If I were to tell you
All the stories
In my
Head,

Would you believe me
Even
If I
Said

That:

I see mortal war
Waging
In your
Plan,

I see me staring numbly
At the destruction
You are
Clad

In?

Fight me,
Fight me,
Tell another lie,

I’ll believe you
Once I die

And you close
Both my eyes.

Fight me,
Fight me,
Tell me again

That you are
Not
A foe,

But a friend.

Smite me,
Smite me,
Oh, God above.

Is my imagination
The same as your creation?

Spite me,
Spite me,
Oh, my dear friend.

Are you willing
To take me on

With your words
And not your hands?

This poem casts a line from insomnia to morning
On the wind of a prayer that whatever bites, holds on.

See I have counted eleven score and ten,
with rainbow like curves of my neck -
contemptuous beasts leaping in formation
each bleating out a preach of vague platitudes;
A narrative for the night sky.

My hands clamour at keys for escape
until I tumble headfirst into a web so vast
it has ensnared the whole world wide -
millennials are living in-ter-net over in-the-world;
a new ultraviolence against humanity.

I beat my words into the screen until it breaks;
shattering scarlet emoticons like confetti
pouring over language as if it were a compliment.
My mind massages shapeless polypous thoughts
like tight constricted muscles aching for release.

3am casts these philosophies into horses,
whipping them into shape and speed
before the eyes of this statuesque ******.
This anxious wakefulness begs my manic self to dance;
suggestively ******* tickets to ride like cleavage.

Sleep is fast becoming a neglected former engagement;
as my mind trips over fallen heroes
wades through my favourite mistakes
in a wonderland unfolding faster than I can fall
while the world beyond my window remains dark.

An obvious glare to the past
Has left me with too many spells to cast
Fueled by anger and deceit
How could I have let history repeat

Fool me once, I thought we knew
Fool me twice, we can't pretend we don't have a clue
It's ego and it's fear
What's not making you see clear?

Betrayal is a must
When two souls are not meant to last
And if I'm the receiver of your hardships
Don't tell me I can't have my sips

Of bitterness and frustration
I've reached my culmination.
And when I can no longer look you in the eye
You know our love was meant to die.

Raw,
a grey knuckle-***** day,
when the wind blows through my skin
pulling at the cord
which holds my insides in,
oh infernal internal wall
keeping without without
and within within,
off key Wednesday
crashing chords that I have swallowed
not a passing thought for the blue tunes of tomorrow,
or the music I have made thus far in life
and the ones that I have begged or borrowed
as always I’ll wait for it to pass
fill the gallow glass
to fetch me a drink while I think
but no-one is near
my fault, not because I fear them
I hear them in the hall
scratching
but I don’t let them in
it would give them a chance to win
I need them on my page
to take away the blank
fill it with ink
because being empty stinks
I don’t want the void
empty yarn from a ragged yawning hole
so I’ll sleep,
hope to feel when I wake
no idea how much more time it is going to take
will it break me or make me
perhaps I will try the fake me
the one with the smile
the one I revile
but there it is
sat on my face
smug and satisfied,
all while I’m melting away
a Dali soft watch
on this raw knuckled day

How does one love here
eternally,
when it is seemingly
ambiguous
With no happily ever after?
Evasive to perception,
yet somehow within us
only to be without,
never to stagnate
unless we fill our cups
with doubt

Ineffable, we’re all ****** up,
spiraling-
was this inevitable?
Lacking in honor;
devastation, She may instead
choose to watch the world burn,
we animals have
come unglued
from the fabric of
our own humanity-
lest we forget,
we are animals too

And we’ve disconnected
from the alchemy
beyond senses dull touch,
because access starts
from within
to be with out,
yet most of us sit around
reveling in drugs and lust

Compassion
lacks an identity,
it only exists to give
so what is it that set us
up this climb
of forced actualities
that are actually
meaningless?

We circulate an eternal
notion of control,
pacing concrete
and calling it purpose
instead of settling
into our dark abyss
and finding acceptance
underneath the
surface

Curtains half closed
Maybe half open
Dependent on the look
Of the environment

It never happened quiet
Just as a thunderstorm
Trying to be a breeze
You made me feel

A bulb flashing light
Powering with full might
Why is it always a maybe
Or a could've or should've

But never a genuine "would've"
Torn within the darkness of the light
The last breath before a time
Tainted red-

You wished, you prayed
But really never fixed the light
That wasn't at a regular volt
Just a overworked circuit

When all I wanted was peace.

Sometimes I wonder
If it’s all just in my head
And I should just stop