"spilts" poems
When going out he would wear handcuffs
in case he committed a crime. A mistake,
or rather, a misunderstanding. In rusty
vintage handcuffs, in an age of Unschuld,
his hunger for the white statue lies bleeding.
The dingy leather jacket still smells like his
old basement, and reminds him of every
whisper at those hurtful, mindless
nights - you cannot wash out the blood. It ends
with a diminutive scream.
An angry old man with a Walther pistol, going nowhere,
going everywhere, breathes out Visage-Beatha, a box
full of Ashes, snores when the bullets run out.
Chin up, chest out, do what a soldier do the best,
would you? Look ahead, turn left -
Wait, wait, please!
… *Give ‘em a mask,
they’ll tell you anything*.
The last piece of skin fell off his back when he
heard his bones crashed. An empty sleeve too.
Open his mouth, look for a rightful darkness -
but hey, who said that ****** never hurts?
They remember, you know, remember dying,
remember being dead, and die again.
There’s no _____ left in her eyes,
(you can’t tell just by
lookin’ at them anymore),
only the star on her left shoulder
Still remains the frame.
A cold laugh.
The orange juice spilts.
Outside the purple chapel, he smiles into the local
dirt, like a cupcake, looks for a vermin of walking to beat.
To him, after all, Jesus means no more than a name either.
…
Yet his heart still pumps with Ecstasy at every April, and when
he scratches the tattoo on his chest, (which looks no
less than an idea),
he looks for the handcuffs.
And those hair never grow back.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 6:33 AM UTC
Waves grasp and grab and grind
Unstoppable power
Fueled with anger
The skies lower
Turning black
Bellowing cries strike the rock
Jagged shore spilts the sea
The waters churn and swipe
Before the cry of the wind
Sends the tide into fury
Rearing and kicking
Into the sky
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
My pen is bending
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Should
I
Write
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My eyes are blind
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Should
I
Drive
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When my lights dim
The clips break
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I’m struggling
Too hold everything together
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My sky view shows a pilot twist
The sunset spirals while my flight dies
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I see the windshield break
But I believe a blank canvas can still blink
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I’m suffering
Too keep my passion from being passed on
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• The break down on the dead end •
• My pen scribbles life into existence •
•The one way spilts my paper into gray•
•My drive collided with my sight of color•
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The love of life
Drifts away
While my
Bullets create
Turns of O-pens
Circling back around
Too the plot of sunrises
The light begins a new trip
The wind brings back the shattered pieces
The glass is finally made to be seen through
And I start to see outside the review
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 1:05 AM UTC