The mind of a black whole is one that’s continuously misunderstood
The eyes of planets, so cold and complex that they frighten those around
The soul of a demon but the conflicting true nature seeps in to stop the revolving time swarm from swallowing you in full
The overpowered burden of the depth of your past keeps the boiling revenge up on edge
The hands of Satan, cursed by fate and drenched in crimson of not yours, not mine, but all humanities.
The past on tradition has now been broken of where the flame dies and the ashes blow
But tradition is for the past, for others whom enjoyed, I’ll make our own tradition where the flame burns to ember and lives on forever
I provide the freedom to your chained personality and set it free, set you away from your own mind prison
You might be looked as a monster, a thing to be erased for existence but inside your shell is the one I need
Behind the mask that was given to you
Behind the life that you were brought into
Do not question your existence even though you’ll soon forget
Your existence is the meaning to all life around, and while I take your scarring memories and make them my own, I’ll replace them with me as your target,
Your reason for living
Your reason to fight
Your reason to learn
And your reason not to fade into an afterlife of separated thoughts
As long as you have a goal, as long as I know you’re safe I can still say to you everything that I’ve always wanted
And in a single moment I’m capable of crying
The cringing of my shattered breaths as I see the memories fade and evolve into someone that no longer knows me
No longer remembers me
No longer remembers that this curse I broke was not chosen by anyone but me
All there is now is hate
I’m such a hypocrite
I see the sadness in her eyes and express it on my face
And the lump in my throat is created by all of the many things that I have wanted to scream at that moment but sealed shut and swallowed
And in unbearable, unforgettable pain and guilt of not finding a better solution it stays there undecaying
Waiting for karma to find a punishment suitable enough for someone who was as much as a coward as me who stole his own life from himself
Turning his back on being human and suffocating the emotions that lie within him but allowed three words to escape his lips
I love you, I say as I watch your wide eyes vanish beneath the counterfeit heart I replaced in you
But it was the only way
As I ripped his love away from him but sheds the tears of the ghost of my former self
But that was before, my before self
My dead self
But it’s only a shadow as I’m taken in by darkness
Only thoughts now is how to destroy the life that once flowed in myself but still lingers
But it won’t show, because after all ghost of my past is only the outdated version of

myself

I REACH OUT TO THE GREAT UNKOWN
with the natural hesitance of a child
nursed on plastic american protestantism,
always prosperity gospel or pariah,
answers just hidden behind a preacher's palm;
in retrospect i wonder what questions those
republican suburbanites crippled in their hatred
came to submit at the foot of the cross.
saccharine and soulless every sunday,
the rot reliably festering under the church stage,
brimstone traded for the wasteland of undecaying concrete.
i was baptized by a stranger in stagnant water,
now swaddled in the arms of a man who is not my Father.
i'm always the cold one. bad circulation when i'm turning away.
that abattoir left a pulsating wound at the
center of my chest— starved weeping
sickly and red.
every sunday, the worst thing i could do was be honest.
i worship with my hands,
i falter for words;
i never got to know the Lord in my youth
because He never called me back.
i find fragments of Him in lovers' eyes—
fingertips glancing over flesh as if
forbidden fruit, sweet real and warmed by sunlight.
i think God was always this;
physicality, connection,
the simple intimacy of making someone else laugh.
the only time i ever felt devout
was when i was walking to get an arizona tea
at the gas station next to the church with my friends.
stumbling over asphalt still sincere in my vulnerability.

Immortal and undecaying these poems, I know, will die one day;
one day all fame and immortality will fall flat among the debris.
The Himalayas, the Twin Tower and the Great Wall of China
will be flying in the air like the light dry skins of onions.
The eyes of Newton and Einstein will be upturned;
upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars
will be falling down ceaselessly. Alas! where will be lost
for ever science, technology, art, literature, music and
paintings earned through thousand years?

When these poems will die one day; when all fame and immortality
will fall flat one day among the debris; when the Himalayas,
the Twin Tower and the Great Wall of China will be flying
in the air like the light dry skins of onions; when
the eyes of Newton and Einstein will be upturned; when
upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars
will be falling down ceaselessly; alas, when where will be lost
for ever science, technology, art, literature, music and
paintings earned through thousand years; that day, o God,
pour down those poems into my soul, listening to which,
all the nymphs and inhabitants of Paradise will start
dancing in joy.

I walk bearing such a soul which plays like a flute,
sings like a cuckoo, runs stirring murmuring sounds
like a spring and dances unfolding its feathers
like a pea-****. If I were not submerged utterly
into the darkness of the worldly life, my soul
would play such a way, your sky would start trembling;
it would sing such a way, the passers-by would remain
standing by speechless; it would run stirring murmuring sound
such a way, poems after poems would fall down into the souls
of the poets; and it would dance unfolding its feathers
such a way, the eyes of the beauty-lovers would be dazzled
in wonder. My soul is, as it were, a cuckoo that has
mistakenly entered a city; it sings songs but the outcry
of the machine-monsters does not let them enter
the ears of lords and ladies.

Immortal and undecaying these poems, I know, shall die one day; one day all fame and immortality shall fall flat among the debris. The Keokaradang, the Himalayas, the Twin Tower and the Great Wall of China shall be flying in the air like the light dry skins of onions. The eyes of Newton and Einstein shall be upturned; upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars shall be falling down ceaselessly. Alas, where will be lost for ever science, technology, art, literature, music and paintings earned through thousand years!

When these poems will die one day; when all fame and immortality shall fall flat one day among the debris; when the Keokaradang, the Himalayas, the Twin Tower and the Great Wall of China will be flying in the air like the light dry skins of onions; when the eyes of Newton and Einstein will be upturned; when upon those eyes, the blue ashes of the utterly destroyed stars will be falling down ceaselessly; alas, when where will be lost for ever science, technology, art, literature, music and paintings earned through thousand years; that day, o God, pour down those poems into my soul, listening to which, all the nymphs and inhabitants of Paradise will start dancing in joy.

I walk bearing such a soul which plays like a flute, sings like a cuckoo, runs stirring murmuring sounds like a spring and dances unfolding its feathers like a pea-****. If I were not submerged utterly into the darkness of the worldy life, my soul would play such a way, your sky would start trembling; it would sing such a way, the passers-by would remain standing by speechless; it would run stirring murmuring sound such a way, poems after poems would fall down into the souls of the poets; and it would dance unfolding its feathers such a way, the eyes of the beauty-lovers would be dazzled in wonder. My soul is, as it were, a cuckoo who has mistakenly entered a city; he sings songs but the outcry of the machine-monsters does not let them enter the ears of lords and ladies.

I am not a piece of rotting flesh

  -an undecaying attitude.