Murderous

a broken thing
left alone
in the cobwebs and shadows
it stirs
with dying memories
of a smile
that once set the world afire
the strings that bind it
to the smoke of suffering
are fragile and frail
like promises and prayers
but escape is not even a concept
that swims through the waters of her mind
chains of sorrow and regret
painfully bind
every thought
of freedom

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There are things in the shadows. 

slither

"same cross, different nails"



we are prophets of gibberish
we are saints of sincerity
we are bringers of anxiety
and half-baked truth
we slither out of our shells
like ancient beings woken up
by the alarm of the suffering
caused by our dreams
every movement lethargic
cogs falling into gears
that spin without ease
of an ancient grease
their stench seeps in our skin
in our eyes and our teeth
in our hair and our eyes
and our words and our lies
they will hang up there
on the crosses and the beams
words that spill from our lips
will rust through their screams

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It's rare to be able to tap into something horrid and attempt to describe it on the page. Even failure in such an attempt is a glorious finale.

A Hate Letter

the dog in my heart
barks all day
cries all night
it has teeth fit for claws
it only wants to bite
the dog never sleeps
even when I do
it runs wild in my dreams
it only wants to fight
some days the dog is silent
some days the dog is violent
i move to the growls of this dog
my face wrapped in a frown
i wish i had the guts
the guts
to put this fucker down
----
Some poems you write, other poems you puke out because your system cannot keep it in.