"razored" poems
Witchy witch your
hair swirls about like
an ash-filled firestorm
Lips of razored glass
cut my throat and my
cry of pleasure is a
coughing bloodspray
Witchy witch I thought
I'll take you naked in boiling
cauldronwater
wet hair skeining over
******* shadowcupped like
two ripe halfmoons
I knew your hair was red
down there too
and in you I'm burning until my
skinnerves are eaten
and I can feel naught but
in you I take your hair like
Fenrir's fireleash
and pull me deeper into your
fleshrose
Witchy witch I thought
your throaty cries meant
I'd tamed you I thought
I am dead because you are
flown
and with you
life
Witchy witch
come back sometime
with wings
of heady night
I wait for you
dead
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
Th poems were walking down the street
A young teenage girl,
A Professional Loser, but life lessoned and in possession of
Eagled-claws and tongue razored sharpened
From gettin/givin acidic high school barbed kisses
(She maintained up to date put down lists),
Swooped them up, hers to imprison,
Framed them to be soully hers,
Purposed for skin restoration during the wee hours of the
Crying Nights
A middle aged man, tired from failure,
Trapped tween lost rock n' roll dreams and
Unsuccessful retirement planning,
Suffocated by the hands of twixt and tween,
Grabbed the three, like a rock climbing hand-hold to
Take him home when and where his family looks at him
Pathetically.
This grandfather espied the other two,
Looked liked old familiars, friends maybe,
But eyes/words, dimmed, disparu,
Memories unsorted, disordered, jumble-merged,
Perhaps the words to a song he once knew complete,
But did he write that phrase, or was he just a poet
Thief?
The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
*FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.*
They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
Paid as in the past tense
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
1
The chards rising. Am I the praying bird?
In the gleaming sun my bones are negative,
My flesh a cypher walking through the plains
As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me
Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused,
Your pointed face divining oblivion,
And no redemption in the rains of my
Cliff walk days.
2
I see my shroud pinning on the wires
His legs are razored forks spinning my
Compass from True North. Your dark brush-
Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings
My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn,
Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks
My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger
As they slice.
3
Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething
Bone, spades my hand without a flight.
Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one
I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar,
Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed
To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on
Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks
On extended wings.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
~for r a/k/a rrr a/k/a woody~
“I will always remember you”
raise you hand if honesty
yet lives inside your muscle
memory of brain, of heart,
there is no one here who hasn’t
uttered them fool lying words
with difficulty we struggle to up
raise faces and places, moments
and images no longer mirrored
within the frontmost places of
our recollection, that searing then,
itself scorched, lichen+moss covered,
our greatest pains, pleasures sworn
allegiances to these razored inflection
points, now scoured by rusty hazes,
and we wonder what has become
of us, what we valued so to savor
as forever memories, their names
gray lady shrouded, and there is
no internet site to aid in self-recovery,
for our selfish selves have been altered,
time, new loves, guilt and other stuff
intersect with mind’s eyes and no mas-
more synapses paths instant linkages
I know you will vociferously argue but
it is almost physical, our shame at losing
them and ourselves, in the morass that
time digs daily deeper for what grieves
us is that losing as the end rushes to close
our story, makes us pick up pen and finger
scratch as best we can inside the lines on
our faces that are/had proofs, witnesses,
that once, we were there at the places,
whose names are no longer mapped any
where, so deep, no archivist’s submersible dare
fathom those fathom’s darkest we would need
to explore without the possibility that we
might implode if we sunk so far to rip apart sea
forests we knowingly, secret-planted to coverup
her memory, the words spoken, the oaths
and promises, we swore, for instance, simply
by saying, “I will always remember you”
p.s. and my self-shaming so great, that my
asking for forgiveness is buried so fast, it
may, not ever been real, just another fiction
Jul 6th, 8:36 AM,
Jul 7, 2023
Jul 7, 2023 at 6:42 AM UTC
I think you cut my skin a little deeper
With a razored tongue last night.
I think I froze your heart a little colder
With the ice of my barren eyes.
I think you braved my silent darkness
And I your hurricane of words.
I think we both drowned a little deeper
In the quiet of these unknown woods.
I know this place is un-ventured
Its terrain feels new to my feet.
I know the mountain has loomed higher
As the path unfolds longer beneath.
But still I saw that gentle shimmer
Like sunlight off the water, in your eyes.
I think you felt my soft surrender
To the warmth of your skin next to mine.
I feel the mist is clearing
Revealing a view that’s brand new.
I know that my heart is still holding
To your heart, and my smile is with you.
