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Gristle
Branded is the skin
and the cow falls down
gutted and deboned
left stinking and fowled
sockets of embry tied inside the meat.
little slivers of gristle
trample and dugged under feet.
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INNER PEACE
Laughing
Taunting
sick hardened people standing staring and pointing,
Looking for the ins
falling through the outs
skin faded grey
silent muffled shouts,
engraved are the wrinkles
solid are the stones
laying bare naked and bleeding the stepping points to your throne,
shared is the essence, skinning at my knees,
cold hardened concrete, the only comforts ever offered too me.
Discarded is the love sifted away fron the fears
unleashed all my burdens the crowd stands and cheers.
No longer do I have passion
my talent once long ago ripped away
holes of boliing blood naw at me as my temperance sputters and sways.
Grease is the markings that hold up the sockets of dillusioned eyes
no longer a person
just a shriek of lonely living cries,
Harnessed are the angels
sipping at mercies release,
only sultry concerend demons come to show leniancy to me.
They hand me rool s of paper
narrowed and tied in glass
offer me a pen to dance and sign at a seconds glance,
Protection they offer
sneears that gleam
hungered are there whispers
chanting inside of me.
Looking for deliverence finding open cuts of rain
nourished is the treason that extends its hand to my pain.
and I shy from every shadow, not to let you know Im a man
singled and ridiculed all apart of our gods plan.
my nails fall dorment , fingers curled to balls, grasping an clawing , no longer can I grip inner peace's call
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Slowest Scar
You are the painfull scar
that lies tight around me
cutting the freedom from my words
endouring me to fall second fiddle to passion.
Whipped and cowering the child lyes
the mother cries
and each tortured soul plays with the leisions of the practical family.
fall to the purity of the balanced laughter,
roam inside the wings of dormant angels
that float too high to be touched,
eyes are stretched from the sockets become to glazed by trust to see.
and I buckel naked under chains ripping at the metal splintering the nails of fingers, biting at the threads of my tounge, gravelling at the knees of slumber.
holding all within just to break the sickness that idles me.
I am the American family, the tragedy the embalmed funeral of the grey heaven flesh that melts in the sunday glass ,
frothing to the somber beat of the store bought malt,
and yes, here sits sister mercy sipping at my freedom.
for drones we are now converted, rolling under the cab , we are all the wheels of passions slowest made scar by far.
SOrry I was just adding soem of the stuff I wrote ion the last month or 2 to this thread so I have it together.
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~Esen
What is everyone doing in my room?
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