Muscles strain with the effort, each one
fit to burst from this skin in protest of the
things I do for you.
When I saw you falling by I couldn’t
help but to throw out my arm for you
to grab. I will anchor you to safety.
Sometimes I think that this act,
rescuing you, is all I know.

A toast!
To those buildings from our lives
which at times meant so much,
and how we saw them torn down.
To those people, who we loved and
hated and ignored and couldn’t be
away from, and to how we stood
by to see them torn apart.
A toast to the rips and tears.

When I’m not around, and this dark world
looms like death about your aspect,
how do you go on?
Do you have a bevy of pretenders,
waiting in the wings to assume the mantle
of hero for you, at your beck and call?
I think not.
No, the state that I always find you in.
Teetering on oblivion. Breathing in your
own acrid impending ruin.

A toast!
To the victimless crimes that always
find themselves a victim.
To the altruist with ulterior motives.
To the new car with seven hundred miles on it.
A toast to the rut I find you in.

How could I do anything other than rebuild you?
I sit and cobble you from the heart break
you discovered on your path to forget or forgo.
With delicate hands and loose calculations
I will rend you into a form that resembles
yourself, and when I am done I will
walk away.
You have never once thanked me.

A toast!
To the victimless victim of
self inflicted crime.
To those torn down and made whole
again.
To buildings wrecked and replaced.
To the occasional altruist with
understandable ulterior motives.

She saw people praying and using the violence in
the name of religion at the same time, while no
religion is preaching violence. She understood that
this kind of violence was too conflictual for peace, and
yet too diplomatic for war. And that violence no  
solution had; nor never none. She thought those
  
people lived in black light having blind eyes not seeing
the reality of life. She had to accept that this wicked
goodness and this pretty badness belong to our reality
so *****-like, vexing and hiding so many victimless crimes.
Suddenly, she realized that she could be a new victim.
She started to run while wondering where her safe place was.
  
She was better than to expect to be caught. She understood
her fear, that fear leading to frightening thoughts, those thoughts
leading to panic, that panic leading to derealization. She looked
around trying to recognize the place. She felt worry because she
couldn't see very well. She searched to make a sword of everything
around, but quickly after that, she thought that the swords are the
  
  
weapons of warriors, but she's not a warrior, she's a victim. She
started to give praise with idle tears, to give praise with wisdom,
to give praise with deep despair. She asked herself if God is there to
hear her, over those ravages of war overwhelmed by the natural
catastrophes and over the ludicrous effect of their transformation
into nothing. She, firstly, believed her religious man was a fighter
  
  
against enemies of God to conclude that he was an enemy of the real
fighters for God. This man was her husband learning in time to beat her
body and to hurt her soul. She saw herself as a little bleeding part of this
world wondering to know if her man is still the man she fell in love with
once, or he's an illusion. She stopped her run to sit on the ground. She
began to pray hoping that God is there to hear her and to bring a new light
  
  
  
to her crying reality. She stayed there to think how much a rose can
describe a flower, how much a flower can describe a woman, and how
much the feminine can describe many things around .She concluded
that no feminine thing can break this life down. She asked herself,
''What can happen to this world in the absolute absence of feminine?''
She found herself an innocent person dreaming at a new world without violence.

it was
                                                                ­                                                              Des­demona




                                                 deceiver of new Edens
                                                           ­ 
                                           left black fields        flooded
           by the sewage coming from the open wells cut into her skin.
I've been here before. A place where saints can be violent, and still   pleading
                                              for father, please, let me go?

he releases.

Desdemona follows,
dragging her corpse
through the minds
that unhinge
for the cold mechanics
of violence;

how the Savage
                            tick
                            and sputter
their jagged gears.        how the human bits,
human bang bang
counts to an unknown number,
waiting
for Desdemona to click her tongue

to spit out
to splatter
wingless
hysterical angels
across the walls of liberty

who with flaming swords
in their hands, slay
to the bellows
of a martyr's sweet rendition,
muttering
words of annihilation,
scavenging for faithful men

that
from the droning
of hissing solicitors
become fettered
to the yin
of fractured knowing
underneath skies
of starry nobility

                                                       ­                                                                 ­ Desdemona



sees this country
through a thimble

knows the name
of every state,
every citizen  that assumes
today, they will be protected
by glory
and that tomorrows
list will not get longer
with each new birth
stamped
American,
maybe It's American.?

this fleshy
and gentle
citizen soldier

quickly taught
to remember
their place
In this

grand Nation,

already paying
the tithing
of mind
and
body
cleaned
in a kitchen sink
       baptised

in the plasma of terror
with the wet
hands
of good hearted parents
commercially radicalized
by tv frenetic
freedom mobs,

fleshy

gentle

soldiers

remember to take
until swollen, because


there lives a longing,
and there lives
other monsters
caste in lighter
shades of violence.



