heart seizes up like a clenched fist thinking of us like this. They’ll find me fossilized with my thumbs in your belt loops, fingers curling around the loose change and ticket stubs in your jeans.

iv.  I let my tongue swell up with relatable pop ballads, because anyone can write them when they feel so profoundly wounded that no one else will ever feel this way again. I never knew a heart could feel this cold. Don’t leave me here after all this, baby, no one hurts me like you do.

v. I never use the word “self-destructive”, but sometimes I still choke myself for decent poetry. I learn to be so numb I have to feel the gravel in my knees. Getting the words out is like when you force yourself to cough just to feel your eyes water, just to make yourself cry. I won you over with self-inflicted black lung. I’m so sorry. I thought maybe if I hacked up how beautiful I found your fingerprints, I’d end up covered in them.

vi. Here are seven knots. Here are seven sins. Here are seven ways to bruise.

vii. I keep having dreams I can waltz with God and all of his ******-up creations. That I can peel away whatever buried its claws in me and leeched away all the electricity. I keep having dreams you teach me how to dance. That your fingers brush mine and we light up like sparkplugs that learned how to kiss. My throat like a bottle rocket from the cannon of your hips. Plug yourself in, tell me the stars in you are remembering how to burn again.

I cannot fathom the scribbling in my brain into poetic queues as of now. I am in excruciating pain but I am liberated. I am dying on the inside but somewhere behind my rib cage is a thump. Less of a thump, more like a knock. The love of my life is tearing me to shreds and the universe is softly tapping its knuckles on the door. Through an addictive relationship I have discovered my origin.
I am a healer. I am an angel and I can do no true harm to a soul; I heal even those who are the radial balance of my suffering and bleeding. I have an expendable heart; it has been squeezed, sliced, punctured, chewed, stepped on, scraped, pulverized, shattered, cracked, drained, dried, bitten, and hungrily ****** on by the mightiest of leeches. I stand before myself scarred but glowing like the chest of a newborn child. Once again my pain has given birth to me. I am new, the world has not made me an *******. I refuse. I will love. I will care. I will heal and I will push through my crucifying pains of being leeched. I will continue to give what cannot be returned to me.

imagination: the crucible of inanimate things getting the modern physics makeover of dynamism in quanta of crosswords and dalmatian; imagination: **** static without the fizz of carbon edging to oxygen in the nightclub; imagination, when you assume unmovable things can be moved not disgruntled by not seeing the image of such feats formalised for applause and a nobel on the clean sheen buttering the scalp; oh yeah, what else? ah! me shampoo steve on the maiden to scrap lanky, me talk aboriginal, continent to continent, me talk each cult dialect of tribe without chief, me smoke tobacco with glee, but back home, i'm like the aboriginal: i say socrates is pop, they say kerry katona is popper, i might as well be among the **** naked cannibal lepers eating themselves to the salt shake of maracas - mmm, extra flaky; chisel those fried pouts into ducky of chalky lipstick: originating without mirror but a stick; but to be honest? the celebrity culture was a way to cut off the famous from 2000+ years ago; well, that was the original idea.*

i wanted to correlate the fascination from astrology
into phonetics, i chose the oak tree split to be the y,
i chose the sun to be o
and the moon to be c,
but i lost the constellatory plot from there;
so a beer and cigarette on a sunny day:
england owns september if you want me to compare
it to a zodiac; england owns september.
then i dipped into a canto dry lipped,
ushering people in:
man will be more heartbroken losing
his dog to a stranger than a woman,
with animals there's no free will involved you see,
pat on the head to the count of two
and i was leeched to 5am walkies,
but then i dropped the finished can, stumped the cigarette but
and opened the book, hiroshima sunrise
of bleach white pages in the sunlight,
shadow those twenty-six digits in for the eyes to see.
i want literature, i don't want oration,
not the kind of politics of arson with pre-pepper sneezes
of applause on the cue, life, the automation of queues,
i want spontaneity and the outer reaches to shake
a banana into a pistol in a magic trick,
with the bunny turning into a rabbit-hare mongrel,
or a ******* left *** wiggle for the photoshop, you choose.
so i said: but i want literature, i want to read
books so complex that i can't incorporate them into
my cognitive narrative, and i can't even speak about them,
i want books like that, books that will
not allow me to speak about them, or join a book club,
or become a critic for a newspaper when the **** is hot,
i want... literature... pure and simple...
i don't want tea break talk folding a ******* into jam and cheese
benevolently housebound to smear cat **** on walls and simply
call it diluted beige.

