The Love of gods

To them,
It’s not enough,
To be held responsible for inequities dealt by nervous hands,
The complex must suffer too,
The system lets only few-
Pass through-
Unscathed, pure, and you,
…change is an inevitability, present, under the guise of individualism,
An exorcism –
To take you from you,
A travailing attempt to break the person,
Attempts clipped into 24 hour segments that worsen-
Which each wake,
The system the poster children love…
The system you can’t refuse to hate.

They, the gods, fuse-
Perfectly, light and dark hues,
Imperfectly, good and bad news,
In organic reality to make you happy of your consequence,
I have done bad but not worse than last,
I am pathetic even though the sun still shines vast-
I think…I’m pretty sure that I still attain me, trapped in a box somewhere deep inside my chest,
Maybe me not at my best,
But still me nonetheless,
And evidence that I haven’t been bested yet…
By the beautiful gods forging an ugly life,
I will, again, wake from another night,
And disgrace them with proclivity despite-
Their incessant trails to instill contrition in my fragile depths.

No Choice

The impurity of my nightmares span far beyond anything I’m willing to admit,
I will not send for help, by text, at night…
I’ll just sit,
In bed and think about why the disturbing feels right,
A contradiction to personality that I seem to can’t get.

Maybe my brain sees sleep as a time to explode,
To resurrect the corpses of dead thoughts,
Along the red road,
And give glimpses of demons I’ve already fought.

Maybe me brain fears its own destruction,
Or relapse,
So it gives me consequence as kind of  passive instruction,
Of when reality was a persistent screaming beast in my overly sensitive ears,
It reminds me my fears,
Those that have harmed me over the pass 3 years,
I think it wants me to wake grabbing the cold pillow to my right,
At times beyond night,
Between two and four,
Flailing in darkness, the silent war,
Ugh….I can’t wake…
My roommate…
Because he’ll ask questions in morning,
And I won’t answer,
I guess I can heed the warning,
That there is cancer,
In empty force,
Maybe this is just my brain’s prefered way of discourse,
Because it knows I have no choice but to see,
No choice but to listen.

A Step Behind

I am worried,
Their the faith in God will fail,
A nation of dried wells.

I am a seeing,
Fleeting stances,
And aimless antics.

I am scared,
That the few will be out-casted,
And thier perseverance eventually outlasted.

I have noticed,
We as a whole are weak,
We are unnecessarily discrete.

I fear,
A nation faithless,
A people tasteless,
A people consumed in their truth,
Letting scorching winds-
Helping them carry weight of sin,
On fragile backs,
Woe, we are weak…detached –
From spirituality…
To adopt…
To accept…
Anything that does not offend,
I fret the end…
Of my family members and friends,
That will not see Valhalla…

I do not want to leave…my dearest…
I cry to carry them eternal!,
To see what I see…beautiful and vernal.
Dear God…


A beheading, a death fit for a king,
Regicide by the embrace of steel and sting,
The metal rings–
Throughout golden throne rooms,
Expected not from the noble man,
To ultimately refuse to withstand,
The tyranny of the corrupted royal hand,
Propriety of good principle and stern values,
To honor the cleanse by cutting cancer,
By taking heads of rotten chancellors.

Gold and red,
Decorate the hall,
Stain the parchments,
Contradict diplomacy,
Free the weak…

Blemished robes oh bloody cloth,
Befit the fall.

On the Other Side

We pick up the weights of our brothers from solid grounds,
We reach with torn stomachs and sore  hearts,
Grabbing limbs to drag still hallow meat-
Across sharp grasses and high wheat,
The smell of fire seeps-
Into pleasant aromas, discrete,
Penetrate nostrils deep,
Verve pledges to decrease…in site of the dead,
Wails, weeping, red-
Yells, weeping, dread,
Wish well the sleeping dead,
God give mercy must,
To the frail minded unjust,
Victims of new war and bloodlust,
Horrid gusts of heat,
From bombs,
Beating the weak…

Mothers pray under whooshing airplanes,
Mothers cry under black skies,
Village screams of protesters rebuking the lethal unseen,
1st world witches forcing us unclean,
No tied hands we gather guns,
We protect our fathers,
We train our sons,
We protect our daughters,
We spare none,
Look what the Devil’s done,
Given us dead and inflicted young,
On the other side of sunlight, there is no sun.


She has the power,
I let her chase me into eerily darkened woods,
Just enough light to see the green in the trees,
I can hear her footsteps behind me beating the ground I passed,
I sense her body urging to grab and lift me from feet in anger,
She has the power,
I let her chase me into red bricks of a townhome at the end of the trees,
She zips through the open door and I slam it behind her,
She stops and stares I scream,
I wickedly grin,
She once convinced by the guise of me fearful,
She stays still,
I move forward,
She steps back,
I move forward,
She stumbles over antiques,
I grab her wrists,
She yanks away,
I force a kiss,
She refuses to say,
I give her hair a stern pull and twist,
Whisper in her ear “once you wanted this,
Right before you chased me out of your life for so long that I drew you in mine”,
With red paints, brown handle, black bristles,
With a firm grip I flung with tears,
Filled a canvas and gave structure to beautiful fears,
…I screamed as you chased me…I drew you near,
You, mindless predator, let that happen and now we’re here,
I have the control to make you play house,
Build an empire on disinterest and pouts,
You’ll always remain now…I’ll never let you out.