I know that your feet walk by my feet
Though we each step in different time.
I know that I always can find you
Because your path is close to mine.
I think that our skins will be healing
As a delicate layer grows through.
I think that our love will be stronger
As appreciation sinks inside me and you.
I love you more each day I see you
More as those eyes recognize mine.
I love you for cutting me deeply
And bringing a new light in me to life.
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
I wish you told me that wounding my knees was a part of the joy and that my hair already looked perfect in waves, and that bedtime stories weren't lame. I wish you told me these when I was a kid, instead of giving me the cliche ******** — those spilled stories over spilled beers about how you were forced to marry Mom instead of that girl named Beth.
We were caught in a story, the one with that school money thoughtlessly flung on the floor, road trips arguments and drunk-driving over eighty, and nonexistent goodnight kisses and hugs. As a kid, I believed those were the indicators of affection and love. But they're not and had I known that earlier, I wouldn't have stayed with someone who walked all over my mental health
with someone who took me on a desk and spit knives in his drunken slurs,
with someone who dialed another girl's number while thinking I was asleep,
with someone who only dialed my number while he thought his girl was asleep,
with someone who faded in the curtains after he saw my razored wrists,
with someone who said I was his ***** and called it his idea of love.
Had I known it earlier, I wouldn't have trusted men who hurt me just as you had. Had I known it earlier, I wouldn't have stayed with someone who had a ****** up notion of what love was. Had I known it earlier, I wouldn't have stayed with someone who was exactly like you.
Dad, had I known earlier that abuse wasn't supposed to be confused with love, I would have stayed alone.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 10:43 PM UTC
With eyes of black obsidian
And eagle's beak of nose
Black turban of the Taliban
Worn everywhere he goes,
Warrior of God's mountainside
Mujaheddin, known by name,
Pashto is his verbal tongue
And Allah's quest, his fame.
Razored knife in braided belt
Long"Jezail"musket points to sky,
A gimlet glint to garnet gaze
One thoughtless move , you die.
Gliding fast from rock to rock
Gazelle like in his easy grace,
Silent as an adder's strike
Assassin black with turbaned face.
For centuries invaders came
To vanquish this stark land,
Persians,Romans, Russians
And British redcoats tried their hand.
And recently the Yankees
Came with automated war,
To find themselves engulfed
And fleeing for the exit door.
Inexorable Afghanistan
Has bleached their bones as one
Vendetta for the insult
While there's air to breath and gun.
Like Shah Massoud, the warlords
Descend from mountain cave
To slaughter all who venture
Be they terrified or brave.
Tribally disconnected
From Islamabad to Kabul,
Tajik versus Pashtun
Versus Koranic Islam's rule.
No prisoners are taken,
The women always use their knives
And ravines echo shockingly
As tortured slowly lose their lives.
But the sunsets are glorious
Valley mists by morning rise
And row by row of fractured peaks
Rise in grandeur to blue skies.
And the children croon to goat herds
As they graze high meadow's green
And above the taloned goshawk glides
Ever watchful and unseen.
Hulks of Russian gun ships
Litter valleys and the plain
And the ghosts of many nations
Walk these dusty roads of shame.
For the legacy of the Afghans
Is a ****** litany of war
And the road to their tomorrow
Is paved with promises of more.
Marshalg
Wanganui
30 December 2009.
www.worthyofpublishing.com
www.hellopoetry.com
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
It is not so much as I feel it completely
All consumingly, madly, inexorably,
Yet it comes in like the tide
It caresses me until those moments where it dashes my body against the razored cliffs.
It is like a radio that never turns off to give me a semblance of wistfulness rather it gives voice to my demons until all I can do is cover my ears to the technicolor sound.
Is the silence I relentlessly pursue? or is to be finally engulfed by the mercurial sea? I had a dream, where I sank slowly into the depths and it was the most wonderful sleep. Even now sometimes in the witching hour, where silence and shadows is permeated only by my thoughts I think how nice it would be to slowly sink into the unconscious - as the breath is pulled from my lungs and my mind finally gives into the silence I crave. Where my unrest from the grave rises and pulls me in for the last embrace
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 2:13 PM UTC
The footprint of this place
is a freshly razored face.
Mother Earth’s been ‘beautified.’
trees, grass, roots, shrubs,
stubble shaved from the chin,
neck and face smooth.
Underneath this house.
The whiskers have been shaved
she’s dolled up
But in gruff’s stead
there’s a wart on her face
A fossilized, mortared blackhead.
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:11 PM UTC
Never again
in the swirling maelstrom
will we dance together.