the "mystery" of the transaction,
that's quiet legal in
Amsterdam...
      you can only actually subject
           a woman to "your" object...
if you're never made such
a transation...
            i guess you're left in the dark
with all the fungus-historians
that speak of the second "big-bang"
of an ape on hallucinogenics...
objectifying women...
            funny...
                           not even funny,
just odd...
              maybe the whole
    objectivity "vs." subjectivity is not
being allowed duality,
     that eventually becomes blurry...
and is instead
  this jargon quasi-intellectualism of
people afraid of Alzheimer's
disintegration of words from
words and words from ideas and
ideas from clarifying idea-neutral
narratives...
              perhaps it's an american
thing,
       since a stripper can't be made
        subject to the "objectifying" posit...  
make that's why there's really
only an objectification-of-object
and no, absolutely no
     subjectification-of-object-***-subject?
is objectification a reference
to genital "intrusion"?
      what if there is no genital "intrusion"?
******* crossword puzzles
that sometimes aim of exposing
working within the confines of
   the thesaurus...
                 a-subject made inconvenient
        by the-object?
     sure, given i was only the fifth
in line...
                        i actually don't know
what objectivism implies
with the confines
   of a woman who will not desire
to make me into a subjective
enterpire of, mothering,
wife...
                  and... what am i again?
object of an hour
    within the absolute lack of
subject on her behalf...
                 for some strange reason
she's more of a subject,
a canvas... than i might allow myself
to not be a stroke of a brush
and some, paint...
          but then public conversation
doesn't attach itself to
the intellectual murk of dualism:
                    it needs dichotomy...        
nice backdrop, a week ago:
   haven't seen a lightning storm like that
acting out parliament over
           london in a long time...
in the back of my mind:
      the subjectivism of women seems
inherently wrong...
   subjectifying could be deemed
more harroring for the idle minor-head
when turning blisters into
       golden flakes on the topic of
   ego                  body
           \           /           \
              mind                id
                                     cosine serpent...
given the sine serpent answer:
                id              mind
             /      \         /      
    body          "ego"
      i can only fathom a threshold of the point
of objectification...
        after the threshold
there's a breach of objects -
      unlike a guarantee of one
man, a hammer and a sack of nails...
       i'm just curious that
there is an actual legal non-debate taking
place...
                the sort of shrinking
**** sensation in english law:
    it's illegal to own brothels...
   but it's not illegal to procure
the act...
                       so what's the difference
between objectification
                    and necrophilia?
the former word isn't as fancy...
  it's not exactly equivalent to mana from
heaven for the Hibrealites...
    i can only undertand
authentic objectification
             as confined to necrophilia...
of what is necessary to express
the crude correlation of "fact" to act...
          since then the death-fore of
eating beef...
           but without actually *******
a cow...
                             so a dead end...
it's just a "problem" with too many
close-proximity words...
         namely the ob-        sub-
              prefix claustrophobia of attaching
a thought to explaining or:
   guaranteeing a decided congregation
on...
             2 years without
  having touched a human body in the way
that i'd like to be touched,
kissed, looked intently into the eyes...
   finding sparrows chirping
on gently toying with lips using
the bare minimum of tongue and teeth?
finding the gentle baron cartilege of
the nose also being gentle leeched...
                 and a giggle?
              just my luck to have synchronised
the two events...
   and written this a week later;
could never take to metaphorical *** antics
   in the known to me
               expressions of being *** starved;
i'm a butcher...
           not an Argentinian beef chef
                      or food critique combined.

1.
Princely I am, as Michigan loam,
as carefully turned mud,
as old, old dust––

my breaths are still and unresolved
and don’t dissolve in alcohol
like snakes or dead, bloated fish––

I am nothing monumental.

2.
Stuttered breaths lie in limp open circles around our feet,
hanging by threads of unmade promises––

symmetry was never my forte.
The bent nose,
the crooked lips,
the slow-ballooning wen where nitrogen bubbles––
my flesh is like untilled soil,
all raw and swollen with possibility.

3.
You asked me if it was probable
to find life on Mars
where the iron-leeched sand
crumbles like dried hemoglobin.

I don’t know about amino acids or genesis
or the first man of Dust,

much less mysteries of lovesickness, respiration,
really good ***––
We’re barren in different ways;

your dust comes from dreams, from heaven,
crimson and majestic
and dead as Olympus Mons

while I am like moon dust,
just as cold as your bone-dry lakes of carbon dioxide,
but paler, heavier,

and more remote.

