[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."

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

The Pen, The SwordJust lovely
I was happy to fall asleep
in the welcoming arms of your words and
you were unaware that you held me
so close, and so carefully
from the moment I didn't hear 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 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

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).

Chasing Butterflies

I believe in starry nights writing timeless songs
of all the yesterdays and tomorrows yet to come.

I believe in hearing the voice of love in rhyme;
I heard it as a child in my mother's lullabies.

Let's go down to the river now
and chase the butterflies.

I believe in playing, absorbing life's full sun,
dancing through the day until the night is done.

I believe in wishing wells never running dry,
granting us the time for a tender, slow goodbye.

Let's go down to the river now
and chase the butterflies.

Should I cross to the other side,
don't you worry; don't you cry.

There you'll see where tomorrow I'll be,
forever chasing butterflies...

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.

Evolution of life

child, we dream
teenager, we have ideas
adult, we have a bar code encrusted in the nape

we evolve to finish in the matrix

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

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

On The Collapse Of Modern Society"I've never seen so many folks
putting their hopes
in packaged air,
as far as I'm concerned,
and from what I've observed
misplacing material worth while
rushing back and forth
to get nowhere."
my Grandma said,
shaking her head.

Within A BoxIt's a prison for the minds of haunted souls
an odd prison, not large enough to contain its prisoners
and yet it encompasses every fiber of their being
in silent, silent spaces.
Haunted souls are searching for the key
there is no key, but they don't know any better
and what harm could it do? Hope is better than nothing
here's an unlocked open door for you.
Little trinkets haunt souls with their questions
and we want answers, but they won't give
anything away. Very smart,
you know the world is ending soon.
(The best of which are only
crude descriptions of the magic
they are looking for.)

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.

Lovers and assassinsNight
walk

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09.05.10who will carve the tomb of the stone cutter?
or will he lie, forever, forgotten
unmarked in the minds of men?

nay, every tombstone is his,
and on each he leaves his epitaph
barely visible in the marble.

like ashes spread on the wind
half a cemetery
is a stone cutter's grave.

there is no dying date on his,
but a career, and perhaps a passion
or at least the whisper of a life.

the stone cutter carves his own tomb
but every man digs his own grave.

16.04.10he was wearing a pink tie. she generally did not take issue with men in pink, but the tie was an affront. she cursed liberals and metrosexuals and angled her chair away from the steroid monkey in his idiotic pink tie. who did he think he was fooling? it wasn't even a good colour for him.

the other side of the room ought to have proven more satisfactory but mere moments after she turned her over-upholstered dinner chair, the entire vista was blocked by a table of vapid whores. as if their falsely pitched tittering was not enough to turn the stomach, one of them was crying.

15.04.10 Bi bathed in blue water and dreamt of the sea
but when the bath was cold my dreams were old
and naught was left to me.

alone i crawled from the steaming brew
and tried to recall the face
that only a moment or two before
had seemed so out of place,

but the steam had cleared
and the vision too
and the bath was empty and dry.

i wondered and asked:
did i see it true?
could my death be so gentle and kind?

so i turned the spout but nothing came out
and all of a sudden i knew:
there's no drowning for me, no death there will be
'til my bones are broken and old.

15.04.10somehow the sky has gotten closer to the earth. he hasn't noticed a damn thing. he may as well be blind for all he sees. when he looks at her she always thinks she sees something. maybe she's blind too. blind and hallucinating. would that make the gods kind or cruel? dumb question.

oxygen starved as the sky caves in, she watches the heaving bosoms around her. their breathing attracts more attention than her smile. she has stopped sucking air and she daren't speak. he still stands there, looking through her, eyes as empty as her lungs.

he's been here before, in dreams or possibly nightmares. everything lies at his fingertips but h

09.04.10the world is too bright
it desaturates my eyes
stealing their gleam
for city lights

blue turns grey
and i am aryan no more

i am an achromatic photograph
ivory face and ashen eyes
as my crowning glory
grows in grey.

i am washed out portrait.
i am nineteen years old.

06.04.10this is trust
and you can't feel a damn thing
which is the point

i am silk
gliding through your embrace
barely there

but you can feel me
and i can feel you

i am a mountain stream
caressing rock
and following topography

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15.07.09

by ~007-FleetingPassions, Jul 15, 2009, 10:07:58 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

i have not written in weeks.

no fault of my muse.
she is a whore

but i have always known that.

no.

i have not written
because of this:

this is a limbo
and i have no reason,

i have no real
desire
to ever leave.

i have nothing to dream for

and so i have not written
in weeks.

15.07.09by ~007-FleetingPassions

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

©2009-2013 ~007-FleetingPassions

i am tired.

~~love 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

!peternok Jul 21, 2009

I'm impressed by this, makes me feel stuff.

Reply

~007-FleetingPassions Jul 21, 2009

thank you. i am glad.

Reply

`YouInventedMe Jul 17, 2009 Writer

i have nothing to dream for

and so i have not written
in weeks.

I know the feeling

Reply

~007-FleetingPassions Jul 17, 2009

does the fragility frighten you?

Reply

`YouInventedMe Jul 17, 2009 Writer

most things frighten me.
I'm a silly wabbit.

Reply

~007-FleetingPassions Jul 18, 2009

rabbits abound -- silly and wise.

Reply

~Thor-axe Jul 16, 2009 Hobbyist Photographer

ahh,... it is a sad day when there is nothing left to dream for my dear. Be that as it may, I will provide at least a few hours distraction for you: [link]

Reply

Mood: Joy

~Knightwhisper Jul 15, 2009

(Psssst.....your muse was over here making out with mine, just fyi. I sent her back to your place, she should be there soon in full force.)

Reply

~007-FleetingPassions Jul 15, 2009

well i thank you for your disciplinary action

i hope to see the little whore promptly.

Reply

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