Never trust an angel,
            as my demons
knew where there angelic
                               spot was.

And all you heard was,
              oh Jesus, oh Jesus
forgive me for I have …………………..

Reality was my nightmare,
               dreams were my solace.

I was real within them.

Walking like a cowboy,
         that was wetter than dry...

                                     Humiliation...

Banal breathes,
why must I pressure myself
to do cornfed motions,
                           that serve as life...

I held you in,
tried to suffocate your existence.
But self preservation
          is an inhalation of regrets.

We rob the planet, feeding it our exhaust,
                    a carbon footprint
better off with out..

Sometimes the day to day
                                  bland reasoning,
  out ways the necessity of us.

Snow flakes fall upon
the black mountains.
   But never mix,
                           segregated.

But where oriental blossom
falls, in the next field
         fruit pickers labour for
                              gangs..


Our words define our morality..

I struggle when I have to write
rhyme you see naturally I'm slight
towards the free verse, trying to get
it perfect, just right I start to sweat.

My words syllables are just what ever
comes in to my mind, Im not words clever.
For some this comes naturally, I have to
use sites as my words need to be next in que.

But to some this is a natural progression,
is it for me  worth it which is the question?
We say to learn is to elevate ourselves higher.
Using this metaphor in hope I don't misfire.

I'm poetic blue, I write on cold white warming
it up with words, hopefully there correctly forming.

Seen in the distance,
        beauty glistened
though ocean waves..

"Help me please,

                              She smiled,
  as she dragged him under...

Misplaced deliberations,
        oh where did  I leave you?

Like mislaid socks,
              I wear
mismatched thoughts

nicely fitting but not right.

I drove the ***** like
     I'd stolen her..

Her gps all ****** up..

And afterwards as she
      lay fatigued.

Saying she'd been used
like a wheel spin
                             burn out.

He may swallow your sins,
                               but if he spits


there's hell to pay...

Were the pancakes,
       and corona

is the syrup

lets spread it like
we eating out..

And were lungs are burnt...

I'll never eat out...


But ill wash my hands
           every time your
  cough pops up...

I'm a pathological
                        liar..

prove me wrong..

I live for a world without,
                            dependency
on imaginary friends..

Because at the moment,


Twelve Thousand gods fight
        for ******* of your will...


To be hateful and **** for them...

I used to believe in the tooth fairy,
             and Santa...


But the reality is some mother *******
                grow the **** up.....


I read fairy tales but I don't,
                     ****, hate..
Morality of fallen morals
      in imaginary words..

People need to recognise,
      that every story is just
a third hand view..

Rewrote from the reflections of
           that time.

But some are sheep and some
      are wolves...

But the wolves never feed,
they
    just try to prune the wool
over others eyes to let them howl
                                     at the moon..

keep me in mind,
               show me your smile.

I'll show you my teeth..

My pen is my shield,


and my words
             my armour.

All wording not overly conveyed,
              I'm no dictionary.

My pen is my shield and my words
             my armour.

Sometimes dented, ridiculed,
            so not as lustrous as your

vocabulary giving,

but every symbolism
          I give in jest.

I can be a clown, watch my words prance on
              the page in fruitful

colouring of metaphor.

But other times I'm in the size seven
of another's outlook not my own,
emotion grazing my subconscious.

         For that fraction of eternity I'm them, you
I live there fears,  hopes wishes that die after I put the
                                                                ­             pen down.

Don't judge a piece of paper that has nothing on it,
           for will have a doodle, a thought..

A drawing of emotion entwined within its fabric.

   But you just ridicule, turn the page not knowing
                     the pain or joyful happiness
that went to create this...

Yes its not in your taste, but its there's, mine.

Were just artists of our own little world,
             and if you happen to land here.

Please be green..


   Recycle what you think,
and be positive,
    really do reflect on what others foresee.

We must first see what is the
achievable end  

     to first catch the glimmer of hope.


Of what started at the beginning
            and realise that to go forward
we must readjust.

But to change we must stare at the abyss
                           of our consequences,  
to realise that without diversity we'll
                            never transition beyond now.

This wasn't what he'd expected, since a wee little one,
       contorting the edges of fallen wood made thin.
What was rectangle became a triangle,
           what was just plain became more.

No fingers were used, a mind is a wonderous thing,
                                 Never wasted on this little one.
    
Creation, Imagination, as parchment clean crisp,
contorted to conception. But when it went wrong
            it rained snow flakes of ruptured imaginings,

Jagged and torn, papercutting those close.

Tears fell from his eyes as sorrow for skin bleed
not deep, but any more would have been a torment.

A thousand papercuts from a moment of
            frustration could turn paper crimson.

From that interim, knowing the power paper
had, be it words shapes, meaning.
       Learning that contours have potential and
wording on it was a powerful influence on others.

So began his journey as origami butterflies
             fluttering around him, calmness followed.
            Here child, as he handed a swan, and it swam
upon the innocence of there hand, and he walked onward.

Incandescent hues flutter around me,
          as nightfall's beauty graces
my  every sight.

