Silliness.

Silly, silly me,
to once again,
redundantly…
peel back,
broken skin,
to let it bleed…
the point,
as it had been,
is lost on me…

Silly, silly you,
to have,
misconstrued…
such a concisely,
spoken clearly,
cemented truth…
damn you,
to next see,
the full moon…

Yet – sillier still,
was the bend,
of so much will…
and even right now,
it’s twisted somehow,
my stomach’s ill…
over such an end,
in betrayal again,
a void I cannot fill…

Silliness.

Silly, silly me,
to once again,
redundantly…
peel back,
broken skin,
to let it bleed…
the point,
as it had been,
is lost on me…

Silly, silly you,
to have,
misconstrued…
such a concisely,
spoken clearly,
cemented truth…
damn you,
to next see,
the full moon…

Yet – sillier still,
was the bend,
of so much will…
and even right now,
it’s twisted somehow,
my stomach’s ill…
over such an end,
in betrayal again,
a void I cannot fill…

Loop.

The looped-sound,
had been there,
in the background,
annoying,
skin-crawling,
spinning around…
thought-twirling,
discerning,
any new learning,
or knowledge found,
high frequency,
ear-drum atrocity,
this noise,
is killing me…
the noise,
resounds,
above the soil,
and underground,
molten-melted foil,
of a dead King’s,
former crown,
reminiscent…
of the tears,
dropped down,
residually,
hanging,
on its sound,
dripping water,
drops…
to the ground,
above,
my head,
sadness surrounds,
whirring,
winding,
tightly around,
this thumping,
this beating,
this…
primordial sound,
commands me,
moves me,
to speak,
concisely,
certainly expound.

High-lighted Pages.

Okay, then –
fine;
in the spirit,
of saving time:
allow me,
please,
to admit,
whatever deeds,
that you need,
to claim,
as being mine,
well, Hell,
oh damn…
it’s all my fault,
somehow,
once again;
see my arm up,
see it waving,
see how much,
bigger I am?
Gods’ damn,
“Little Man” –
who designed
your B Plan…
as it was,
just because,
so stupidly,
you now stand;
all alone,
left to hold,
a Mystery Bag;
no trigger piece,
left on your hip,
and suddenly,
that tongue of yours,
doesn’t seem to slip…
maybe you,
don’t really know,
how serious,
how deep this goes,
the importance of,
your admitted love:
for being in control,
Red Flag,
hash-tag,
highlighted pages,
deciphered by:
all the ages,
with the exceptions,
in each generation,
of the ugliest spirits,
with the prettiest faces.

Alloy-Plated.

A most precious cargo,
as simple as it may list,
alongside of faded signatures,
on scribbly packing slips;
ideas for abandoned projects,
hesitancy strewn between,
teetering almost maniacally,
strung up by unfinished things;
washed out again,
bleeding out,
in a lion’s den,
much too weakened,
to beg mercy of them;
the stars are tired,
the moon is pale,
the pathway ahead,
paves the road into Hell,
a lick for a kiss,
a pump of the fist,
a slug to my own,
alloy-plated breast,
it’s an uphill march,
it turns out,
I guess.

What If…?

punisher‘What if…?’
And, as the words
shoot from my mind
through my lips…
there’s a sign,
shooting from
somewhere
far behind.
‘What if…?’
And, I cannot know
the aftertaste of
a poison on my lips…
a crash above,
low the high
circling
what was.
‘What if…?’
And, as the chance
sucks itself down the drain
out of my fingertips…
there’s a pang,
deep inside
everywhere
all over again.
‘What if…?’
And, as the present
becomes the past, here and gone
time all spent…
hard and long,
lungs howled
everything
emptied of my song.