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.

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.

Red Rose

Imaginary whites paint tactile floors,

Red roses in sin, the river pours,

Toting red petals like sands of shores,

Uncountable quantities of red scores.

The broken bodies of dried roses chip in rush,

The stench of sin, unholy musk,

I picked from stems of bushes unjust,

Poke and prod, stab and cut,

Stain the white consume by touch,

I kiss the blood, my open fingers,

I miss her love…my broken thinker.

I pick…because of her absence,

I pull…to honor my memories,

I poke…to actuate feeling,

I can see the red in the clear,

The happiness, the fear,

To my enemies,

The killing,

Of fragmented fixtures of lovely thought,

I use both hands to recreate a dying image,

Color coding with black and red,

Sort the well from dead,

I fight and fought,

A red rose in still water,

Under the shade tree outside the library in East Mecklenburg,

The clamor of wilding children to kill the quiet,

Innocent genesis mutate into perverse ends,

My guided hands, flapping jaws, illusive sins,

Stab the victim with saw-like knives and grin,

In dark brown eyes is where I chose to begin,

The rest of my life…

The rest of my wife,

Swept away in still waters,

Wading women wishing worse…

Of a growing marriage,

Screaming society in fragile ears,

They broke like glass into grounds to which I stepped,

I lost my balance and wept,

At the feet of my beloved,

At the feet of my beloved,

At the feet of my beloved,

She drove her nails across my bleeding back,

I grabbed her shins, I’m bleeding black,

By shards of women’s wicked words,

Going deaf to my cries, oh unheard,

…oh red rose in clear water,

Washed away by winds of them,

No sun’s gaze, no nature’s hymn,

Conveyor

I am standing still,

As the people fly East,
I am staring left,

There is complete silence, peace,

I am not only deaf,

But chilled,

By their gusts,

They are holding hands,

My fall from the current–

Was just right, I am now without time,

Bovine breezes kept me behind,

I look upward and choose to be blind…

I can no longer stand…while goes eyesight and space,

I cannot accept my slowing pace.

I know the days are moving, I can feel them,

Even though I forget the heat of the rising sun,

There were smiles…I remember smiles,

There were miles of flying folk,

They embraced each other and looked toward the next second, and never spoke,

A conveyor belt that never broke,

They never fell, they never dropped,

Dropped, Dropped, Dropped,

I am standing still,

As people fly East,

I am staring left, there is complete silence…peace?

Missing Pieces

We all have our missing pieces,

Elsewhere before we rest,

A repining second gives no comfort,

Repenting hearts digress, they search.

I am knowing of my pursuits, not bellicose,

She is not too close…

It is my right to rid my success of failure’s ghosts,

I am choked—

By the past I once wrote,

To know that she is knew,

And an ear for the untrue,

She remains…in time, alone.

She, still remains, my missing piece,

My missing peace,

My missing breath,

I’m listening deaf,

To a success story told,

From her eyes of glass and tongue of cold,

Gold…hair, brown eyes,

Still voice, unties—

Knots in the womb.