Posts tagged Poem
Posts tagged Poem
Bad blood. It’s black and runs halfway true.
It flows in rivers, sit and watch the path trace you.
It preys on pure, a push for what it can’t possess-
or had, but now knows that it can’t regress.
It’s bad, it’s best to go bleed it dry,
wet the page in black, ink exorcise.
"Be sure to keep clear." It’s whispered around him,
like somehow the sound would kill if it found him.
Somewhere deep down he’s got a story for his peer group,
a little light left to help the real friends steer through.
He’s not a maze but there’s a curve in his road,
a quick twist to his path and he can’t wait til it’s shown.
He knows he’s no different from the average kid around the way,
but he pretends he is to give his white a little gray.
He covets the color that corners all his victim friends,
he’s too boring on his own and can’t fit within.
He makes a habit out of undermining sadness,
and striking back with lies ten times as tragic.
They all caught on, but they’ll never let him hear.
A liar turned a pariah, “be sure to keep clear.”
The text painted a picture of me. At least, I hoped it would eventually.
I needed to convince you of me - get you to see I could exist conventionally.
I’m not a head game - dead weight’s not what I was meant to be,
but all my energy had me construed to be the enemy.
It’s interesting, incidentally I’m not amused,
since my every letter to you added flame to the fuse,
but when it came to blow you’d run from the truth
hiding deep inside your vice mixing rum with the juice.
…I’ve never used you, these letters were my heart.
I can’t convince you I exist, but I’m glad that I tried to start.
It wasn’t me, truthfully, but it’s rude to say it’s you -
consider this my resignation.
It’s a one boy choir with a chorus so sweet.
The kid’s lips are closed, but the voice is on beat.
He only knows a song, it’s sung stronger every practice-
and all he’s stuck on is how it sounds better backwards.
Pound out a passage, the masses crave a show-tune.
Half the bastards passing won’t even claim to know you.
But sing in that voice we’ll never think to put a finger on.
We’ll pass you the lyrics, just be sure to mind the key you’re on.
Hit the wrong notes, you’ll hurt the folks here to jeer you on-
we need all your fear to turn your soul into a sing-a-long.
Sweet little man, bouncing music in his mental,
no outs or vents to counsel what he’s been through.
He amounts to them and the tune just gets louder,
"No one man should have so little power."
"Touch me." I didn’t know what she meant,
but I knew what I wanted.
To ruin her. To ruin me.
To hit rock bottom and bounce hard.
To look like bullets set on the heart of God.
I wanted our sex to be cancer, bane of Holy.
I wanted to break her, find another,
and aim again.
I wrote a sentence in blood once.
It was false.
I wrote my name in dirt once.
I was as proud of it as I ever was.
I wrote my heart in ink daily.
I thought it more precious than water.
I wrote her heart in place of mine.
The medium - my body.
I’m writing my heart today.
The blood has run dry. The dirt is where it lies. Its story’s in the ink.
You spoke softly. A tone so weak,
it rivaled my confidence. I drank your words
and watched my heart sweat from your pores.
Clad to the core in my morals; I made you.
Yet, I’m intoxicated by the proof of your words,
Yours. The thoughts you created. The mind you found on your own.
The path you chose by yourself. The one that led you from me.
Watching the last of me pool at your feet… I wonder how much of you keeps me alive.
I’m wise enough to size her up, thick lips…
type to rush knights front with a quickness.
I’m listless on the outside, vicious on the in,
to win is my intention - from the game to her id.
I play with a mix of tact and past lessons,
no passive aggression, but my passion’s aggressive.
The way she moves to match is impressive,
every time I push, she attacks with new leverage.
Each move’s a weapon let loose in just seconds,
wars rage in the minutes, none given to get a breath in.
They pass in tens; I don’t feel the time slide.
Bishops on the side, mortified by the war crimes.
It’s hers or mine, the win is still set to chase…
Two lovers, and each wants to check the mate.
The man spoke in low tones with cold eyes,
he told tales of old flights and boat rides.
Most nights, his audience applauded him;
not really sure if these tales all belonged to him.
Still, they went along with them, stuck on every word.
Even though the stories were increasingly absurd.
The people, undeterred, lived for the man’s stories,
giving up their lives for vicarious glory.
Some shaved off day jobs for words of the bard,
to chase lost causes in that wondrous bar.
They cast away every single piece of corporation,
while the man sold thoughts about the greatest explorations.
They vested faith in the man as he painted them pictures.
Slick words reigned in elated pretenders.
The weight of the ventures splintered jaded beginners,
because at this point… the man only catered to winners.
Each that gave up structure was the apple of his eye,
and every word he spoke, meant to satisfy their high.
At the end of this man’s life, these outcasts will come together…
with the stories he once told to continue the storyteller.
Folded hands atop a bible, it’s my role.
Psalms flow quick as the wine goes.
When bells and chimes toll,
bottles disappear and mass is spiteful.
Brimstone’s my home, this tone they know,
but they come, they go for tales from this tome, so…
I speak the pages, reap the age when
men ruled religion and freed the nation.
Cause thought’s a burden, will’s the same,
why not kill a goat and displace the pain,
take the skies as places where the angels lie,
and men can fly, provide we repent and die?