It's odd to be a peon.
To sit in a grey Office.
Blue tucked in button up.
Red tie.
My opinion is irrelevant.
It's hard, it's rough.
It's not safe.
I am disposable.
All face to face is false.
My red tie doesn't help me.
It only stands me up.
I look left and find a man
both dressed and sitting down.
Whiskers ***** from his chin.
Teeth behind them smile.
A bit lip, a burnt tongue.
From the coffee on his desk.
He doesn't seem to have a soul left.
This cubicle has leeched it away.
I too have bit lip and burnt tongue.
From coffee on my desk.
I too am dressed and sitting down.
Am I doomed to a similar fate?
I wear the costume, blue shirt, grey slacks.
I look like I fit in.
But I add a flair to my uniform.
White and pink bunny ears.
Not too silly
Just enough.
My foot thumps the ground at excitement for my call.
My nose twitches at the smell of strangers as they pass.
I may not nibble carrots or hop around grass.
But I'm the call center bunny.
I'd much rather be different.
It feels wrong to fit in after so many years of being different.
I need to be looked at, laughed at, loved.
I can't be cookie cutter.
But I can cut cookies and hand them out.
Being ignored just felt so wrong.
If i do this right. They'll remember me.

Cannibalistic are the teeth jagged in curl and grin. They grip fastened between gums of grime and sin. They prey leeched to toys strung under webs so few. My fingers creeped between their eyes so suffice and blind.

Like storms choked in stark sky and drying rain, my views christen and bloom. Eyes bleached gold, lavish the corners donning streets and side shop. I myself lark on apartment edges and strewn roof tops, balancing death and door bells along my crooked spine. Wide faces swirl in faded lights along morbid streets blazed in night. They the oh so happy and innocent leech the drinks and sway the narcotics. Hand on breath, tongue on tip. It’s so heart full to stare from the roofs so grimaced.

All words muddled in dread, lick their rosy lips, as stare catches the late night shift. All the blossomed couples curl and constrict in arms so selfish I must keep edges sharp and dull in bliss. Balance sways in dim, darkest are the days flattering night and cursing day. I wait amongst the walls above wavering innocence to demand. I shift on roofs so frail and wary that life seeks no bounds as the heights do not scare me. I will slip feudal in their creviced minds, but merely of pity to all their credible crimes. Here the world cries and here the cannibal lies. I break to be broken, but never to die, only to fall within the world’s eye.

the leaves on the sidewalk
were reduced to an organic
pulp of chlorophyll and cellulose
under the soles of passersby
who didn't even notice
how the ceaseless precipitation
had leeched out the pigments
from these lifeless cells
creating smears of
****** burgundy
that colored the sidewalk
like a toddler with chalk.

We are human
Walking traumas
Left untreated
Open wounds
Being leeched
To treat
The wrong fever
It is incongruous
Being inoculated
Against the wrong disease
Vaccinated with apathy
So we don’t feel
The sores that bleed

But you have to laugh

We are mortal
Not merely men
Nor women
More like
All the things
Around and in-between
Searching
Sub-consciously
For peace
Trying to sustain ourselves
While losing
Everyone else
Crying

But you have to laugh

We are little boxes of flesh
Lego people made to fit together
Chipped
Scratched
Lost and found
Each stress tearing at our flesh
Rending our skin
Like a thresher
Building internal and external pressure
Till we need release
****** and or emotional

But you have to laugh

Ready to cry
Sometimes
We are ready to die
Till the brain twitches
Till the broken switches
Leave you in stiches
And you see something strange
Irony or absurdity
Life twisted in its purity
On the verge of exploding
Not really knowing
But something hits
Something fits
Presses the right button
Slapstick
Stupidity
Intellectual curiosity
Sanity flipped on its heels

But you have to laugh

A chortle a choking gasp
The tension breaks
The air whooshes past
You have no control
You have to laugh
The world doesn’t change
Much
The feelings are still there
But with each laugh
It gets easier to bare
It’s a chemical reaction
With endorphins and stuff
But I don’t think you care
It’s just what you needed
To fight off the despair

