Her wings never did like the snug fit of his restraints, Her voice never liked the silence, Her eyes shone even in the darkness and rock bottom only ever proved to be a springboard But still, lost in the constant of white noise, even a phoenix tires with age…
I fought all things taught all lessons learned all battle wounds earned. And yet, here I am, the corner begging my company, reflection caught upon the forced crimson pause. A reflective stance, a core deep flaw. Strip bare the necessities of life, remove my destructive Armour and I am weak, whole without value. How will you love me if I calm the fires that flame upon your words? Oh! To discover I still hold harbour to such fears. Such scars beyond deep, we learn, learned behaviour, echo, mimic and resurrect the the dark shadows of our existence. We are a reflective stance of inner needs, nourishment, eternally perhaps feeding from each other’s energy, an unstoppable cycle rotating across our very own axis.
My thoughts would likely
set ablaze the page,
Perhaps best I let them fester
In silent implosions
dot to dot conclusions
and solid doubt
of realities illusions.
My thoughts would likely
tear holes through
rip apart solar systems
Redesign the universe
and yet, would
surely quench this
A cure for perhaps
mothers tongue, a curse.
My thoughts would surely
set ablaze the page
Not wrong not right
Blinded by terrors sight
upon my tongue then
I shall bite,
whilst quietly waiting
for the emptiness
This isn’t my pen, someone stole my pencil, My thoughts are caged in empty milk cartons ready to post “wanted” pictures made from trace. Tattered and torn half arsed ink stains I write in vain. The butler stole my tea, gave me toast buttered both sides then dropped me from the greatest height My ego has a pain My heart refuses now to beat My soul, deciding it’s a game, gave up trying to be brave. Reality is a blast bound in kinky, curly leather straps, molecules for the black light and rancid eyes watching, waiting, praying… This isn’t my pen sticky fingers and licking tongues toxify my ink with fugu juice injecting the heart vain, hooked up to the needle dulling, nullifying, I’ve sent her into excile Coventry for lovers abandoned my muse to the dungeons for her crimes but the prissy little bitch, took all my fucking lines… Now my ink is going limp erectile dystunction without the blue pill I’m just another writer stuck between the trees with nothing to say just words to up and kill….
For a fleeting moment space was mine
designed beyond sight
Vulnerability of heart, takes flight
as thought and words soon fly.
If asked, I’d sit three seats to the left
Somewhere between here and mars
I’d converse silently, just me and the stars
and declare my wishes to skies of dark.
It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.
Those twinkling lights have long known your name,
In twilight battles to drive the devil insane
I tell Selene my secrets
I’m not sure she hears and never certain it matters…
I’m not always sure anything matters Living seems only to flatter
We’re specks trying to etch our names into the infinite
spending lifetimes searching
hopelessly for the lost scent of a love we once had
And in the grander scale of things
I hear the howling winds they drag me from my slumber, Trees screaming, leaves pleading, debris flying, Rain falling, heavy, denting, slamming on windowpane, Where now is Selene among this raging storm, I search for calm and find only the descent of crimson mist, I search for light… But the soul craves darkness Which has long arrived, I search for hope but Pandora was left astray, unlocked… I hear the startling call of objects dragged through the storms mouth, teeth bared, blood dripping, I hear the emptiness of atoms the raging storms of nature the familiarity of night sat alone, as insomnia Kisses away the shadows that haunt.
She was graphite, rough and raw. She’d erase rough lines of guidance, use the indents as a reminder of where not to walk, how not to cry, when not to break. She’ll sit up into the wee twilight Hours curving letters across nipples pert bud, gently caressing sensuality, as the sharpened pencil defines contours of need, black lines of repression smeared by charcoal nips and probing tips. Blurred definitions tainted revelations deceitful realisations Graphite creations… how she pondered now the way we draw our lines in pencil, temporary markings leaving a gentle trail of destruction across naked bodies beneath Lunar glows Wild oats, taken, made and sown Pick ups and throws… The allure of graphite, need erased, redrawn… Redrawn.
Rot mutating at the very core churning entitlement disease an epidemic of waste, as eyes die and skin becomes mottled. Souls decaying between the silent beats of a ravaged war whilst ancient wisdom falls from the page one letter at a time. The conceptualisation of ideology lost in the sphere of thought. I am, I must, I therefore… We have become the beldam of humanity, with blind eyes, scarred hearts and jars of pickled morals aside our broken values left to soak in the bitter tincture of ego blessed in whispered incantations of pride. Yes. Humanity is this worlds Beldam.