lupusbellum

I looked at her looking away and I said, “If I only here one thing from you let it be that I am the only one you’ll ever need,” She turned her back and said, “Don’t you know by now I can’t ever tell you that? This life is too short for you and I, So please forgive me if I don’t drop it for you, If you ever cared you wouldn’t ask again,” “How can you say that when we are so close? I  think about you always and I am always here, Whenever you’ve needed me so you know I care, It wouldn’t be much different from now but, For a stronger bond and a different title!” “

Every twist and turn in the road, Branching and joining again, Or perhaps the metaphor best serves as a river? Splitting and meeting again, Fate, it seems, to care little for metaphor, Only for her own endeavors, But today I do not curse her, For the road that meets mine.

The ground beneath my feet, Like dust or maybe ashes, Feels like a breaking pane of glass, And all the world is silent. I look down and watch it all fall away, But the isn’t dropping, It seems I am ascending, Time to start the play. Watch me laugh, Watch me dance, Take a stab at dramatic romance, Lead by script plain to read in the back. Every jerk of my guiding strings, Feels like razors in my flesh, And compassion is all but dead, From a heartless puppet master. As the crowd looks on and laughs, At the scenes and the masques, I carefully grasp my escape, Clutched in my palm yet again. I slash at my guidelines, As if they were a n

Think not of these words that I write, Or as you read that which I type, Breathe not a solemn whisper into the night, Of this text that is inscribed with anything but delight, See not the meaning of these lines, As they are engraved deep with my tines, Hear not the voices in the mind, That spins webs of thoughts too small to find, Feel not the touch of honeyed lies, Covering your skin to attract the flies, Know not the meaning of this sight, Take to the winds to flee here like wings to flight.

I just cannot seem to make myself understand; the boundaries of my mind find no logical reason as to it. Why would anyone love life? Cling to it like a shy child to a parent’s leg? Reverently speak of it and of ways to prolong it? Can none of you see you are suffering? Enslaved by your own flesh, muscle, bones, and sinews? Forced to emerge in a world without choice and made to breath? Have you never considered that you might be a slave to what afflicts you? Like addicts you try your best to get your high, Forget the extended pains to remember brief respites of happiness, Return to the people and places that broke you in hopes of being

Shred my heart Down to the core Bring me pain And suffering Tear from me My innocence Crush it down And spit in my face Lie like the devil And give me faith Crush my endeavors As I sit and gape No more rest No never again The nightmare lives And my life is it So take it all And burn it away So I will have nothing Left to write or say

Indulging in self complacency and baroque ostentatious banter that no one can follow, Behind these masks and risqué clothing so poise and composed to the letter, Never a wrong move just a calculated mistake in the game that you all play, Such grotesque public displays of lust, greed, envy, and pride so foul, Of course I indulge myself but not religiously like you do, Call me a hypocrite but I still call you all hedonistic lich, so cold and deceased, Draining the warmth out of hearts until they are as cold as the stairs I get, So I lean back against the banister of the stairs and watch the games being played, Cuckolds for power exchan

I’m sitting here writing in an unconventional way, My writing often turns to death, life, emotion, philosophy and the supernatural, Recently my hidden cache has taken a turn of love, longing, and lust for a better life, I even went so far to walk by moonlit path to the shore and wrote by torch, But still those are my ways of processing; they are the conventional, I consider myself a well rounded poet, having touched in part a vast selection of topics, The arts, nature, emotion, and all the clichés of poetry that are oh so common, And even a bit of the unorthodox poetry writ in a style of madness, But I do not ever recall writing