So I say it again you have to laugh

She was like a force of nature
Manipulative, dangerous and beautiful.
Without even looking at you
she could make you feel insignificant
She made you feel pathetic
But when she looked at you it was worse,
those cold, bitter eyes fixed on yours
and she saw so deeply into your mind
that your security leeched
out of your fingertips
like spilt milk.
Those soft, harsh lips would twitch,
and her eyes would mock you.
She oozed feline contemptuousness.
But you were hooked,
from the word go, you needed her.
She was your ******
And without even knowing it you were hers.
There was something delicious about her
something refreshingly suffocating,
like a rib tightening power-cut shower.  
She lovingly despised you,
couldn’t bear the beautiful sight of you,
and pinched the backs of your arms with violent affection.
When the text came through my world jolted,
something shifted as the realisation
of a different existence slotted into place.
In only a few digitally transported words
of no deliberation,
the person I required most had stopped my heart.

Eyes have been following me all day long
So many different shades, uncountable pairs-
But so few variations of the looks given
Some haunting, some giving companionship
But unoriginally, both provoking emotion the same.

I was blessed by just a mere few individuals
Who caught my eye momentarily in unnoticed secrecy
Gesturing appreciation for what I loudly stand for
And continuing my flow of happiness for others to share
But some currents were stopped.

The waters halted in tracks dried up
By desertion of carriers unwilling and uncaring
They pushed the shared joys out to dry land and their imagined flames
And waded to the company of criminals targeting me, and me alone
Latching their imagined fangs to the very passage used in good intention.

I caught a thief in the act
Though she didn't care about concealing her hateful crime
Nor the enjoyment benefitted from reactions provoked
In fact, she reveled in feigning attempt to hide her malice
And went so far as to turn away to sneer.

She drained me today, and drains me still tonight
But, I'm still winning this game I don't play
Knowing that when she turns to marvel at stolen goods
Her lifeless eyes will be met by a familiar pitiful failure experienced earlier today
When my smile, although quivering, remained unturned.

What was leeched out by this parasite of a woman, is not what was sought
I am well learnt in the tastes of beings undeservingly living
And remained lifetimes ahead of her worthless scheme
My dear, I live with the devil who's art you mimic quite insultingly
And tonight, differences aside, we turn together to sneer.

Paraphrasing:

Oxygen feedback don’t
provoke me;
I relieve
all the need
plasticized lips to a
nail gun at
your forebrain
steal yourself a jacket;
don’t **** around
my home
when the freeze
follows every
sinkhole step
your fat toes

fall away

Let me de-muck
that nonsense:

Met a gal,
I did
name was Hannah,
spat mucosal ****
between my duck feet
And my tasseled spine
H   e av  e  d, hu rrr led at
T   he s i   g  ht o     f
M  y   s ki n

But I cracked and ground
my molars and I
gobbled that aching
dejection & snickering
and commanded she

****!

vanish
so it was

OK

for **** near three seconds
three
two
one

till she re-arrived
and rebuked a gull’s shade
for looking too much like
me and I
loved
her

now and
again and
three second
place trophies ago
she brushed me first

with that formidable
brilliance
a third of what
that beauty,

****!

that body
was gifted with
poison
that leeched
through palms
to my nerves

them bones

and out again

Take a look inside my home:

I live in a Dream because Reality
hurts
leeched on by long tendrils and roots
wrapping, resting
around my nervous system
that plant seeds in my mind,

"She's so *fly,
perfectly alike,
On the call, on the go for
me,
no questions asked.
Our personalities
bare and unmasked."

But only inside my head
can this hopeless reality be watered.

i.
one dark night as
i left my silent house
the long driveway
lay itself before me
i looked back, down
from the driveway's
apron at the street
the house unlit
seemed almost
brooding back in
it's dark wood

ii.
the half turn at the
ancient oak, which leans
out over the driveway,
aching for light, and then
the gentle sweep of curve,
along the line of
stately maples, which
turn such a lovely
golden red in autumn

iii.
i could just make
out the main
entrance and chimney
side, the bedroom wing
hidden behind the
dense understory
of viburnum
it seemed to me
that Maple Ridge,
secreted as it was
back in Darkwood,
was much like the
life of the people
dwelt within

iv.
the dark and the brooding
had touched those lives,
like mourners on the edge
of some young lover's grave,
there in that dark wood,
the woman had believed
the man who dared
that love might conquer all,
and that being subdued,
had seemed better than
mere surrender

v.
but now, that bitterness
had leeched into
these very walls,
i had paused, in this
heart-stopping notion,
to ask myself what if
these mourners dwelt
there in this dark wood,
unobserved and naked,
now buried, in this silent
wood

