Doors Of Discordia

The calmest moments

Are in the empty space

Beyond the wooden door

Hovering around us.

Every quiet breath

Draws it slightly closer,

Forever hanging over,

Until we stop.

Attractive, perhaps,

Although frightening.

Merely turn the handle,

Simplicity itself,

Though how abhorred

To be betrayed or forced

Through the other side

Against our will.

Whatever else

Could inspire such fear,

Fascination, anger, sadness,

And lust.

Tranquility or Hell,

Loves loved and lost,

Escape and imprisonment,

Falling,… Fallen,… Fall,…

 

 

 

Captivating Commercial Saga

Awareness and arousal

Awoke unto an immersive square,

Pastel polished pixels

Spoke in motions posed with glare,

Entreating eager eyes

Into a cavalcade of myths,

Beseeching supple minds

To discover what they wish.

Dreams on silver screens,

A corporate cultural sensation.

Breeding entertainment,

Feed suckling lips of generations.

Memory and retention,

Daily dramas with prescription padding.

Models and role-plays

Impactful stories told for selling.

Tele-moral notification,

Digital lives live no less lies.

Captivating commercial saga,

Eyes achieve ends as characters live and die.

 

The Girl On The Floor

DrearyAnn dressed her thoughts

In renaissance corsets and faux leather boots.

So much the better to envelop displeasure

And dissatisfaction from critical abuse.

Daydreamed hours drifted on vainly,

Vaguely insane, with morbid visions juxtaposed

More vivid and vibrant than others imagined,

So blatantly tragic in sadness predisposed.

Dreaming of dreaming of such things

As the darkest of a single dream ever saw.

Laced with lavish desires entwined

With desperate needs towering overall.

Draped in dreary phantasms galore,

Alone and on her back reposed,

Around her and over passer-bys step,

Unknowing or caring what fantasies formed below.

 

Vanity & Reflection

“Whoever do you want to be?”

The astringent mirror asks of me.

“Does the image your perceive

Contest the one that you believe?”

Of course, I cannot help agree

That what it sees is not all it seems.

Staring into my gleaming eyes

To glean from them what fears I hide,

And yet I know what I would find

If I looked straight through my mind.

I’m not what I believe or see ,

The mirror reveals and deceives

As what constructs identity

Is not imposed by vanity;

But, then again, it still is me,

As much as I am physically.

Pale and pallid, tired eyes,

And other feelings I despise.

“Why do you not answer me?

Who is it you want to be?”

I burrow through my troubled mind,

But nothing there solidifies.

I know I don’t want stubborn lies

But what I want, I can’t describe.

“I guess I just want to be me,

But I don’t know who I should be.”

The mirror replied,

“You’re lying.”

And I replied,

“Shut up.”

Secret Plague

Nobody knew

The extent of the infection

Brewing deceptively

Beneath heavy lidded eyes.

Neurons distorted,

Broken down, reassembled,

Gestating contamination

In unsightly disguise.

Nobody knew

What sickness subverted

Their pallid perceptions

And drowned them in doubt.

Walking around

As raised from the dead,

Buried in the head

And lost their way out.

Nobody knew

Who they should find

Or what sort of mind

Gave voice to their soul.

Helpless health

Sealed snugly in disease

And quarantined beneath

A plea to be alone.

Cold Blood

Serpentine,

Emerald green,

With ruby lips

For forked-tongue kisses.

Slyther in,

Smoothest of skin,

To taste the breath

Of a peaceless rest.

Venomous

And pleasure-less.

Teeth through the vein,

Blood chilling, in pain.

Spasming

While raveling,

Widen the gums

For warm-blooded lungs.

Sacrifice

A willing life

In desperate love

With your cold blood.

A Poetry Poem

I wish I could express

In speech as I do in writing

How much I feel about you,

How heavily I care,

How deeply you affect me,

And everything that means.

Mind to mind,

Or empathy to recognition,

In terms of verbal exchange

Is apt to be uncomfortable.

You can read my poems

And feel me more fully

Than you ever could’ve felt me

Face-to-face.

Extrordinary circumstances

Might expose our true emotions,

But the mundanity of self-consciousness

Prevents a simple telling.

I can try,

And occasionally do well,

But I’ve little hope of equaling

The context of the written word.

I love you.