Your firey eyes
cut to the bone,
and in the flicker of a dying fire
I can barely see
that I am once again alone.
I once compared you to a fallen angel,
all glowing sword, and a fist
shaking in defiance of the heavens.
But, the horror, the horror of this sorrow
is a razored rain, falling in torrents.
I cannot ever touch you again.
I would rather drown,
in the blood, shed by this shower,
than to never again waver
in ecstasy, beneath the thrumming genius
of your potent power.
Oh, but sorrow, bitter sorrow,
I shall never again dance with you
in the swirling maelstrom.
Forgive me, lovely creature,
I knew not what I had done.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
1
The chards rising. Am I the praying bird?
In the gleaming sun my bones are negative,
My flesh a cypher walking through the plains
As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me
Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused,
Your pointed face divining oblivion,
And no redemption in the rains of my
Cliff walk days.
2
I see my shroud pinning on the wires
His legs are razored forks spinning my
Compass from True North. Your dark brush-
Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings
My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn,
Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks
My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger
As they slice.
3
Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething
Bone, spades my hand without a flight.
Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one
I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar,
Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed
To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on
Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks
On extended wings.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
The sweetness of love
by night is fated to sour
as the blood drips
like dewdrops from every bower,
your face milky pale
as a lily, deathliest of flowers.
You fail to look at me, you,
steeped in your own greed
without care for my needs,
eyes close as I choke on midnight blues,
the moonlight reflecting
your every hue; those the shades
of parting, the last taste of fruit.
Alone with the trees, each breath of air
is an utterance, a whisper gifted to the wind,
inside recalling the bones
of bitterness and sin;
those the days of torment, sliced skin
on razored leaves. In darkness
it is the flesh alone that heeds.
Stood hopeless; our thoughts like
blossoms strewn upon mud -
blown apart by the shuddering gulf
that drowned us in the flood.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 7:47 AM UTC
it takes 8 hours and 1 minute to get to Gansevoort Street
they say to truly love someone
you must know them through all four seasons
barricaded branches prevented you from coming February 6th
black leather interior seemed like the perfect place
to evaporate
like a cigarette outside Baby Huey
punch holes in your arm like a belt
so a finger can’t trace it
without being caught
hornets under Dixie cups
razored wings carve out this body
phantom knee, nerve extension
push your thumb into its stump
regret pushing the willow
walking the length of dead grass to a childhood hub
a reminder of which sits on your bedside
as an 8-year-old pilot
spearheading a UAV to TOR
Dundas Square sees you in an amber light.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
I sit by the window waiting…
The sun breaking through…
Hoping to exile night’s perfidy
With sharp stiletto’ed, piercing
Razored orange rays…
But why does the sun wear a grey shroud?
Blighted, saddened…
As it looks down upon my
Forlorn soul behind the lonely window
The nightingale that sang its melody
Yesterday, with gay abandon…
The little shrub in my patch
Pining in loneliness all alone,
Had given cause to the little bird
Offering a crimson flower each dawn
For it to celebrate love
Dance, rejoice life, sing its beautiful song
Lies withered, the bloom gone
Who broke whose heart…and why?
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
1
The chards rising. Am I the praying bird?
In the gleaming sun my bones are negative,
My flesh a cypher walking through the plains
As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me
Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused,
Your pointed face divining oblivion,
And no redemption in the rains of my
Cliff walk days.
2
I see my shroud pinning on the wires
His legs are razored forks spinning my
Compass from True North. Your dark brush-
Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings
My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn,
Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks
My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger
As they slice.
3
Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething
Bone, spades my hand without a flight.
Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one
I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar,
Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed
To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on
Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks
On extended wings.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
The Largest Lie
The midnight shelter of time
Buried you bottomless somewhere
in the recesses of my mind.
Deep deep down
In the crevices of my spine
where vague sketches of yesterday
were all that I could find.
There, where the shadows and flashes
of memories reside
unleashed moments crawl to the surface -
begging for light.
Urging to make you real again
In this space and in this time.
I am reminded of the signs
I am re-minded of the signs
I remember though even without signs.
Because love is not blind but with stealth and slither she
Creeps from behind and buries the me that was me before she was…
Never mine,
But a mere image cut deeply into the layers of my mind and she carved time with ragged- razored lines.
I can not find.
I will not find her – the one to shine the broken edges the others left behind.
I am a catalyst for the crime, which is time spent cowered in my mind spinning tirelessly through eras of tragedy and romantic grime.
Will you please be mine?
Just one last time
Will you please be mine?
And help me to outshine my bloodline that tangles with the soulshine of these withered chimes!