                                             America. You eat your own children.
                                                America­, that dines more divine
                                                     when there is a different
                                                                ­    heathen
                                                     ­      at the dinner table,
                                          
                                                             Land of the brave,
                                                              yo­u worship fear.


                                                         ­                                               American Desdemona
does not know
of her own death song,
she leaves the grieving
alone to paint a tableau
of future Gods
to spring from barrels
sprouting
beheaded bouquets of metal
seen in the slow motion chaos
crawling in the gallery
of methadone media.

the harbinger of all things
seemingly unimportant,

who's orders
are definite



urging stillness.    



to sit with them in the   quiet   room
where lamenting will not be heard

told hush in the morning,

why the **** are you screaming.?
this is the ******   quiet     room

this is existence, this is what surrounds us.
                 "What did you see?"

said
the ones warned to behave
in the silence of tragedy,
But are still sent to the
purgatory
of tin rooftops
in the midwest
or a brick cloud by the shore

bouldering their fists
to beat bright punctures
into the sky
before the eleventh hour
pushes them down eternal twilight.

here again
are the bells that toll
with the kind sound of ammunition

with the voices of
all those disagreeable people
moaning
their grim
disenchantment
for yesterday's sorrows


who stay up late, dizzy
and red faced, shouting
about the guns
of politics,
shouting
about the guns
of politics,
vomiting guns guns guns
and political despair
throwing their voices
out of windows
broken
by
expletives
twisted in the
left over red lights
that bathe rallies
in mayhem
to be taken back
to small boxes
where
young
and numb lips
smoke turpentine
   after *******
to political ****

No longer shocked by politicians
who remind the masses about
9/11 jumpers
falling
to the concrete
in ten
second
intervals

they want you to
remember terror in the 10,000

Terror.

get down on your knees
and bow to obsession--


accept this
as indulgence

for what it is,

you live to be whole
but revoke
the thoughts
you inact in a soft blanket
of cerebral vices.

This is what purity
seeks in the wilds,    

bloodwood virginity
wet with the constitutional lust
of victimless moaning
victimless crimes

oh

holy holy
I arch my back for you
I bend for you
I writhe painlessly
with every moment that passes
your gun can lay at the alter of my temple,  surly
it will be an anointed dimming

a secret that is kept in the chest
of dual gatekeepers
who yearn for unison
and longs to tell the other,
     do not be afraid

Or,    Don't you dare
stand in front of
a podium, condemning
slaughter like a daily prayer
at the dinner table,      prayer

that sounds like faith
and God splitting in half, prayer
which has always been
a plea to change life
into what we think it should be

like the once happy

Elitists,
now soft belly sickened
by the obscured notion
of protecting
the people they
claim as their own, if only?

apostates
of folklore,
weren't so full
with grievances,
with their
own wars

brooding and
burdened by lax limitation,
seething angry
at
the great agenda

utterly raging

against the talking mouths
too loud with
freedoms thoughts,    swelling
with maddening repetition
and promptly ridiculed
into the execution
of sentimental insanity,

crazed

enough
to arm themselves with something
that does not feed the machine
in the pursuits of destroying it.




                                                         ­                                                                 ­  this is
                                                                ­                                                       Desdemona

that seeps into the burrow
of a throat

is the auditory creeping
that dredges a chemical longing

until everyone is gasping
at the horrid image of death,
or in the middle of a vitriolic
death cry

only accepting finality
if the afterlife
proved to be as infinite
as a blue sky slitting itself open
to let in the burnt offerings of the sun.

And no one will ask,

what have you taken to the inferno.?

flesh and blood,
That which is not yours.


bodies for the dead, you say.
well, how many?

not everyone
has a key
to the quiet room

away from the decidedly
unlucky,

we
Will be the ones
behind the locked door
pretending
she is not
on the other side,
unhindered by her cracked skull,
she is listlessly
heaving
dissected torso
through
junkyard corridors
collecting the dead
for tomorrow's congregation

who have become
sinfully reincarnated
by the flesh
of their own belief,
or fed into zombie culture
to sing and sway
in the pews, reciting

My people
I love you.

my God!
do I love you.
do I love you.

