"puppeted" poems
I walk this dismal dark and damp dungeon
Long dark the phantom am i;
Strolling I now take icy breaths;
Mystery lies within my realm;
Far faint foot echoes announce my impending doom
I embark upon my midnight
Echoeing chamber room
It's chains that puppeted victims that had
Screamed for their end and at last,
I had giggled laughed and touched their quivering chest
And felt their fading warmth
Then into oblivion casted they were by me
This dark stone its chilling floor
Where rodents squeek and scurry about,
My only pets and friends I know
Suddenly I hear as HEAVY VOICES of my approaching DOOM
POUNDING FISTS and swinging logs against my dungeon door and room
I curse the empending light by
Their torches casting beams
Bound from hell and its slithering horrid beam fingers
Under my dungeon door
I curse my end by angered pounding fists
Hell bound to see my end to be
What cursed blackened night just lies
A distant short,
A breathless world my oblivian beckons me by hounds
Of DOOM,
My parts be scattered h e l t e r s k e l t e r
My inners thrown upon old wooden beams above
Soon i will leave this loveless world i made,
i foretell and kiss only an empty space goodbye,
Waiting first ****** deep within my flesh to be
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
And if you say that they are the rulers,
then what are we?
Dedicated fools behind a blind notion.
Puppeted by clever puppeteers.
There are better things to come than those which we leave behind.
I might agree
But my mind is already made.
This world is planned ruins,
And we are the veins.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
Abiding in tidy quarters
In which space I will confine
But my life is full of hoarders,
Pack things rashly in my mind
Some more obvious, some more subtle
Seems likely I'll never
See through the rubble.
Rational thought can be transferred
Transplaced
Deterred
Through the nostalgia of a *** once stirred
Finding divets of respect
For those who expect me
To level at their self inflicted debt
Is beyond words that come to be
Break the dams down of succession
Find my daily dosed oppression
Is within the people I reside
I can't run, cause they know where I hide.
Move with me; I've moved with you
Contorted into mentalities by body couldn't do
Just to watch you stay untrue
I can't reflex anymore,
I'm deadened to your dramatic lores.
Done waiting for the progress
For reciprocation past due
Cause I'm waiting to wane this fever,
And the antidote's not you.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
Religions persist on personal prohibition, it puts all the blame onto you for someone else's sinful personification.
Ideological love is how they live but there's no restriction on perdition of a mythological god above. I'd rather be the son of perdition than the folly of lambs.
Too exhausted to audition for a man of clay puppeted by people who belive in the same puppet that once traversed their lands.
To die and be locked in the Land of silence, Land of desolation, a World in December, Purgatory is sounding better and better.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
Frankly, this feeling of vulnerability and weakness is so very consuming.
The undeniable fact that my heart is puppeted by those gossamer wisps of daydreams and
of course,
you
remains etched in my skin.
I cannot quite
let you go
because that would
simply
mean
I will let me go too.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
and the gentle desert song
reaching out and thru
with visions of a spendor and grace
unto
our abandoned boys and girls
fed with visions of war
and hate
....
.....
the road is long
there is no turning back
there is no going forward
there is only abuse
of every sacred song
every sung
----
the desert heat beneath the holy sun
the mild desert fresh scented air
the poison of war that is everywhere
-------
the gentle people
and the hate
a simple marriage
forced by "the kings"
powerlessly puppeted
we repeat
what it is
we are told to say
---
---
somewhere...sometimes
maybe "here"
"today"
the sleeping people
will come awake
and maybe
it might be you
once again holy
once again true
--
--
and the gentle desert song
reaching out and thru
with visions of a spendor and grace
unto
our abandoned boys and girls
fed with visions of war
and hate
....
.....
Aug 14, 2010
Aug 14, 2010 at 11:26 AM UTC
Its easy to forget, really
That there's blood in all this
It is there though, I assure you
It grows, like flowers in a field
It manifests
Like this sense that we are right
We are golden
We are free
That we and only we
can be bound by this righteousness
A small community of flag wavers
Each with a small, rolled up copy of the constitution up their ****
The blood is there, I swear it
I am quite sure
With every living and breathing limb
A member of the politicians puppeteer act
And for this emblem
(Everyone must wear it we say!)
We shall flood the red sea
So let us suppose it is a chess game
That is how it seems to me
Perhaps blood is merely a figment
A placebo for patriotism
In this chess game
We wave our flag as puppeted
Hope, dance, howl and pray for a checkmate
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC