Anonymous.

“Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.”

~ T. S. Eliot

I believe
that so it goes:
the gift of humanity
is bestowed,
to souls with empathy,
and only those,
a carrot hanging,
a step ahead of me,
ever-dangling,
before my nose;
and not just mine,
but anyone,
from the assembly line,
from which I come,
we’re made to ache,
to hurt – to burn,
from day one,
to ride the wake,
to bend and break in turn,
until our last words,
to be heard,
have finally come;
the world is cruel,
unless you’re blind,
it’s a flea-ridden fool,
that succeeds the unkind,
it constantly bleeds,
sucks up my energy,
drains the tide pools,
swallows the sunshine;
for those like us,
nothing is anonymous,
nothing can ever be fine,
no peace,
as we sleep,
only the fire,
from the front-line.

Frækhed.

You wanna sit there bathed in such audacity,

you wanna slap my face and kick out my teeth,

you wear some shitty robe and sit in judgement of me,

you carry a badge and a gun but you’re still a bully,

you stare down your nose like you hold some superiority,

you live on the side of the tracks opposite from me,

you wanna come up on me any way you can conceive,

you wanna tell lies and spread rumors around viciously,

you need to feel good about yourself to fall asleep,

you’ll sell-out someone else if it gets you what you need,

you walk around like you think your dirty shit can’t stink,

you weigh 80 pounds with a mouth twice as big as me,

you believe in things that seem to lead to being human sheep,

you flock together with blinders on, unwilling to truly think,

you don’t know the meaning of getting back up on your feet,

you don’t know the feeling of swallowing another defeat,

you wanna sit there smiling stupidly,

you wanna laugh at my misery,

you wanna push me until red’s all I see,

you wanna make a statistic of me.

 

Anonymous.

“Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.”

~ T. S. Eliot

I believe
that so it goes:
the gift of humanity
is bestowed,
to souls with empathy,
and only those,
a carrot hanging,
a step ahead of me,
ever-dangling,
before my nose;
and not just mine,
but anyone,
from the assembly line,
from which I come,
we’re made to ache,
to hurt – to burn,
from day one,
to ride the wake,
to bend and break in turn,
until our last words,
to be heard,
have finally come;
the world is cruel,
unless you’re blind,
it’s a flea-ridden fool,
that succeeds the unkind,
it constantly bleeds,
sucks up my energy,
drains the tide pools,
swallows the sunshine;
for those like us,
nothing is anonymous,
nothing can ever be fine,
no peace,
as we sleep,
only the fire,
from the front-line.

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.

Mushy.

I’ve sat down so many times –

to write to you, to your heart –

to get through,

to tourniquet the bloody parts…

A curse of mine that you’ve come to

so well-define – in the dark,

a partner in crime

painted in timeless hue

fucked-from-the-start

in every lifetime…

But, I’m still blessed –

through a curse, every time

by my bond to you;

So when I try

to sit down and describe –

with any words

or piece of alter-ego art,

exactly what it is,

that’s happening inside of the wound

from which I pulled your dart…

The words do not come

in accordance to

any drawing or poem

or hardcore theme song –

and I’m always brought back

to the sentimental fact,

that you couldn’t have known,

but you’ve always known

everything, all along.

Follow My Lead.

When the moon is hung high
like a pock-marked lullaby;

When the music has stopped
and the sweat begins to dry;

When the day is finally over
and there’s finally time to cry;

When your feet won’t seem to
carry you..
when you feel like you could die;

Follow the trail that I’ve left for you;
track the stampede left behind by my shoes;
Do not even think for one second –
about where the trail might lead to…
just follow my footprints and I will protect you.

When the faked smiles
go on for hundreds of miles;

When you’ve been shown
compassion known only by crocodiles;

When the defense rests
while the prosecution compiles;

When your heart won’t beat through
to awaken you…
and everyone is beguiled;

Take the route that I’ve mapped for you;
charter the waters that I have just sailed through;
Do not even think for one second –
about where the map might land me and you …
just follow my lead and I will be there waiting for you.