My God,
my Desdemona, I love you.

Oh Darling, Oh Darling,
I’m so sorry for this;
I’ve done you wrong so many a time,
Finally babe, it's my victimless crime.

Oh Darling, Oh Darling,
Need to apologize,
Realize I’m mad and bound for decay,
Need to tell you; the fleeting light of the day.

Oh Darling, Oh Darling,
I’ve lied, through these, my guilt,
Kneel here repenting, hugging your hips.
Start to break down, what was sobriety dips.

Oh Darling, Oh Darling,
I’ve done it all again;
You’re already aware of my past,
Your fears they will continued, here I relapse.

Oh Darling, Oh Darling,
I’m back to it, the past.
These scars and old wounds fester again;
I’m back in the dirt, like a dog in his chains.

Oh Darling, Oh Darling,
You’re forced to know this now;
I fought, and I fight, it’s gotten bad.
I broke, then killed a man, giving all I had.

Oh Darling, Oh Darling,
There was that look again!
You my rock, my only salvation;
Gone, apartment empty, at the bus station...

Oh Darling, you’re no longer mine!
I cry into a mirror, cursing my name;
Sorrow turns to anger, these fists to blame.
A crash, broken mirror, a home inflamed...

Oh Darling gone, Oh Darling gone,
I can only apologize with my life,
A true sacrifice to never enshrine...

Around me, I see the world
Undulate and fabricate
This warped sense of time and space
I see the world in a pantomime
It's simply this internal rhyme
I'm dying, but it's a victimless crime

OK. Today may be dull. It happens. Sure.
But tomorrow remains rife with possibilities.

Podcasts of Trump on on the value of modesty.
Street fights in several extinct languages.
Hillary wins at Detroit poetry slam.
Jihadists explode poodles in crosswalks.
Island countries wave & grin as they sink.
***** flicks found starring Merkel and Putin.
A sane, reasonable presidential election.
Angry cats with opposable thumbs rebel.
Men & women speaking & understanding each other.
Brock Turner announces *** change operation.
God announces: No More Mulligans!
Gender wars conclude. Everyone’s dead.
Debut of lost Bach Partita for Electric Kazoo.
New, hip-hop production of Treblinka: The Musical.
Shakespeare cloned. Buys poetry anthology. Dies.
End-up, instead of start-up, launches in Palo Alto.
Smart phones install apps with annoying ads on users.
Common sense becomes common again.
Victimless rhymes decriminalized.

This is America! Never two dull days.
Take Heart! Tomorrow, there be Wonders…

We exist among twilight shadows
Never in the light of day
Pardon me,
Fast I pray

I run red lights at every turn
Screaming down the coastline
Desperate to avoid anything,
Ok, maybe everything
Time and time again
I won't feel pain

Speak your lies in tongues
Against my parted lips
I'll sip raindrops
From the hollow of your neck
For once I'll give,
You can take
Time is nothing in the hues of the night
Always at night….
Lover I’ll leave you in the light

Tell me you love me,
I may believe it this time
Be my victimless crime

© 2014 Peach

>My lover and I make a crime scene every night. But every night, we walk away with more blood on our hands. Not victimless, but witnessless.

            tell me what this carnal discourse is. tell me i can wash it off. tell me i can forget.

     >But no, the world murmurs back to me, no, you get to bathe in it. And then, just when you feel anew, you will open your eyes to a lake of lost lovers.

Today we kings and queens. We rock this town, bringin the truth, vibes, and spirit around...
Plant the seed of green we all should love, and bring heaven down from above...
We know the truth, yet so many still choose to belive. Bringing misjudgment to this victimless seed...
Being led by propaganda caused by petroleum monopoly. killing the world, being complete greedy...
****** madness. Complete ******* served at a time it was easy to belive, because our people were so nieve...
Sad to know what our leaders have done. But we Kings and Queens, and the war is won...
Now we need to make it so it can't be undone. Save mother earth, so our future wont judge us for what we've done...
-Big D

silk sheets burst into flames
blood drops of a victimless crime
devour me with your ruby gaze
pray on me one last time.

Anxiously Awaiting Atomic Assimilation:

Still not happy.
What is it about being pinned down that causes our hearts to rush
Or the pulse to harden?
I can hardly listen to music anymore: It all sounds like you.
My brain says give up and stay home
My heart says go out and love!
Give it all away! Take them all for granted! Let them use you!
Would it hurt? Not anymore. Not after us.