the cracking concrete stairway practically reeks darkness
this is the entrance to the labyrinth.
step by step constantly downward until the sliver of sun that you always thought would be visible has finally disappeared
and left nothing but the blinking of the dim artificial light broken by time.
the warmth you surely felt outside has been leeched away
leaving a constant chill to raise the hairs on your arms
every time the ghost of a subway train emerges from the depths of the tunnels to all sides.
crude steel and fissured tiles paint the portrait of the lives that have passed through here
the tracks making no distinction between foreigner and local as they dole out their fates.
and every rushing train blurring the shadowy lights of the tunnel
reaffirms your suspicion that this is a vessel through a vortex in disguise as a breaking down train.
and as the doors slide open once the wheels lock and screech in agony until the momentum is stopped,
take caution
for the city you exited from into the subway
may not be the same you’ll enter here.

Inspiration blossomed
Between the layers of experiences
Cataloged in the folds of her mind
It extended down
Rooting itself behind her deep eyes
And brightening them until they outshone
Any star that graced the evening sky
Pigment leeched into her cheeks
And pulled them back revealing a brilliant smile
As the tendrils of thought unfurled into her body
Her shoulders slumped
Her arms relaxed
And she wrapped her infected fingers around the paintbrush
Which began to dance
And the only sound heard
Was the bristled feet scuffing the white canvas floor
Leaving tracks of royal blue, rich purple and green
After hours of their tireless dance
She released the brush and stepped back
Her imagination had splattered her clothing and hands
And slowly she allowed her eyes to roam
The workings of her mind

It's been a while, but you're recognized
from when we went to school.
You and I have hooked up before,
nothing of ****** relations.
But when you popped up on my screen,
I'll admit there was hesitation.

You push and push then suddenly pull,
don't know if it's a game.
but against my better judgement,
I swiped right anyway.
there you instantly shot a message,
and picked up where we left off.

Before i know it I'm in a car,
the windows are all fogged up.
Hands to my *******, I'm in your lap,
your lips leeched to my neck.
mind screams "No, what are you doing?"
But my body says "Pleasure me."

If that night wasn't enough,
we met the very next day.
Went back to his and like before
He had his way with me.
Guilty conscience plays repeat,
to this day I probably shouldn't have done it.

He pushed for plans where I didn't have time,
It was either work or moving.
Eventually told me he was done playing around,
but i thought *** was all he wanted.
Told him I was moving 6 hours away
That I couldn't hold that type of connection.

I haven't heard from him
nor have I seen him since
But now that I'm 6 hours away
I've lost all form's of connection
In a new town, filled with new people
It was crazy, but I felt lonely.

Where went wonder,
Magic and thunder
Wonder pulled asunder,
My miracles sunk under
Faster than floating castles
Those rascals got chills,
Their wide eyed wills
Thwarted with skill
And practiced 'goodwill'
Slowly filled by pills that ****
I'm I'll.

Petty, weak, pithy,
Silly society, limp and flaccid
Our goals and dreams
Scratched with acid, I'll pass it.
Thrashing, clashing, crashing
I'll break these chains
Breaking our bent brains
Bringing pain, no gain
All gains
I'm scared, stunted, strained
Stained, not changed
Brain-maimed I'm afraid
To stay, say what I see
I see deceit, pretty and neat
Row on row on row
In cages we built below.

Those C.O.D kills ****
Not them, but us,
Oh, less, less of us
No trust, we rust and cuss
Our silly grins grimly thin
Flowing through holes holes we made
In our soul, berefit
Leeched of life and full of ****.

Dreams were taken, or left,
And ambition theft.
Nothing to reach for, to dream for
To clutch at
To rip your limits, tear your seams,
What has been was never seen.
Our stunted dreams slowly wean.

People make no sense,
Too much confidence for competence
And social stigma indents
Empty houses, homeless, and rent
Knowledge, not power,
-but freedom gone sour
Knowing you can't change the cruel
Its in the rules to be a fool!
Its......cool?

If we are the world,
oceans are curdled.
Stars are waning, fading
Dropping from skies like dead flies
They burn up, out, and die
Choked in the smoke we provoked
Insidious ideals appeal;
A dream stealing spiel with zeal
Leeching you like your wallet the day
Of the 'no pay' car unpaid.
And now, with nowhere to go
And nowhere to stay,
Not even dreams left,
They took that away

Sometimes I dream of flight,
Of racing up into the gaping jaws of the night sky,
Consumed by the famished heavenly heights,
Addicted to the notion of liftoff into the atmosphere,
Drinking the aroma of the wind,
And gazing in wonder at the luminescence of the stars.

