[x]

AstrologicalI have lost myself to
Venus & Mars,
tangled in their mismatched limbs.

Just dream dust & shattered prayers
begging for a new set of skin
(she can't remember where she orbits).

Pluck these fractured wings;
the Sun & Moon no longer ache
to see me fly in their luster.

lies, she wrotei. just a mimicry, really;
uncompromisingly
desperate to shine.

ii. counterfeit & clockwise,
tasting words on her
unworthy tongue.

iii. with a dysfunctional mind
& apocryphal dictionary,
she cannot clone it all.

iv. "say anything," the pen
whispers as she trembles
among ink-scented fraudulence.

v. but she just laughs & plays the part,
forgetting what the pages told her:
"truth is stranger than fiction."

The Pen, The SwordJust lovely
I was happy to fall asleep
in the welcoming warmth of your words and
you were unaware that you held me
so close, and so carefully
from the moment before I heard you speak
to the taste of every sentence you spoke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been seeking all along
Just barely
I was loathe to fall so deep
in the sharpened edges of your words and
you were too aware that you had me
so close, and so carelessly
from the first second I heard you break
to the taste of every sentence you broke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been avoiding all along

Death of the PoetDear poetry,
This is your challenge,
my eternal chore,
to restate the truth
like never before-
but I’m imperfect
at my very core
and hypocrisy
is what I abhor
so you may expect
my work to be poor
enough for me to
be crushed into gore
with failed attempts
to take wing and soar
when all I wanted
was something much more
than emptiness and
inherited war
and pointless details
of imagined lore
which most of us tend
to simply ignore
at the piercing sound
of a lion’s roar
or the convenience
of a nearby store…
what am I truly
writing these words for?
Let’s merely pretend
that this isn’t me
but the voice of God
or L. Ron Hubbard
or whoever you
wish for it to be
since facts remain facts
no matter the source,
no matter the cause,
since the trustworthy
are also humans
prone to failure;
so prone to a fault
that we hold dearly-
the sum of our faith
measured in dollars-
rewarded by credit
and paper money…
for some odd reason
I find this funny!
So I conclude

False EternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.
Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!
Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for the moon
then sought the horizon, again and again warned my father that doom
would befall him if he didn't seek a better way to live and be
I wasn't willing to follow the dark and deadly rules,
trying to bring some light into the lives of these fools.
Guilds of anti-gods were formed, wars rose higher, nothing to atone!
They all represen

ArrheniusThe birds are
keeping to themselves
this evening
as the earth shifts
slightly-
ever so calmly
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have
to move).

Here and there, I
witness these
beautiful strangers
with perfect bodies
and long hair
walking down the road
in tightly knitted packs.
They are animals
like we are animals-
like we are
animals without
claws and fur,
with scratches on our
skin that yields to
fragile and
familiar hands.

The winds respond
as quiet birds rush
from telephone wires
in panic and
in beauty; she
tries to brush the hair
dancing circles in her eyes
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have to move).

False ProphetsPoems and love songs breed dead dreams,
strangled by weeds, face down in the ground
with no roses to mourn them.

Singers are poets that croon
(if you happen to lose your little heart to their tune)
and poets are false prophets -
true love will last forever
if they care to write it,
but not if you swallow the lines...

yet, they always do.

We all have a place
set for us in the shade
in our own private garden of weeds.

False eternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant of the fact that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.

Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!

Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for

Psychotic ramblingsI, in the eternal void rest,
Am the unwanted thirteenth guest,
Insane, deranged and psychotic,
There are people who even call me sick.

Isn't it joyful and greedy to demand
A sacrifice of strangulation at the reach of the hand?
Cure the poisoned in a prison built of mental sand.

Murder is the solution brought by the resolution.
Is this the final, one and only conclusion?
Better think again, there will be no retribution.

Death is not the liberation, just the beginning.
Is there eternal peace? The solution is sinning.
Unacceptable lies become the truth, the chaos keeps spinning.

VoicesDo you hear the moan of morning rhymes
By the people in their endless time
As the morning dew breaks the day
Back to where the city-lights once laid

The lamp-posts are filled with black starlight
As the children run in their flight
With cries of sorrow, cries of pain
The old houses creaking with disdain

Acidic puddles of blood-wet tears
Remain on the street through all these years
As the cracks have hid the crumbled dust
Within these roads of bone and rust

The melody of the birds is lost
To the screeches and screaming loss
There are people cowering in the dark
Murmuring, whispering their tortured remarks

Flames ignite the world in fire

WakefulI remain awake with dreams on my mind
and stories that wait to be knit into books.
To never find comfort until my pillows are
stuffed with thoughts instead of feathers
To never let go until I made sure that
the moon smiled back at me
Until the trees, the grass, and every night creature
has whispered good night...
And yet I'm still as wakeful as an owl
afraid that sleep would somehow
grab my neck and drag me to my grave.

Shared HappinessI like it better when you're happy.
The world feels like a safe place -
A good place to be.

Stay happy, even in the face
of great adversity
I know these last few years have been...

Well, difficult, to say the least.
But as long as your heart shines
I can hear it...

That devilish smile on your lips
the one no amount of miles
or hardships can erase

Remember, I'm always watching
With the eyes of my heart
I see you clearly

And, as long as you are happy
No matter where this life leads me
Then I am happy too.

Watercolor PainWhen you smile,
I turn colorblind.

It turns into a somersault
whenever I gain contact
with your skin,
bare back touching
bare back.

But I'm not hungry
for bedposts.

I just want to
savor each moment your arms
lock into mine,
the romanticism of
the moons in my eyes
and the skies in your words.

