Gluttony
You consume everything,
Everyone, around you
Once they've been drained,
they're tossed aside
Like yesterday's trash
And still, you go back for seconds
Mooching off those who love you,
Stealing every penny away,
You keep taking,
More and more
Slowly, you destroy everything
They are
And still, you go back for seconds,
Such a vicious appetite
Never quite satiated
Repetition
Yes, it's hard,
The world being constantly created,
But repeating, doing the same,
Plagiarizing , or just saying some thing,
When you know it's not you,
That did the sweating,
That tore yourself apart,
That is a sin.
God does not strike down for it,
But if you Rod Stewart your way,
Through life,
It is dust and dirt that you kick up,
Nothing living,
Nothing worthwhile.
This is not to say we shouldn't learn,
Teach the old art, drink the vintage wine,
But if all we do is scurry away, in the basement of our minds,
Then the world we bring about,
Is just rotten.
Pride
your pride, your royal majesty,
is far too great for me to like
you pound your iron fist against
the castle walls, which crumble down.
gold and silver tapestries
and brightest chandeliers once burned
before you pounded iron fists
before the walls came falling down.
your pride, your royal majesty,
lies far too much excessively
beyond the borders of your realm
a lonely kingdom you preside.
o’er hills of gray which wandered lost
and streams of gentle, quiet blue
proudly, broadest meadows grin
and stand up to your fearsome wrath.
grapes of ___
I did not know
I had the capacity to feel wrath
until I experienced you,
my friend.
The weight put on my shoulders
pulled me down until not even
my dreams flew.
My body only knew three states:
utter numbness, searing pain, or electrifying anger.
One thing you did not realize,
was that weight pressing down make the atoms
conform to the container;
the smaller the container, the faster the atoms will go.
You may have pressed me down, but my
rage burns through my body
until not even my voice and false
bravado can hide the anger you have
put me through.
I will find a way to make you pay.
If not now,
someday.
I will be waiting
Wrath Marches
Burning rage,
Seething hatred,
Blazing for seemingly no reason
Flames exude, warding off
The fearful souls around
They scatter, having known
Such inexhaustible fury
Time and time again
They know better
Than to remain in the line of fire
As Wrath marches,
Razing through concrete jungles
And countryside plains,
Screams of pain erupt,
Filling the thick, smoky air
Fighting a pointless, but personal war,
Destruction wrought, lives lost
Wrath is feared by all
It Consumes
Fire and brimstone in her fury filled gaze
Burning her enemies, forever scarred.
She dances around the ashes and blaze,
A wicked smile bears teeth, her face unmarred.
Death abounds, surrounds, holds her in its maze.
A game she thought to play, leaves her in shards.
For Wrath creates victims, ripping out hearts.
Lives left damaged, long after it departs.
One day...
I won’t know when it’s happened. When I’ve succumbed, finally. When my mind will slip quietly from here to, elsewhere. Will I sit unmoving as I live a pleasant life behind my unseeing eyes? Will the entreaties of my loved ones fall on deaf ears that hear only remembered words of days gone by or dreamed up in the mists of my addled mind? Will I awaken one morning and find myself alone with strangers that call me a name I don’t remember, entreat me to recall people and places that mean nothing to me, then cry when I don’t remember? Will I die in life, leaving those who love me to mourn while I still walk among them, a ghost that looks like me, emptied of all the memories made and shared, the years lived, the love given and received?
Worse still, will I have fleeting moments of lucidity? Will I have bursts of light in my darkened mind when I know that I have forgotten something, someone, very important? That what I can’t remember is causing harrowing pain? Will I briefly glimpse the world as it is, revealing my tenuous, no, nonexistent, grasp on reality? Will I reach out to caress the cheek of my beloved, glistening with tears, only to forget who and why I raised my hand toward him?
Or, worse yet, will the faces hidden in the bathroom marble and the cloudy sky, the voices that whisper in empty rooms, the shadows that move when the night is dark and moonless, become my reality? Will the face I have loved so long I know it better than my own become that of a monster? Will my nightmares wake and live, enveloping me in an endless dark night while I slumber awake, a living corpse to love and life, my face etched with terror, eyes ever turned inward to a world steeped in horror? Will I scream, trembling with fear, running from those to whom I once ran, who only wish to soothe and comfort?
I may not know when it’s happened. But, I know it will.
The Girl’s Story
Once upon a time,
There was a young woman
Who didn't see
The value of life,
It's inherent beauty
Lost on her chestnut eyes
Her father drank,
Day in, day out,
It was always
The same dull gray,
Color drained from every
Former joy of life
Her heart beat,
But only from strife,
Nothing else enough
To make her feel,
So many emotions forced
Everyday, the girl
Donned a familiar mask,
Hiding the hate,
The resentment festering
Far down, deep within
To state it simply,
The young girl
Wanted nothing more
Than to die
Everytime her parents fought,
Fueled by the influence
Of that toxic concoction,
She thought about it
More and more,
She considered it
Lying awake, far into
The dark, dismal night,
The girl imagined a different life,
An escape from all this pain
Some nights, she still ponders,
Wondering when
It will finally end,
For even now,
Not a single thing
Has changed
Updates 11/1/2018
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