This silhouette, a partner of illumination,
          still feeling the days touch even
                   though set beneath eventide.

Looking up the moonlight bathes
           my thoughts,

                                     and I'm at peace.

If we were the mirror of our creation
                and not made in perfect silhouettes.

Then we aren't the creation of perfection,
                           as were flawed beyond our sell by date.

Then that which made us is imperfect in its design.
                  So not omnipotent,
  flawed in its own blueprint.

And so just another pebble in
A dry pond where wishes die.

For he hurled  the stone,
                            casting it with anger...


And so the first sin was sewn..
                   For the wrath of another showed
that we were the picture of god,


If we were imperfect,
                then our creation was flawed
beyond the reflection of our birth.

The stone was never perfect but
                    flawed when created.

Hit & run..

The moment were surrounded
          by deep breaths of nothingness.

But we swear we
                    can feel it touching our neck..

                               was that you..

                               wait no ones here..
oh' ****...
                                         silence....

The tears that razor emotions bleed,
                  can we ever recover from

those momentary eclipses

that smother light from the darkest needing..
                                                               Silence...

Deeply suicidal
                                               and
momentarily insane.

for the need to drown
out the noise of depression.


I fall into the crest of every wave,
             hoping each will


wash my pain away.

But the reality is I



drown deeper.

When the hands motion words silent,
                               but full of forlorn grief.

They cry for love that was muted,
    but looks are glazed
   as there last breath whimpered silently.

And the words dead to ears,
                        "I love you,

As they walk out the door,
                                  crying at there loss.

Death is beauty,
               as the rose atop of death
feeds on the nourishment of
                                   an empty shell.


Even though its petals decay,
                              its reaches higher

than the tomb
                      to bring life crimson to the surface.

A kiss given when
                  the lips are

cold.

I stare into there void less  eyes,
           but my touch is warm.

Brisk bones bend in the wind,
           as frail memories
fall beneath me.

Every one in a moment of decay.

No longer apart of me,

  but a skeleton figure

                         of a past,
brighter and full of life.

My mind
a cadaver of
              reflections.
              Decomposing
within a coffin
                        of white..

I was the moon
      and you the earth.

Our children the oceans,
  ebbing and flowing between us.

We are the gravity of there actions.

  Teaching that every crest
will always collect on
                grains of knowledge.

If you were the breeze,
           I'd be the tree

swaying to your words..

And my tears would be
          leaves falling when
  

I couldn't feel you upon me.

I could live a thousand years,
         but the rain will always

have more stories in one droplet
        than the lifetime of humanity.

I shed a tear,
                              evaporating  

it joins the story,

          and then I die..

Solitary with you
                  was lonely.

I didn't really know

                   my cell mate.

An immigrant took our
                                    jobs.
        
                   I never saw it..  
  But It gave me a cough..

I'm so lit
you get a fake tan
             of my words.

                          But there so fake  
that it washes of quickly...

Woeful glazes sitting idle  
                       for is one meant to be burdening  another,
And when the idleness
                          breaks free then all shall falter

The smell of sulphate,
            emanating from that
accursed thing, its aura glistened,
                  seemingly smouldering .

But when the  breath of life
                    died beneath sunset,
A Spector of ill conceived retention
                                             contemplated.



Daybreak was mutilated upon the sight.
                                            established placidity..

An avalanche of empathy
             dislodged
covering me in suffocating
                                realisation.

That I wasn't the mountain,
       more the snow.
               Soft and delicate,
   sentiment never compacted enough.

Cradle song woven upon
a mothers arms,
                        no tears,
      no cries.

Just mothers tears,
         cuddling her baby.

No  fret just stillness,
                        she sings
           her to peace...

I looked out at the street,
      hoping for footsteps

coming up the path..

But all I heard was
            therapy sessions..

Plush knots tie delicately,
gentle around the neck..

   death never felt so soft,

                                               silence..

A masquerade of perpetual fear,
          for all steps were in unison.
For who would misstep with
         unkept flames catching
                        each indiscretion.

Hollow melodies capture the soul,
           bounding it with this dance
of the dead, neither a  choreography
         but a chain of resonance
        where bones scrunch in fatigue.

The hell fire ball, where all burn eventually,
        Singed gowns, and suits charred.
But the devil is in the details,
and we shall dance till we bleed of die.

           Perfection is a demon of fulfilment...

If spelling was a marathon,
       you tripped over on


the first step..

Find a penny pick it up,
       With this coin
I ran out of luck...

Bent down just as car drove past
            clipped me and
                           now I'm

Outtttttttttt…

Took a while but I'm back on
                                        my feet..

what are the chances a four leaf
   clover and a horse shoe neat..

No... the horse shoe was still
connected to the feet...

I shouted four as flew through
         the air....

then it licked my face before that
               shoe stood on my piece..

I'm out the hospital, and I saw a
           ladder, na I'm not having that.
On the outside,  but I never say the
                                           black cat..

I came to, and she was there,
             are you an angel..
        No love, You've just been served.

My luck is less my future short,
              but ill carry on as how
can it get worse, is that thunder
                               I can hear??