Fallen Domain.

Americana Injustica

What was that you said to me?

How I’ve displayed acceptably,

the writer of my poetry,

the whittler of my money,

my most treasured things,

set on fire and slow burning,

a fuse attached to everything,

a gas tank that’s sputtering;

What was that you threw at me?

When neither of my hands was empty,

you knew I wasn’t at all ready,

to catch something so heavy,

my most regrettable thing,

circling the drain again,

a blue the shade of Dark Navy,

a truth stretched out too thinly;

What was that you stole away?

While I was hung up on yesterday?

the burglar of my sanity,

the rapist of my vanity,

I dare you to walk away,

to turn me into a memory,

a ghost of your pickled brain,

the host of your fallen domain.

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Paradoxy.

Americana Injustica

The biggest dilemma surrounding me,
is that which defines my own failed dealings,
throughout my life, it’s become a disease,
to be broken, in comparison to everybody;
and in turn, this difference that stands between,
always burns to ashes, any chances I might see,
wholesome and unbroken folks want no part of me,
rendering it impossible to know such human beings;
many times I’ve tried to put myself into a “normal” scene,
only to effectively emphasize such vast contrast in between,
I’m tired of sharing “friendships” with liars, cheats and feigns,
but I don’t want to mix my bullshit with the next guy’s purity;
it’s a problem I’ve lived with throughout my entire memory,
to hate to love the people who fear abandonment, same as me,
but, to also despise the feeling of trying to fit into “normalcy”,
it’s the paradox of searching for a place to simply “be”.

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Solo.

Americana Injustica

What is it that I am always doing so wrong?

Examples aplenty on a list far too long,

the Gods were at odds on the day I was born,

there’s no rhythm at all to such a raw theme song;

Who it is that I am always trying so hard to be?

Far too many deficits to cover up cosmetically,

existence has become a painful part of reality,

while persistence has cursed and forsaken me;

Where was I expecting to eventually find myself?

Lost inside of a pressurized ideal of someone else,

a multi-faceted turnstile to open the gates of Hell,

a revolving mirrored door that doesn’t work too well;

What is it that I am always trying to prove?

A stranger to the things that the normal people do,

anger and resentment, with deep abandonment issues,

keenly aware of the fact that I epitomize The Recluse.

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Resting Place.

We slept without breaths –
underneath six feet of topsoil,
bathed in the heavy suffocation,
of loosely strung illumination –
another silent burial site’s
flimsy paper lantern lights,
among the beloved already beneath,
primordial soup of bones and teeth –
a headstone lain down too heavily,
granite secrets kept steadily,
a lifetimes of anchors: dropped deep –
chained to my chains for all eternity,
a fate bound to a rabid Mammoth,
chained to both well-traveled,
and yellow, daisy-kicking feet,
we dreamed without darkness –
under the same stars,
that together, we once betrayed,
in a match’s quickly stricken,
enticing phosphoric display,
we struck fire to the paths –
from which we just had strayed,
never looked back, admittedly,
we ran until it all faded away,
into one, never-ending and exhausting –
ill-fated, suffocated final resting place.

Identify.

I told you
didn’t I?
you know
I had to try…
to hold onto
my own
hell-bent
detriment…
so indeed
and, earnestly
I let the
arrows fly…
loosed carelessly
to describe
my over-tired
and broken mind
there it was…
no doubt
all laid out
to scale
and personalized
to the very
best ability
of me –
personified…
yet, it’s trifling,
a novel compound
like your loyalty
unwieldy…
weighing down
wrought-iron-bound
an anchor  
drowning me…
I tried
early on,
to say why
spelled out
in bold lettering…
to emphasize
with clarity
such shortcomings
like to mine…

 

Loosed Arrows.

A remastering,
of such forgotten arts,
as those of loosed arrows,
leaving holes in my heart.

The rekindling,
of old smoldered flames,
as those of loosed arrows,
shooting darts at my name.

The reawakening,
of long-sleeping eyes,
as those of loosed arrows,
blowing through all the lies.

A reacquainting,
with the shadows left behind,
as those of loosed arrows,
become lodged in my mind.

A reintroduction,
to all I escaped from hopefully,
as those of loosed arrows,
are shot through both knees.

Walk, Talk and Breathe.

Friends that refuse to respect of me,
the smallest of ways that I ask to be,
excused from their own stupidity,
yet – they choose to abuse,
and they find these things funny…
A family turned to the judge and jury,
no hand extended in my times of need,
the after-burn of that first, initial sting,
the day I noticed they were on an opposing team…
Others play the friendly role all too regularly,
to the point it’s obvious there’s no true identity,
behind any of the faces in the places close to me,
just life-sized puppets that walk, talk and breathe…