Twisted Vision

Little twips,
Envious snips,
Ill equipped,
Worried about things out of their league,
For the sake of intrigue,
Must be so sad for them,
Only viciousness shone,
Cold to the bone,
Their illusory throne,



It's a real pity,
I'm not being witty,
Monotonous city,
A wall of deceit that's not pretty,
A haggard old snotnose committee,
Unhappiness clouding,
Their lives full of doubting,
Oh my, how they dare,
I can't say I care,
No, not one itty,


© 2013

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Weeds in Melting Sand

Roots bore into glass and found no running taps.
It cracked, and shards fell sweeping, in wide sheets,
like a living blanket that can only crumble, never warm.
The air was drowned in glimmer, poisonous to breathe,
relegated down and stamped beneath our feet just as
we see it as decor, clearly placed for we, who are
the superlative of being, though we cannot find
a softness in our seeking - a crevace that may house;
a rift of cozing doldrums that we may bleed between.
We age and we expand, driving through and forth
toward the soothing warmth, breaking every surface
that dared to hold our weight. And while we tend to forage,
and ruthlessly progress; our roots will never still,
our twigs will turn to fangs; our menagerie of truths
will soundlessly fall, while the thinning blocks of clarity
break and scatter far from these gardens made of nothing.

Every-Things in a Terrible Way

All your blasted words like paper flowers:
fragile, insubstantial, prone to a breeze
and apt to disappear over the course of days
that once were meant for us and we,
before disastrous every-things could
stand between and raise our arms to jawlines.
In defiance we connected and repelled
each other 'til our ties did sever
by way of pull and pressure against
every screaming part of ourselves.
Yet every-things could never last,
sustaining the things that we had
been so very curious about.
And now that we've stood firm -
one of us, at the very least -
things feel wrong in a more
terrible way.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Life just doesn't feel right without you around.

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Cynic's Repertoire

This is the repertoire of a cynic.
His arsenal includes layered sheet
for which to hide beneath.
Where claws may be absent,
he possesses without boast, a hatchet,
for detachment, you see,
and the removal of things that weigh him down.
He does not bleed upon severance of limb,
only leaks faint whispers, half-plodded jokes;
a stump that should be crimson is bathed in sarcasm.
He sees his locality from a mapping satellite,
far above the clouds that bring fall spills.
The cluster of buildings, grids of grays and greens,
refute his loneliness, shout in his face,
"You should be fulfilled! Know who you're among!
The many thousands who all understand! Just be one of them!"
Cynics rarely turn to the chill of triggers;
of ice in their drinks that force their doubts away.
This is the method of a cynic,
who hates and blames himself, while all the while lashing
at anyone who refuses to decry him.
Cynics rarely wish for death.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

If only I could leave forever, without anyone ever noticing.