There's smoke
behind all those hues
of hazel and your fingers
are porcelain,
but I still love you.

bad nightmy mistakes are on my head,
and the cigarettes taste like metal;
on the street curb of a suburban block,
the lights jaundiced and flickering
like drunken fireflies, your reflection
that emanates from me covers every face.

HumanDear Hypocrite,

What do you do?
Throwing insults when you're insulted.

Dear Coward,

Where went you?
To your "peaceful" sanctuary you have bolted.

Dear Liar,

What say you?
Your poison corrupts innocent ears.

Dear Human,

What are you?
A sinner trapped in endless tears.

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Wrath Is A Snow-Ridden MongrelWrath is a snow-ridden mongrel, weathered
By brow-beaten dreams of untempered hate,
Thrust into the heart of conspiracy.
She’s a crying child with open, bloodied wrists
Throwing tantrums laced with crimson regret,
Longing for a breast upon which to rest;
A mother scorned, cast into the darkness
Of love’s cruelest shadow, torn asunder now
By false promises forged in the heat of
Compromise. Wrath is the many-headed
Serpent God, trod upon by the heels of
Seven billion mortals’ feet, wound and reared
To lash out with bared, voluminous fangs
Aimed for the waiting flesh of countless spirits.
Wrath is the touch of

UntitledThree thoughts came to Nathan Turner as he watched reality die. They weren’t the thoughts he’d expected to have at the end of his life, and for a little while he let that disappoint him. Great men were supposed to think great things, after all. They spent their days pondering the nature of truth and serenity, and spent their evenings wondering about… who knows? Other artsy shit, probably. Didn’t they? He couldn’t be sure anymore, but as time carried on—or rather, ceased to carry on—Nathan forgot all about great men, and the thoughts, they lingered even as the shards of his identity dripped and splattered to

ThereThere’s a lonely little spot on the edge of existence,
Waiting for men who aren’t quite what they should be.
Behind panes of fogged-over glass, it overlooks
A veritable sea of fleshy, pulse-cradled eggs that rock and sway
With the shifting tide of creation, the ever-blowing wind.
Each bursts like an overripe melon when the time is right,
Pouring forth an eyeless fetus like rotten yolk, with broken limbs
And crooked, featherless wings.
They take in a breath, the pale little darlings, or two, if they’re awfully lucky,
Before laying down their hairless heads, lips stretched into terrible grins, to
Expire,
Wallowing in the fluid th

For An Old SoulSomething there is, in the way you love me
That sets my weak, bone-cold heart a-beating;
A living spark, stone-old art, above the
Fear of our love’s eventual fleeting.
Sing, my darling, the song you have waited
All of your life to sing—take my hand Fate,
As we dance, soft and slow, with breath bated.
Sing, for nevermore shall I ask you to wait.
Everything I am is yours, forever,
And in your loving arms I long to rest;
Ours is a peace which can never be severed,
For you are my rock, the one I love best.
Love, take my heart, drink these sweet lover’s chills;
Now only we can cure each other‘s ills.

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Little Warrior

by *SovereignSin, Jan 18, 2013, 4:05:55 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

If there is a God,
Little Warrior,
We’ve driven him mad with the sound
Of our hearts’ beating;
Seven billion pounding palpitations,
Hammering hollow screams against skin pulled
Taught across the midnight sky.
The breath of ten thousand heathen kings fills your lungs,
Ten thousand dreams from ten thousand ages.
But even now, the Living War rages.
Never have you known peace,
Though your too-short days are filled with mirth.
And even before your timely birth,
When the whole of creation
Was black-grey spaces, warm wet noises,
And the muffled cooing of matriarchs,
Existence was a struggle—hard fought, hard won.
Then through the trench of flesh, you marched.
You are small now,
Little Warrior,
Still learning limbs soon to stretch,
Speaking with a tongue made soft by a lack of
Hard words, hard truths.
And you will always be so,
Little Warrior,
No matter how far your tiny arms reach,
No matter how hard your young heart grows.
The universe will always eclipse
Your legend.
But you mustn’t falter,
Little Champion,
Because billions of little hearts
Are beating at the pace you set;
Driving a jealous god mad with misappropriated
Hate.
So stand tall,
Little Warrior,
And let the flame in your breast
Sear the stars,
For though around your world the darkness looms,
Seven billion hearts in rhythm will
One day pierce the gloom.

Little Warriorby *SovereignSin

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Stand tall, little warrior.

My university was built beside a Catholic school, separated by a road scarcely wide enough for two cars to drive astride. After a particularly jarring lesson about the nature of right and wrong this morning, I left class and noticed several classes of children playing in their school's play-yard. I wondered, quite morbidly, how many of them would still laugh and play if they understood how cold the world really was? How many of them would have the strength to go on if they knew that the world was tough, that every moment of every day was a struggle--a struggle against other people, other children; against the germs on their skin and in their body; against the world, both physical and figurative; against the universe itself, which drives itself closer to the natural constant: entropy.

And the answer I came up with was "probably all of them." Children are resilient in ways we could never possibly understand. It's a distant strength we shed like caterpillar skin as we age, but children... something in them burns. In most of us, it never stops burning. We simply grow cooler until that flame goes out, and much like a star, we grow dark and disappear.

~tuffhoss Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Just awesome. What hits me most is the overwhelmed sense of it, like being in the place of the little warrior. And you very well contrasted struggle and the need for strength to go on.

*SovereignSin Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

^ That's the kind of response I wish I always got on pieces. Thank you so much. New poetry will be on the way shortly.

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Little Warriorby *SovereignSin

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