Random but justifiable meltdowns occurring every day sometime past noon. Every single day.
Your picture still on my windowsill
You in that dress
Our hands melted together
Our arms behind each others' backs
The smiling.

All the holding and kissing we did on the boat.
The propeller spun the water through my head
And out your mouth into my eyes
From there into your thighs
Out your ears and under your bed
From the time we wake up until we're dead

Bolted shut. The door is locked.
Every time I leave, I lock it again.
Robbery is a victimless crime when you don't care about your worthless crap.

Take me. Take it all from me.
Be an angel and sin with me.
She never will again.
Not as long as her picture exists.

She will never leave my head.
Just as long as that picture persists
Or the Pinback track continually insists
I just sit back and cry and open my wrists.

I can't cry. I can't laugh for any real reason unless a hookah is near, AND SPEAKING OF WHICH:

I want to be with you again, man. You left me at the same time she did.
Add insult to injury. Degrade my emotions. "She outranks you. It doesn't matter what you are feeling. Only what she is feeling."

Those words echo like a ton of bricks
Thrown against a canyon
Or a gunshot cracking on a silent, frosty night
The city glows, but not the way I like it.
Not the way you described.

THE WAY I DESCRIBED.
Don't you ******* tell me I ruined it for you.
It was already ruined! I just spelled it out for you!
Have you no eyes?!
Can you not see your impact?
You witch. You monster! You ghoul! You sorceress!
Succubus!
Seraph!
Get out of my head! Leave me to rot!
Let my tears dry! Let my head clear!

Fog from my eyes will dissipate!
But only if you GO AWAY.

I steal pieces of your
character like a teenager
steals music from the Internet.
A victimless crime. "Just
trying it out, I'll buy it,
if I like it." Sliding it
into my ears and straight
into my brain. I turn the
idiosyncrasies that belong to
you and you alone, into joint
property whether you want to
or not.

If love is tied to the stars, and to fate,
to what seems to be just a fleeting dream-
Perhaps star crossed or maybe all is lost,
Will we know before the end of the scene?

Are there hints? If so, what do they mean?
What exactly, do all of these signs foretell?
Is there a theme amongst the clues, between
Half-hearted attempts at wishing well?

But on these things, we do not dwell-
Passions play should be a victimless crime.
No heaven, nor hell, nor friar, nor spell,
Could part us before our appointed time!

Can we live, with the world as our rhyme,
And as poets, play our songs to the part?
Would you be mine if I could divine
the secret melodies that lay in your heart?

So this I swear, before God, in this state-
To love you, as if this were our final scene.
And then forevermore, our love will endure
As an endless dream within our dreams.

People run and cower
From the true answer.
Drugs possess strange power,
They're life enhancers.

Countless hours,
Broken dancers,
Life turned sour,
Lost luck chances.

Drugs are riveting,
Minds are opened,
Perspectives pivoting,
Instincts awoken

What's never listed
And never spoken
Suddenly, it's tossed
Into the ocean

Of our minds,
Swirling potions,
Drugs are not kind,
Changing emotions.

People take
This strong control
And in some cases,
Their sole goal

Becomes a fate
Many people know.
All they seek
Is this control.

Pursuing control,
Many live by this.
Drugs and their tolls
Help provide bliss.

Control over what you feel,
Opened eyes and comforted minds,
People accept this generous deal,
Despite the consequences felt over time.

Manipulating drugs,
A victimless crime,
Claims users as victims,
At once or over time.

The effects can wow,
They can be sublime.
They make life better now,
But not over time.

Tolerance grows,
Excitement fades,
People become dazed,
Over time.

People take them,
Wrong or right,
To their extremes,
To maximize delight.

Excessive consumption,
Across a fine line,
Promises great risk,
To which many are blind.

Dismissing the truth
And hating the source
Is a just move,
But not a wise course.

Life enhancers,
Life ruiners,
They're one in the same
Though many choosers,

Either love drugs,
Or deeply hate them.
Arguments against either side,
Are sadly wasted.

Both sides
Reveal so much,
Like heat and cold,
They hurt to touch.

I love pleasure,
Oh so much,
But excess pleasure,
Fear is made of.

Within drug feelings
Lie sensations
Which contradict
Any meditations.

Why would I live,
With such a bore,
When I could be high
And get so much more?

Would would I fly
On drug fueled planes,
When normal plights
Offer so much to gain?

