Dirty Strings

The blight in those fearless eyes,

Cutting blooms from plants,

And love from romance.

 

The blight in those fearless eyes,

Giving rot to my precious,

While gripping close to her heart.

 

Dare her to dance on the strings pulled by fingers,

The overbearing over-blaring opera singer-

Of her present,

Decide to build her future for her,

Give no regard to the desires of the subject.

 

She is family,

The closest there is,

The only there is,

But she is not theirs,

And she is not his,

She is herself,

Owned by her actions,

Forgotten by her inactions,

She is precise,

And has been given her rightful opportunity to build her own life,

She’s been guilted twice,

By the edicts of puppet masters making sure she doesn’t still the show; keeping her alike.

 

If she wields her feet to step, they shall,

If she wields her sleep to slept, it shall,

The power of breaking from the shell,

Of her elders’ shadows.

 

Precious Spring bloom,

Not arid, not trite,

Never taken by the blight,

Of their fearless eyes.

 

I promise the pressure will be a prospect of the past,

Just step.

 

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10 Feet of Hearing

Hi, whenever you get a chance outside the poisonous walls of the wretch.

I would like to explain the pain of the consequences you haven’t met yet,

Birthed from your inattention turned torment,

And your civility that’s grown dormant…

Let her explain the reasons for her filth to your gullible ears,

Screaming explanations off-key,

Her duplicity triumphant as your second X chromosome disappears,

She scoffs and I sneeze,

Because I’m allergic to fake hair and real weave,

I’m running a day care and she won’t leave…

Damaged be the ones who constantly put their wants over their needs,

If I could, I would hang her off from a 10 Storie building just so she can feel the breeze,

And then use both of my hands to nonchalantly scratch both of my knees…

These walls are fucking thin,

And if we were ever to talk in depth I wouldn’t know where to begin-

And the conversation would never end,

I would convict you of your sins,

And you’d be in a world of ungodly trouble as the Devil continues to smile,

All while-

She rests infirmly in your arms,

Waiting for the right time to do you do you harm,

You’re still falling for the wench and choking under her charm,

Every night…

When I’m 10 feet away through a thin wall trying to have a conversation with the one person that make me feel safe in the midst of all chaos,

Ya know what?, I don’t want to talk,

I want you to suffer for your inaction, inattention, inconsiderateness, inconsistency, and insolence,

All while you choke to death on your arrogance,

So I know where I would start in speech…at the ending.

Goals

Some ire never leaves,

When chosen, deliver her from evil, mentally reprieve,

When spurning is stunned,

By a mourning’s morning with hot tea and warm wheat buns,

The heat numbs,

A shooting mind, the smoking gun,

To discover justice in death dealt,

Replicate a heart’s death felt,

By pulling of thin metal…

A man’s test of mettle,

A woman’s refusal to settle.

Red in eyes, hot in palms,

Dead with whys, I cannot calm,

Oh some ire never leaves,

A season constant which terror deaves,

Please choose to believe in an end,

The abject thoughts seem to recommend,

A cutting out of a blackened heart,

A blackened art,

Displayed on light posts to find the missing parts,

And to avoid the prospect of being simply sick,

She simply sick, in mind and soul,

In heart, my goal,

To cut out the infected organ…to save the body,

The little body,

A quick chance to finally be me, ungodly…

I’m sure, that some ire never leaves the hearts of the chronically unpleased,

It never breaks from its hallow chambers of muscle and ribs,

It’s crib…

Where it rests until direct activation,

Of its true purpose with agitation,

And finally lay rest to clamor of exaggeration,

My goal, my aspiration.