Color

I guess I’m prodigious in relation to  emotionless miscreants,
I am riveted with genuine emotion among zombies to futile causes,
Raging proponents of staying wholly apathetic because feeling hurts,
They do what they feel works,
Generations, infinite Earths,
To be drained gray and bombed to dirt,
And dust,
There are them and us.

I am a genius because I protest the embrace of abnormality,
Outside present barriers of placid reality,
To sling color into that morose gray,
And paint the streets with ensuring future and new vitality…
It’d be hard to say-
That those impertinent will wither soon.

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North Star

It’s second nature,
To vibe with those alike,
Nervous notions nulled by hexing similarities,
And a smile like the North Star in dead night.

The music in her voice heard,
Over loud crowds and words-
Musical nomenclature propels and reverbs,
Off the chapel’s halls,
Enough red hair to contradict my self confidence’s fall,
A shaky burst of laughter to show I’m enthralled.

I’m tapping my foot on the carpet floor,
Arms crossed and head wrapped in rapport-
Forged from present fantasy and something more,
I decide then to not place my hands where I no longer want them anymore.
The corruption of her white righteousness by my black hands,
Staining and-
Debasing things grand-
Clocks just strike four.

A Forth

A ton of arrogance,
I know she can’t do well without me,
Not internally.

A ton of certainty,
I’m sure she presents her image happy,
To persuade herself joyous,
And appease their wandering eyes.

A ton of ire,
I’m sure her chest burns,
From consequence of poor decision,
I’m glad.

A ton of space,
I promise she’s empty inside,
Like a beaten tin can,
That can’t accept her bruises.

A ton of insecurity,
I swear she’s still hideous,
In her eyes,
And still blind.

A ton of curiosity,
A check up on me,
Will kill the cat.

A ton of pieces,
I’m sure still forth a woman,
The rest a jest,
Presented whole.

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-
ly,
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,
Well…recaps,
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,
Youth,
Loose-
Letting scorching winds-
Helping them carry weight of sin,
On fragile backs,
Woe, we are weak…detached –
From spirituality…
To adopt…
Practicality…
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…

Befit

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.