Posts Tagged ‘Emotive’

Let me die,
Bleed out or succumb to plague,
Do not mourn for me,
Scatter me and my memories to obscurity.

Forgive me if you must,
But certainly forget me,
Reduce me to naught but ash,
Do not start a tears life in my stead.

I shall not mourn the passing of this world,
It is and was nothing to me.

Nihilism

Advertisements

The scales of the judiciary are straining,
Sob stories and crocodile tears can tip them,
Lenient justice.

A nameless man kills many innocents,
But he has a wife and children,
Lenient justice.

An addict slits a barflys throat,
But she has a diseased mind,
Lenient justice.

A young bandit beats and robs an old crone,
But he has no home,
Lenient justice.

A cackling clown takes children away in his van,
But he is from a far away place,
Lenient justice.

A husband beats his wife to the edge of dying,
But he has friends in high places,
Lenient justice.

Lenient justice is the order of the day,
Criminals drink to their crimes,
While victims lament in their anguish,
The scales have tipped.

Justice

As I stare blankly at the page,
Me and my mind make a pact,
A pact with this book of nightmares,
This monster I put my pen to,
A sanctum for every horror that crosses my minds eye,
Or perhaps an asylum?

This is my unholy gift to you,
A window into my mind,
Full of horrors and abominations as it is,
I must continue to write regardless,
I must keep creating these literary monsters,
The book demands it.

I begin to write,
And the nightmares come out to play,
Letters and words creep from recesses,
Punctuation slivers hither-and-thither,
Sentences of madness begin to form,
I’ve released a monster.

Or am I creating it?

BON

Now they call him the Painted Man,
But once upon a time he had no name,
A true blank slate,
Eyes of grey,
And colourless hair.

Society gave him his colour,
Everyone who met him painted a stroke,
We were all artists,
His body was our canvas,
Our words to him were the brush.

Red of anger and frustration,
Blues of sorrow and disappointment,
Yellows of joy and excitement,
Greens of envy and want,
And myriad other shades of feeling.

He is now the Painted Man,
A creation of society,
A monument and a monster,
Are we really any different?
Were we not all painted?

Painted

A new nomad comes to town,
A feathered chapeau,
A ripped coat,
And a silver tongue,
They say he is a wandering maestro.

His guitar is a sight to behold,
Well-used and with prismatic countenance,
It pulses with powers unseen,
A simple coin in his hat,
And you open yourself to untold marvels,
His music will show you the way.

Sit down and have a listen.

Dreams are his gift to you,
Each chord is a promise of hope,
Each strum of the guitar,
Sends dreams of paradise up on wings,
As he continues to play,
Your soul ignites with inspiration.

Why does he do it?
Dreams are his way of seeing the world,
He sees only what the world could be,
He wants you to see it too,
His eyes are cloudy and dead.

He went blind eons ago.

Maestro

She is my wild rose,
Crimson like passion,
Beautiful beyond compare,
An angel in all but name,
The kind that stands out effortlessly,
Crimson like rage.

I am tangled in her thorns,
But also her petals,
Crimson like warmth,
Soothing and scathing in equal measure,
Loving and wrathful in duality,
Crimson like blood.

Her lips can wound,
They open burning scars,
But they can heal those same scars,
As if by some magic,
Vibrant and soothing,
Radiant and humbling.

She caresses my weary and cracked lips,
While weathering a tempest,
Standing tall like a bastion,
But holding me like a seraph,
Wise and dependable,
Crimson like love.

I love her,
She is my wild rose.

Wildrose