Single One

Fickle the intrigues of single men leeching to she bodies for that sugary life support,

Draining the effects of those glass touches to which shatter on contact,

Four snipes of ungodly accurate dialogue from his unwanted guests would snatch his bloated ego from its hallowed throne,

The wandering species allergic to the purported arrests of undeniable commitment-

Flock among themselves to combat the uninvited hopeful,

Damn any woman willing to build an empire with only the sighs of my aspirations under the mumbles of my tongue; be damned myself.

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Your Lives

I cannot wait any longer,

It feels,

Just one more second,

Could splint my heels.

 

I…we have walked years,

And talked about a form of hope-

So much that it caused a ringing in our ears-

We’d try to wash out with unwanted social soap.

 

In attempt to dissociate ourselves from our annoying reality,

We firmly placed ourselves in the life of others,

We would read their books and follow their press like a high school varsity team…

We would not truly benefit from it,

Not one bit it would seem,

Their corrupted heartbeat would become ours,

And their blood in our bloodstream,

We’d take their path through the darkened cave,

And never live a second of our own lives until we feel the cold embrace of our lonely graves.

 

We cannot wait any longer to mention,

The blatant stupidity in ignoring ourselves,

Wrapped up, wrapped up tight,

In their skies and dim daylight would cause the cold to creep-

Into the veins the frost would seep,

Eating away at warm meat we keep locked under our skin,

We know we are products of our failures and heralds of our sin,

But I really believe we can learn to wish again,

If we got impatient about what we wanted.

 

 

 

 

Vibe

Amazing orchestrations,

The mixture of dimness and warm sound massage my chest in ways I will not be able to explain,

Sheet music and swinging strings give tangibility to my pain,

And defines the existence of my soul prancing around between my bones,

Power in quick silence and that luxury in sustained tone-

Are depictions already known but displayed in states never better shown to me,

I am imperfect in the presence of something great,

I am worthless, I am presence without weight,

Clinging to the perfect reflections of what these human hands make,

Those vibes, those vibrations to cause the soul to stop and mediate on what this reality can offer.

Afterlife

What I look for in my afterlife,

Does not involve immortality,

Does not involve resurrection,

Does not involve obvious impracticalities.

 

But involves different floors, different sections,

Dedicated to a specific time of my life,

I am a time traveler removing thorns from my side,

Giving sickness and sorrow to those who eventually would decide to be betray the generous nature of my character.

 

I would take a straw broom and sweep the path before my steps,

Brushing my ground while I  knowingly watch my body proceeded safely without harm.

I would watch me become…

What the world wouldn’t allow,

And spring from the unyielding darkness I wish I could now.

 

What I look for in my afterlife,

Does not involve immortality,

Does not involve resurrection,

Does not involve impossibilities,

But only a clear direction, reflection, and inspection of a past life I couldn’t live.

 

I wonder if I’m dead right now looking down on my past self but not really doing a good job at the sweeping, but that’s okay…I’ll eventually get it right.

White

She showed me a video of a deranged artist,

She asked me if that was a fate I wanted to meet,

I politely declined,

We were unsure if he was losing his soul or losing his mind,

The anxiety of imperfection taxed his fragile fingers and he shook in fear,

I told her of my mercurial methods of avoidance and repeated to ensure my message rung clear.

 

His floor teemed with splattered canvases thrown in his fits,

The would chop his palette in attempt to mix his expectations with truth,

The board would bleed red like a severed tooth…

From the head,

He would glare and expect,

He would stand from his office chair to reflect,

On his mistakes,

He would grip the edge of his office table to stop his hand from shak-

ing,

He would bring, he would offer new color to the mix,

and repeat.
She told me that that kingdom had no king,

That I must unite my thoughts to concentrate them into a bullet to fire into the standing wall of my indecision,

Which drove my implacable thrust for meaningless variety,

Lest I’ll find my lesser self smashing colors into one another.

 

I guess she was talking about focus married with dedication in a manner impervious to external influences,

Such as those heinous devices garbed in petite structures,

Those snakes waiting to snap,

A defense against the dangerous few…

…unfortunately those sick folk captured my interest in which I demonstrated in blue and red,

Which I mixed with my expectations for their betterment,

gray,

Despite my whole heart,

They remained in holes.

 

Maybe my expectations are actually yellow,

Or wait no probably orange,

Or maybe white…

Yeah white.

 

4 Days

Your suspension of belief,

Bring it,

I need no interference,

I can’t think,

With the gods staring down my back-

As I chisel a simple motif,

Into the dim lit-

Corridor who’s face shall shrink,

Once the entire setting goes black.

We need to walk again

Without ridicule,

Into the chest of your devil,

To subdue the pending threat-

You speak highly of.

I promise we are safe,

He cannot hear you here for he cannot reflect within himself,

We are his conscious now,

Let us steer the beast.

Beware,

His demise, is your demise,

And your demise, is my demise,

So be light with your touch and pray we do not become the monster you hate.

Day 1.

I can hear his victim’s cries,

I can see the smirk, in the mirror, to which he sports,

Like a new do of sorts,

Staring his crush in her eyes,

He is not clean.

Day 2.

We fear to feed,

On his innards,

For we will truly be one,

We cannot munch on something he needs,

For all of true progress would be for none,

We must starve.

Day 3.

He hears us,

His breath hath changed,

She prays to gods,

I forget their names,

He is heartbreak,

And he is untamed,

He is unclean,

He is unashamed,

He is always new,

And never the same,

He is heartbreak,

I believe I’ve found his name.

Final Day.

His halls are black,

I cannot see, we cannot see,

The soul light lacks,

I cannot recognize myself you see, not at all in fact,

We are weak and broken, he is all intact,

She became him,

I became me,

…We cannot go back,

He stands tall and spits me out,

They become one,

He begins to sprout-

A new head from her scorn,

A new monster newborn,

—-

I guess I’ve seemed to escape…

From what we all can relate.

 

 

Petty Crime

She opens up like a gun shot wound anytime she’s the one to blame,

She prattles like a convict trying to escape her truth,

Anything less than our belief will cause her to shoot,

Clips of doubt in our minds to have us question what’s true.

She’s a dauntless fugitive unaware of her crime,

Three years on death row with absolutely no clue.

She never stopped to ask,

She only speaks to counter what ever reality passed,

She wants to be the contradiction to the system,

She wants to be the criminal til grave.