It's not as instant,
It's not as strong
But patient wishes
Last so much longer.

There's only one,
And what I choose
Goes in my body,
Is mine to prove.

Something exciting,
Something new,
Never hiding,
Wild and blue.

So if these drugs
Are life enhancers,
Can we demonize them?
Can this seed be planted?

Will we all become
Clear eyed and sober,
Thankful the drug storm,
Is finally over?

Take what's good,
Take what's evil,
All that we could
Derive from people.

Make the solution
Into a new mix
And maybe then,
We find a fix.

The danger they feel,
The societal death wish,
May die sooner,
If only we listen.

Give people things
They wish for,
But remove the danger,
And once this chore,

Is taken care of,
Harmful no more,
Drugs can be loved
Without the horror.

The powers at play
Are beyond what I know,
But this civil war,
Hopefully will slow

I am only harming myself, no one else is affected. So say those who flaunt the morals of society. My body my choice, but no consideration is given when the act of procreation occurs to the life that might be created. I am getting high to forget my problems, so says the causal drug user until they become addicted to the poison that they put in their veins. In complete honesty, all actions have an effect. Some are direct and some are indirect, but there is an effect none the less. Only when we are honest with ourselves and accept that our actions have consequences can we be free of our obligations and accept that when we dig our own hole, that there might not be anyone to pull us out. Though it is likely there is a good Samaritan who will show us pity, but the help will only work if we are willing to change.

Drowning in verbosity
Lost in time
For I cannot express
In prose or rhyme
The beauty that enlivens
Kindred by chance
A victim by choice
or circumstance?
A victimless crime?
A passionate flare
Unexpected rawness
Enter, enter if you dare
Challenges accepted
Without hesitation
Jump into darkness
Accede consummation
Oh my pretty, pretty one
Whatever have we done
With hell deep in your eyes
The claiming has begun
Every calculation
And each strategic move
An action for an action
Every step it does behoove
How easily the game is played
When lines are drawn in black
Maneuvering each bitty piece
Not giving any slack
Training like a solider
Satisfying every need
Holding on to nothing
The past promised to impede
Eating demons in the flesh
A Knight in rusted armor
Feeding darkness innocence
Inherently a charmer
There you are so handsome
Seemingly sweet and kind
Hidden far behind those eyes
Lives a *****, evil mind

Your name is Filbert.
I'd rather use you as Fill.
Fill, gods may have put you here
for a victimless chatter,
but I'll bring you up
with the nonsense charge to meet
false expectations. I know
we don't see heart-to-heart, that
parting shouldn't stop us
from connecting the pesky
dots of our pupils. Let's learn
to be adult about this
uncontrolled glowing.
Your flighted fancies
can't leave the tarmac
without making one feel bold,
another frightened,
and everyone is a skosh
confused in the end.
I hope it doesn't bound
too negative. I meant well.

One year since I met him.
Six months since I saw him.
Three since I've spoken to him.
And finally I'm done.
Like polar bears lumbering
Over sand dunes I'm dried up.
I can't believe that he was a man
For whom I thought I could have
Written epics for.

I need new inspiration.
When your muse is fickle
As leaves on deciduous trees
One must find a new source
For the Mississippi.

I will take up crime, start small.
Jaywalking!
And write a limerick about the
Thrill of it.

I'll dance with more than one
Man in a night let them touch
But not keep. They cannot
Breach this beach it's mine.
I don't invite strangers into my
Bed, I take none of them home,
but somehow they're all a poem.
I don't want to be a writer
With pages of ex-lovers in
Her notebooks scrawled
Out in ink, like blood,
Like tears from a flood.
Cause I will pour out all
My words, my language is
Love, on the pages balled
Up in waste baskets hidden.
My heart beats to a rhythm
Too irregular a meter
For most to keep up.
I get it.

A muse is old news.
I can write it better
Than some hipster sweater
Wearing, never texting first,
Fall in and out of love headfirst
Kinda man.

But oh man, I'd love a man
With whom I would write
Perpetual sonnets.
Fill volumes with devotion
Not about one night but all
The nights that we fall asleep
Together knowing that tomorrow
Is another day I get to write about him.
And though nothing will be new
There will be something beautiful
About when the whiskey on his breath
Meets the coffee on mine.
We all have our vices,
The idea of love is mine.
Each kiss would taste like rhyme
A thief he'd steal my heart
A victimless crime.