My lifeline relies on the moon’s shrine that assigns your skyline to my shore line.
Watch me climb back into the sublime
roots of divine nothingness –
the grand design.
Nothingness is the grand design!
Riddled by centuries of symbols and rhyme.
Now is the time!
Now is the only time!
To reflect on and refine the largest lie!
Love is not real for she is loneliness in disguise.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 1:54 AM UTC
I got my hair cut
Again
Yesterday
In a small salon the filthy streets of Philadelphia's Chinatown;
The golden eagle
Appropriately named as I always feel wings lift me when I leave
Though the streets are grey and black with dirt and grime,
The salon is clean, chic, and welcoming
First one young lady with limited English swept me up to be dropped into the care of a second who washed my hair and luxuriously massaged my scalp with exquisitely long nails
Then I was led over to a swivel chair to ponder my reflection and bat my legs as a little child, waiting on Kelly for my grown up haircut
At last Kelly was free, and she too whisked me over to her mirror
In her most exceptional care she cut and thinned and cut and razored and thinned and cut some more
Her fingers flew, running through my hair and seeming to drop pieces of hair by magic
At last she styled and stepped back nervously asking if I liked it
Quickly scrutinising it, running my fingertips over the much-shortened hair, I looked up
And grinned
I love it
The bangs barely long enough to brush my eyebrows
The back as short as a boys, bristling when I rub it the wrong way
The front long and soft enough for tousling but short enough to stay out of my way
If I envelope my head in my hands I can easily trace the contours of my scalp
As though a couple silk scarves were draped over a barren skull
I was told I look like Emma Watson or Audrey Hepburn or a boy
But I love this
They're both stunning women
And I don't mind shocking a few old ladies with the surprise that this "strong young man" is I'm fact a girl
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
There no longer is light in once brightly lit blue eyes
The light has faded being overrun by
Rotting alone with the steam of the bath drawn
High in heat and low in self esteem
She sits wrinkling in her own decaying moods
The razored edge pressed against the bite plain palm of her left hand
The nails on her right too bitten and bruised from a nervous tick
That was earned over the formidable years of solitude
In the presence of a man, women or child
She chewed those nails untill only ****** stumps remained
To hold the blade against the skin
As she slits the frightened skin, it splits open against the cool metal
Repeatedly freezing her dead beating heart
Giving jumps to an amnesiac heart that forgot
The drums in which it beat alongside to the tune
Peeling at the edges to reveal a rotten core
Oozing with an unknown slime
The black coloured lumps of already clotted blood
From the twenty times before
She took the razor again in her hands
Again and
Again and over
Again.
Slowly and always she's been cutting off her life line
One slit of the vein at a time
Exposing the eroded mess of a body
And the tangles of a decomposing brain that is
Wishing away her life upon a dream
A dream inside the dream of a life that was not her own
The model who lives in anorexia, who cannot actually breathe
But it is what she wishes.
So her bones jut out like flags against the bathtubs silkiness
Her face is sunken, a hallowed place with no life
Her bones etched and engraved with years of fear
From the "dimples" and layers of fat that stuck to her like glue
The "flab" that was skin that hung loosely from her ribs
An aspiration that caused this illness
And set her on the course of searching for a homedial cure
Yet, she is not thin enough, so she cuts away the flesh upon her body
With salt mixing with soap
From her once bright blue eyes and
The suds within the steaming water
That lap against her skin like a cat tongue
Roughly tormenting her already devoured soul
A harsh reminder of what she could never have
So the resolution she came up was to carve away her insides
To give away her vitals to the poor children in the world
In an attempt to be rendered thin and to disappear from plain sight
But she still can't choose what stays and what fades away
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
Balanced at this point of time,
Fractious as the case may be
Cautioned as to why we men
Most unctiously, cross women flee.
Brought to heel by subtle stare
Insinuation lingering there,
Caught out short by razored phrase
Abruptly severing…outrage,
Castigated without word
Rendering rebuff absurd.
Yet born to kiss and stroke the brow
But ultimately lost, somehow,
That give and take,(with **** smile)
Demolished slow in time’s worn guile,
Angelic then, in evening light
Extinguished now with tension tight.
Standoff in the cold of dawn
Sees all affection now withdrawn.
Balanced at this point in time
An utter need to kick the dog
Retreat to haven’s dark tool shed
To mutter hurt and swallow grog.
M.
Composed, (with tongue in cheek), for a poor weak ****** who quickly saw his Heaven on Earth become Hell.
23 February 2017
HAMILTON NZ
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
1
The chards rising. Am I the praying bird?