Sometimes I dream of flight,
Enveloped by the vibrations and sensation of roaring jets,
As the warm drafts of air flow like a stream,
Sanguine emotions rush through a euphoric mind,
An eye peers out to partake in blinding sunlight
And the illusions and delusions fade into confusion.

Sometimes I dream of flight,
But quickly the realization strikes like a sledgehammer,
What moments ago was a genuine consciousness,
Is leeched away into veracious truth,
The real world looms and awaits my waking,
Although never will I give up that dream of flight.

winding ways of moss grown stone
lead me down this path I've known
when we met and starlight shone
I said goodbye to life alone.

my painted picture differed
yours was a sculpture, Sun bleached
mine was coal, from strain leeched
a fate Id hoped, to tell no
but gods are cynical, time shows

here again I am and stand
forgotten how to lay down
feel my mind turn to sand
a mindset that live found
creases beside blue eyes
shows how much that I've grown
echoes in my empty soul
speaks to effort blood sewn

I am weary but I cannot cease my toil
I have wasted enough time on frivolous pursuits
Yet they are my only respite from the world placed upon my shoulders
The dark softness of the night sky beckons me away from my work and wakefulness
But I cannot cease!
I cannot rest, no matter the personal cost! For the consequence of my failing shall be a much higher toll!
My future in turmoil
My family flummoxed
The joy of my life leeched away by ghoulish specters I cannot fight off, only bow before
And I want it all to end--yet I wish to live my dreams and fulfill my hopes!
Woe be to the laborer who serves the demands of those they love!
No rest seems unselfish, no indulgence is guiltless, the self is stripped away to become a slave of the labors of love!
O sleepless rest! O restless sleep!
How I long for the simpler days of childhood!
How I long for the sweet sleep of the innocent, to which I can never return!
Woe be to the weary soul!

As you break my heart without a second thought,
I felt my soul leak from the fissures of my metaphorical heart.
Rivulets of sweat roll down my tanned cheeks,
and energy is leeched out of me.

I'm a lifeless, yet emotional corpse.

Yet, you go to Him.
You can't see through his lies, but you fall for his persona.

In a place where love begun;
Where time has finally gave birth to the sun
The fire that illuminates the darkest night;
Reflected by the moon..A glowing light

In a place where the stars seats and rest;
A wonderful scene at night wishing for the best
In an empty bucket, we drink and drown;
With the pain of knowing we can never be found

Fall forward to a million light-years away;
Where your consciousness drifts while your body stay
Imagining the vast universe within your palm's reach;
A dream-scape for the weary minds when a soul weakens slowly being leeched

Give some and take some a balance for the loathsome;
That will never happen in the case of the lonesome
When one feels living means just to slowly die;
Evaporates like water, a sorrowful rain as they cry

I give no answers I ask no questions;
I seek for the truth with my own explorations
I bleed out hope I breathe in faith;
To survive a life of a never ending hate

Crawling through the forest
The effort is outrageous
There is no time to rest
The excitement is contagious

Slowly traversing the expanse
The only movement, forward
Behind is spared not a glance
The goal is set and strived, toward

Now the goal is reached
And as he rests upon the peak
He cannot move, energy is leeched
But he rest content, this is no defeat

For the Bug
Crawling on my leg

Once upon a time
in a land very close to home
a young girl sat and swayed low
in the old swing
on the street
its twisted rope gnarled and rubbed at her hands as she gripped it
swaying ever higher
higher towards were the tree had swallowed it up
growing all around and into the rope
so that is swung down like a golden necklace,
discolored and thinning
angel incarnate a breathing trinket at its helm
the wind blowing off the dead heat of the setting sun
made her whip her head
and look up into the shelter of the tree
for many years it had stood there
swaying and spreading and thriving
all for its own purpose
but today, it had given the last of its great strength
to the little rope swaying oh so gently
and to the little girl resting oh so peacefully
on that splintered board that snagged and bit at her legs
but the tree had grown weak
and the bugs and vines had leeched its strength long ago
and in the joyful peak of her swaying pivot
she reached level with the dieing branch
and with the last moaning crack of defeat
it was set free from the tortured life it had lived
as she went sailing blissfully ignorant
towards the magenta pink and violet purple streaks
of the sun setting over the hills in the distance,
the end