[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 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

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

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.)

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.

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

Lovers and assassinsNight
walk

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.

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.

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.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 724 bytes more ▶

More from ~007-FleetingPassions

16.03.09 Byou can beg for context
i'd rather leave you wondering
i'd rather leave you in tears
but i won't
no fault of my own
you just don't care
enough to ponder
what it means when i say

16.03.09i think of you
when i get the teapot out
when i put in the effort
to make loose tea
i think of you both

you've never met
never will meet
unless fate changes
it's plans
but you are together

in my mind

because i have had tea
and found solace
because you know
exactly how to hold me

and you have made life
livable
lovable
both of you

and i love you

15.03.09it is loving you
over a london fog
3.50
overcharged
that makes my life
worth it.
and it is feeling
your hands
on my back
overlooking
a golf course
in the rain
imprinted forever
that gives me
the strength
to buy
tea
3.50
and think of
you.

12.03.09it's a sharper pain than you've felt before but it's also clearer. there is nothing murky or clouded.

the ink spreads beneath and atop your skin and the needle draws blood blending smoothly. you're thankful the ink is red so you can't see just how much of that scarlet puddle is fresh from your twitching capillary beds.

your nerves spasm and you can feel your entire arm vibrating with the buzz of the needle. and it's not just one needle. if you concentrate hard enough you can almost feel the hundreds of tiny stabbing proboscises. your flesh screams with burning agony and you gently close your eyes to make the serenity last.

you are on

11.03.09Sing a song of king pins,
a two-six full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds,
looking to get high.

When the spliff was lit up,
the smoke began to rise.
Wasn't that a lovely scene,
to meet with police eyes?

The pimp was in his hotel room,
counting out his money.
The whore was on the corner,
selling rich men honey.

The rat was in police care,
safe for what he said,
When down came a blackbird
and shot him in the head.

The bust caused such commotion,
that little dealer Joe
Found a way through the back door,
and left with all the dough.

10.03.09she lies on the floor, crying silently, immersed in pain. humiliated, broken, fraught with self loathing. and tchaikovsky pours out her speakers: full volume baroque beauty.

it does not take away the shame, but it makes her frightening litost a little prettier, a little more poetic. there, there is perfection -- the perfection she hopelessly strives for -- and beauty -- beauty she will never equal -- but it is enough to soften the edges of her ragged broken glass heart. it is creating the dichotomy that keeps her sane, it is reminding herself of the marvels of earth that keeps her from taking herself out of it. surely she is too little

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: April 29, 2009
File Size: 724 bytes

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 4
Favourites: 2 [who?]
Views: 45 (0 today)
Downloads: 3 (0 today)

[x]

29.04.09

by ~007-FleetingPassions, Apr 29, 2009, 1:50:55 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

we are sitting on my bed
your head nestled against my neck
my arms tight around you.

we are warm and
our hair
black and gold
lingers
intertwined
even as you
rise and pull away.

your curls trap
my silken strands
as
my heart is trapped
within your hands

you tell me that it flutters
like a frantic, injured bird
and you are tired of the beating
on your palms.

you won't meet my eyes and
your hands
damp with blood
open
pulling apart
as the fragile bird
falls and slips away.

29.04.09by ~007-FleetingPassions

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

a songbird dies.

`YouInventedMe May 1, 2009 Writer

your curls trap
my silken strands
as
my heart is trapped
within your hands

splendid

~007-FleetingPassions May 1, 2009

thank you!

~callItaRitual Apr 29, 2009

your curls trap
my silken strands
as
my heart is trapped
within your hands

this, i think, is really quite pretty

~007-FleetingPassions Apr 29, 2009

thank you.

More from ~007-FleetingPassions

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

29.04.09

29.04.09by ~007-FleetingPassions

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style