In the gleaming sun my bones are negative,
My flesh a cypher walking through the plains
As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me
Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused,
Your pointed face divining oblivion,
And no redemption in the rains of my
Cliff walk days.
2
I see my shroud pinning on the wires
His legs are razored forks spinning my
Compass from True North. Your dark brush-
Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings
My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn,
Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks
My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger
As they slice.
3
Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething
Bone, spades my hand without a flight.
Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one
I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar,
Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed
To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on
Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks
On extended wings.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
1
The chards rising. Am I the praying bird?
In the gleaming sun my bones are negative,
My flesh a cypher walking through the plains
As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me
Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused,
Your pointed face divining oblivion,
And no redemption in the rains of my
Cliff walk days.
2
I see my shroud pinning on the wires
His legs are razored forks spinning my
Compass from True North. Your dark brush-
Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings
My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn,
Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks
My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger
As they slice.
3
Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething
Bone, spades my hand without a flight.
Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one
I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar,
Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed
To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on
Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks
On extended wings.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
***
Sending chills this tortured spine,
as aches precede the worded fiction
Sorted truth does rest sublime
beneath the light of benediction
Broken dreams of compass flair,
directions cast a blinded waning
Trusted roots abridge the square
of all that’s lost and is remaining
Washed along this fertile beach
of sanded hope and history
Tasting o’ thy patterned speech
as common phrases come to me
Desolate my cornered mind
of images I pray be true
Dangling the lost to find
retaliation in my view
Pray, oh be, as life does rattle
chains of only mist to turn
Laughter like some long fought battle,
in amongst we tend to learn
When the calling comes so random,
names are lost on open seas
One by one in columned tandem,
drenched of hell’s insanities
Take me to thy deepest haven,
so that I may find the end
Black as night o’ windswept raven,
come to me now once again
Razored claw and broken arrows,
filled with such, the violence
Playing through the endless narrows,
falling to my own expense
This, a life that's not worth living,
not this day, not anymore
Breaths so tethered in their giving,
pull the drapes and close the door
Take a seat your exits' waiting,
frozen hinges squeak in time
Find the map for navigating,
somehow through this wicked rhyme
Follow me, I know the heading,
down this staircase, up the hall
End those futile tears you're shedding,
she's not waiting for your call
Through this doorway stenciled broken,
toss your heart there on the floor
It is but a useless token,
you'll not need it anymore
You’re now privy to the meaning,
whether you do understand
Motioned light, this night is leaning,
let it take you by the hand
Now of time and missing portal,
through the lens of sights unknown
Nothing whispers you are mortal,
for this day you have been shown***
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
I live in a nation where the cow is worshipped,
and there is no king regnant,
but it’s funny, how the cow feast on crap,
and the farmer becomes a peasant.
I live in a nation of aye men,
who say aye to a baloney,
of media which protects the cow,
but let the peasant starve slowly.
I watch daily, the television debates,
where logic is razored by bigotry,
and no talks about the peasant,
gagged into silence by the authority.
I witness a bathtub getting sensationalized
when a mid-aged celebrity died,
the debt he’d laden of the dried crop,
no rain never did the sky cry.
He later worked as an indentured laborer,
for a landlord who drinks the cow’s ****
as a saffroned monk says it’s healthy,
way to the eternal bliss.
A student who sloganed for freedom
from the maw of poverty.
My media says he is a traitor,
and so is the entire university.
At least, let’s agree to disagree,
that is essential to a republic,
let freedom of speech not be seldom,
and never shall it cease to exist.
The peasant must die soon,
and no more shall he crouch in dread,
may someday he incarnate as a cow,
roams free on the city streets, and feast on free bread.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
my darkness came again today
on silent wings, a bird of prey
razored talons slashed and tore
the pain I felt, I feel no more
another lie I tell myself
the darkness seems to stay inside
the light is gone, I can not hide
they push their pills, and words
words of hope, I sit with people
wounded, injured,
hear their stories and wonder why
I sound like I have such a great life
no ***** no drugs, no hurting others
but these walking wounded
are like my sisters, my brothers
I feel an impostor in their midst
what's been so bad that I'm like this
they send you home
load you up with pills
this is going to cure your ills
so I sit tired and numb and wonder
is this what life is become
devoid of feelings that are real
the blessing of the little pill
hollow and empty just like before
keep on existing, on nothing subsisting
pretend that everything is ok
Wishing you could go away
maybe never even have been
spare the ones you love the pain
instead you walk around the world
push in the pain, the agony
waiting to be set free
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC