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.

 

Russian Roulette

She’s Russian roulette,

A partially loaded chamber that with each spin you have exercise liquid self- honesty regarding your desire for it to be the bullet or not,

Keep feeding the gun,

Verbal disputes on domestic battlegrounds you must try to not burn down your own house,

Add a bullet, put the greasy barrel in your mouth,

Yank the trigger,

Let out a shout bordering disappointment.

 

His friends tell him they can smell the gun powder on her like overzealous perfume,

He said he doesn’t mind the smell,

He’s told us he couldn’t bear the heat but he doesn’t mind the hell,

He keeps getting burnt,

But the sex is good,

She keeps cutting into this chest,

And can’t practice what she’s learnt,

She’s a gun…

Partially loaded,

But loaded nonetheless,

Gun,

He’ll keep feeding her bullets,

He’ll keep pulling the trigger,

We’ll keep warning him,

But eventually he’ll kill himself,

With red shit splattered all over the walls of her favorite place,

The snake to chase the time away,

The time be waste-

The day away,

Bloody whites,

Post lovely nights.

Lice

I used to get beaten in my sleep from emotional dreams,

I would jolt up in cold turmoil and try to rock myself back to sleep.

 

I was never afraid to wet the bed with the tears taken from me,

Giving substance to the memories of unsightly abuse,

My eyes had no other use,

But to give life to my imagination of cutting my oppressor into two,

Or three,

I was never ever afraid to wet the bed…with the tears that were taken from me.

 

Years would pass,

I would…I would laugh,

The memories would last,

I could not would not forget,

There was no space for positivity to fit,

Space-less pieces of meat and shit,

Forced into a giant head,

Tiny lice’s proclivities to my bed…

 

 

Once the decade touched,

I wanted to move, but too much,

I wanted to get better,

I wanted to change the proverbial mental weather,

That I’ve keep for years,

That I kept tied intimately with my fears,

I hated their stain,

I could see it every time I experienced pain,

I wanted to kill everything I touched,

I wanted to improve, but not too much,

I couldn’t lose the person I thought I found,

In the mirror of yesterday staying into the presently unsound,

I wanted to win,

So…I did.

 

 

 

Maker

 

Philosophical mood swings,

Realization of dismal truths aid their existences,

My hands versus hers,

My paranoia versus her sound mind,

My inaction versus her crafting gestures,

Daily aiding the building of empires,

Constructing the throne of her own,

There is a calling,

Down to her bones,

To make a net for those falling,

And make sure they know they’re not alone,

I fancy not to be another one of those people.

I am faced with a reflection that burns into my mind,

Sigils of futility in the shadow of her monuments,

We are a minuscule expressions of time,

Forced to exist in the present tense,

We are made to make that that transcends our temporary existence,

Her dedication versus my persistence,

As her hands continue to craft my own,

There is a calling,

Right down to her bones…

My lady is magnificent,

Pristine and virile,

Mountainous and everlasting like landscape of the springs,

But we are made of many things,

All different in effect,

But I greatly fear-

What she hasn’t built yet.

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.

The Wolf

He’s going to try his old methods,

To obfuscate the throng of rural people in order to capitalize on their idiocy,

He’s present himself “holy than thou” to make them believe that they’re protected,

From the ones insidiously-

Supplying moxy to the wretched.

He’ll speak in riddles,

They’ll hang to his cloak,

The attendance will the triple,

The governed once believed it a joke,

His discourses are brittle-

As he forces his hearers to choke…

He’s a monster,

In warming mantles,

They invite his new blight that gives life to parasites,

Granting poison via tongues,

And confusion to the young,

Good peace forever none,

Speak now forever done,

Promise the damaged forever fun,

In lands of nights and never suns,

The poor-man’s intrigue,

Latching tightly to the folly,

Music to the ears,

And verve to the body.

The Plow

I’ve already fathomed the desert there’s no reason to rethink, I’ve taught her how to use the tracker to plow the dirt because she kept complaining her hands hurt. She yelled “relationships are too much work!” And I silently watched her plow. The rattle of the tracker’s transmission scattered the desert pigeons feeding of the remnant of the rot and we’d sit and listen. The beaks would beat at minimal meat, fighting amongst their ranks on which nothing to keep, this would last for hours, I would stare for minutes, the struggle would lose its power, and then become folly, the birds respond oddly trying to make something from rot, my girl keeps plowing…in the same spot.