And here we are,
Congregated amongst
The broken and bitter,
Uneasy to receive the
Answer we are all
Dying to know.

I stroll through the crowd,
Weaving and ducking to
Find my rightful place.
No one dares to question me,
For minds are wandering;
Mine being no exception.

As perplexed as I am,
I have the faintest idea
Of the grounds of our summoning and
Dismay is sure to encompass
The shattered hearts around me.
As I near my destination,

Soon to endure my fate,
I repent to ALL my
Inner Demons,
Only to reach the image
Of a familiar,
Most confounded face.

Enlightenment swarms and
I'm brought to the light.
Humbly, I step from
The regal platform;
Contented, relieved, and liberated.
For now I find, There is
nothing better suited
To pass judgment,
Than that of a man's heart.

She said she’s a writer

i think.

coyly and in control,

her attitude

commands.

i listen, compelled to laugh by

her

rambling words.

They don’t make sense, and

i don’t really hear her

but the rambling

always brings a smile

to my lips.

She’s full of passion

and full of ****.

Maybe that’s why

i like her best.

i wish in your silence
you had heard the beating of a hallow heart,
because it's the empty ones that make the softest sound,

but the sweetest music.

a croaking fetus
blessing sneezes
he's here to release us
calls himself: jesus.

your screams were your letters
unaddressed
your dreams are your betters
unimpressed

The times I hate
The day is done
I know a lie
When I’m being raised by one

I want you
to be
concrete and metal shards
ripping out
from inside me

rusty with the dried blood
of the last century

one hundred years from now they'll form you into coat-hangers
when they still haven't figured out what to make of heartbreak
they'll hang you out to dry
in the sun that never rises

eternal injustice, like salt
on the wound
the pain is a distraction from the
cancer of actual problems

Actually,
we live in
the first world

which is awfully pretentious

It seems like day to day
is page to page
of some grim novel.

And the broken bones
blend in as stones
of ivory in the pale cobble.

An institution there beneath my feet,
the underground for the deleted,
cloaked as ancient fossils…

In the black of the shadows, the truth still softly lurking,
remaining coiled, with primal scales that glisten silently like biotite mica,
illuminating enough light from its fragments to catch the attention of a few.
But the truth, in the dark, was too icy and apathetic to rise up when it was vital.

Now when I read the story I see pages where words are unwritten,
but the skulls in the stonework have steadily risen
up as pretty, young artifacts—now surveyed by human eye—
Finally unearthed, from their sadistic, abysmal prisons…
The truth can bring all things to the surface…