Till then I will take new roads
Through yellow wood and
Envy the song of the nightingale,
Because I too know why the
Caged bird sings.
It rests in my chest, flutters,
And gets excited by others
Touch and false promises.
I promise this: I will wait love
But idle shall my pen never be.

the loss was a slow ache
creeping in like ice fog
after the time for mourning
should have been tolled

a gravedigger clearing dirt
grain by grain
was this heart-
stalling on the burn

proclaimed problem-free to public ears-
cleared like dust
from a smooth pane of promises
lifted like prints
from the scene of a
victimless crime

now the key loses
its lock
trapping that moment,
forever

in this web of
practicality
that we signed.

All of this shouting, but who's to really claim
When we walk around so faceless with nothing to gain

It's just a system to extrapolate your fears
Designed to be destructive, disgusting, and to jeer

Quiet as we sit, appearing only to view
Questioning nothing, we're erupting into something new

It's a victimless society, for we have all chosen consent
As we cry to the TV for what's true, we pray and repent

Blinded by the odds we ebb and bob like a float in water
But the bed is dry, there's nothing to deny, enjoy this job

Why not be blamed
For something I did not do?
A crime is not a crime
Unless it has been committed
But this my friends,
It was an accident,
And I am afraid I did not do it

Why not be blamed
For a victimless crime
When it happened right before my eyes
We take the time and time again
And it starts to get real
The happenings begin

Why not be a motherless child
In a world that makes that okay
I am a victim of a crime
A crime that can't be faked

Why not leave
Mother dearest
When I need you most
To work my way through this
I'm starting to hear voices in my head
Help me, mother,
I just want this to end
I am not crazy
The voices haven't pushed me over the edge
Find me, mother
Even though I know you're dead

I hate you for this.
The way your warmth has crawled out beneath an evasive watch
Escaping without proof.
I knew there was a reason for your lies
The ones that curled beneath fingertips and mistaken smiles.
Is that what you wanted?
A moment of utmost clarity.
Because it exists now
Instead of you.
I get it
That darkness bound you to a corner
A victim of victimless lovers.
Are you happy?
Because I am here sitting on half a roll of toilet paper.
This is life I have been told.
Don't you get it now?

SHEET MUSIC

“I know not how music notes are to be read”…

“True music is learned, not taught”, she said…

“But for the silent sheet music unspoken in bed,

“Lyrical lips whisper outside of one’s head”…

Shotgun sips, cream soda lips

Cocked back hips with back arching grips…

With xylophone ribs’ comes music sampled.

Trials and tribs’, stomped on and trampled,

Feedback, reverb, limitless distortion

Acoustic ****** brown eyed contortion

Almost criminal, partners in crime,

Come on arrest kids lovestoned with time

“I know not how music notes are to be read”…

“True music is learned, not taught”, she said…

“But for the silent sheet music unspoken in bed,

“Lyrical lips whisper outside of one’s head”…

A boy was born with a heart made of wood.

Hope for love ablaze seemed almost too good.

The alphabet spilled out for him to see,

He wordlessly loved her from A to Z.

Bonnie and Clyde became mister and misses.

Both of them heart thieves, stolen moments and kisses.

Two partners went about forgetting hard time.

They were helpless but to love— a victimless crime.

With xylophone ribs, came music sampled.

Trials and tribs’, were stomped on and trampled.

The once silent sheet music, played out now instead,

While lyrical lips whispered outside of his head.

But he knew not how music notes were to be read.

“True music is heard, not learned”, she said.

Her lips played over him, two searing wicks.

His soul she lifted, mere pickup sticks.

Poetic love is the sweetest of rhyme

If but for only once upon a time…

A mess of things.
That's what they were
are
have been
since the world had become
aware of her sad existence:
A bleak tale of little misfortune
and unimaginable distress.
The powerful sources of melancholy
have claimed another victimless victim!
For you see, she is not a hot mess,
she is a glorious problem.

And a hideous waste of everything beautiful.

My paper withstands when my hand lands
My wrist understands all my mind’s commands
My paper bans nothing that my heart demands
My pen brands words like a printer scans
My desk stands through my scripted plans

It’s a victimless crime if poems don’t rhyme
To the senses, purely sublime
Literature to be read in double time
But I challenge that, rhyming’s nonsense

Senses can be stimulated
Tantalized and integrated
Articulated, but outdated to the rest of humankind

Words can lift you like breeze lifts leaves in the fall
Switching scheme and theme seems sacrilege after all

Leave your oblique rhymes and iambic pentameters at home, I couldn’t.