Filling The Void.

Let’s be irrational poets,
forming eloquent sentences
filled with mystical words
that pilgrimage on voided
blue lines, for centuries
and centuries, without a reason,
without a explanation, but
because our minds must
be filtered from all the
angst and aches we suppress
within ourselves while we
succeed to please the reign,
but fail to please ourselves.

In Your Arms.

Adoration would unblushingly
fill in the voided hole in my
soul if I had the occasion to
fall in a sober, dazed state
of mind, mesmerized by the
rose petals that envelope your
arms, like red-velvet pillows
I would long to be cradled in,
drifting into a mollifying yet
haunting lullaby, singing lyrical
melodies, soothing and taming
the ignited affliction that burns in
the folds of my heart.

Mixed Signals.

Perplexing signs of
infatuation never
fail to puzzle my
gullible heart and
place temptation on
my easily seduced
body. Your empathy
belies, laying beneath
the sheathes of your skins
of collected, immobilized
atoms and cells. They
only become animated
when my fingertips glide
alone each permanent
lining of your skin, transferring
my sympathy that solaces
your apathy.

A New World.

The rays of light through
the sorrowful clouds, giving
passion to the desolated
lands, thirsting for recuperation
and self indulgence. Once
the acid stops cascading
upon us, Earth shall be placid,
rejoicing with mother
nature, no longer belying
under debris and catastrophes.

False Impression.

I think I created a
false image of you
inside my artistic
mind. I must’ve
mistook your cancerous
words for medicine,
contemplating they
would convalesce
my fresco, abhorrent
wounds; and your
touch- your mollifying,
humane touch belies,
beholding malevolence
that seeps through my
pores, making me bitter
off of the distance that
treads ambitiously on the
moonlit roads. I should’ve
known from the gleam in
your eyes, that resembles
an infantile and coddle
child, that you would’ve
sliced my chest apart,
dismembering all my
fluctuating atoms,
draining your self made
heroin into my impeccable,
charismatic beating organ.

Insomnia.

I am drawn to the moon.
When it rises, I howl like
a ratchet werewolf and
envision that I am pouncing
through a majestic, nefarious
wonderland. I cannot resist
laying angelically beneath
the nebula’s and the milky
ways, hypnotized by their
alluring beauty, exhaling
a methanol cigarette’s
smoke to the hurricanes
underneath Jupiter’s
rings and noxious gases.
My muse, in a frenzy,
cannot become sober,
for it is intoxicated with
irrationality and wickedness.
Perhaps I am drawn to
the nighttime sky because
it elevates and animates
my spirit as its best and
floods self-pity that
transitions into solacing
at its worst.

Too Proud To Sympathize.

Attempting to solace the sorrow you
filled my psyche with from the words
you borrowed and learned with indifference
to impress my effortlessly pleased self.
You have corrupted my vital organs,
sickening them with your selfishness that gaps
me open from the inside-out, crawling like
blood-thirsty spiders on to my skin, infectious
with their fangs and  stubborn legs,
manipulating my red and white blood cells
that cannot beckon for a war nor transfer
oxygen to my brain. My circulation is
cutting off, my debilitated lungs collapse and
I suffocate from the blood  and vomit that
cascades  from my rancid mouth and I begin
to drown as you remain in complete insouciance,
not having  one conscious disrupting your
 malevolent pride.