Some still say repentant combatants can’t change,
Though thought to be tamed, they tread a thin track.
When many men mock them, madden, and malign,
They charge with chained choler, yet sworn they stay still.
Fighting foes find few among people preaching peace,
Before battles, they brood, bound by belief.
For futures frame fates none should tether with tears,
While miscreant multitudes menace, unmoved.
Yet years yield younger youths yearning for clear change,
While some soldiers still battle before bold chiefs,
Who wait with well-wrought wisdom, woven in their hearts,
And teach these truths to teenagers in tents.
They need no news anew to nourish their truths;
They tell them to teachers teaching timeless tales.
Some still see storms of sorrow shaking them,
While we wait, they torture their truths with tears—
Torments that mar mortal minds with mournful wails.
If instinct could alert beforehand;
Reflecting moments as all stand...
The ought process of echoing mind,
For rights to get wrongs tightly bind-
Assign each voice unto confident tears,
Without been paired with fearful glares.
That, would make a day so bleak off sorrow,
And elegant enough to seek anew cum morrow.
If patience could read through broken glass...
Flexing with a system depicted 'separate class'
That wants eyes to angerily view patience broken,
Just to steer up choler; a muted but flaming token
Which once activatd, consumes the rationally pierced soul
Ought to be veiled intensely for light to be made whole.
If peace could silent memorable pains,
Of a bad day's night battles off stains...
Eyes and dreams won't be easily drifted apart
Like storming mind wreck drowning heart...
And wonder if lonely night of each bad day could come alive
Before dawn without partying, yet make sound sleep thrive.
I’m stuttering on this facile analogy
Like I’m tripping on dubious morality
I’m lisping on my plain quizzicality
Like I’m limping on roads to tonality
I’m damaged.
A marred good with no return policy
I’ve bled alone to one too many fights
I’ve slept wide awake one too many nights
I’ve stared into oblivion one too many sights
I’ve chosen death to one too many plights
Save me,
I’ve sullied too many lives
I’ll lie to your face again
I’ll smile with no grief again
I’ll die to your words again
I’ll fly with no wings again
Leave me be.
I’ll dry your ocean eyes again
I’d wish my life color
I’d vie a stolen muller
I’d carve my own collar
I’d slit my neck in choler
You’d tempt me,
I’d fade in my own luster
It’s just that,
It’s hard to breathe these days
It’s sad that,
‘Languish’ is my ultimatum (huh), what a cliché’
And it’s worse that
I’m the cause of my own decay.
The hordes of defection await
Obscurity indulges their silence
Abruptly, I am lost within my own recollection
Feverishly trying other hearts
My brain seizes its choler
It bathes in the solace of grief
Disgruntled, I await ambition
Deciphering each notion, towards alienation
The separated seconds loathe me
I fall between my somber thoughts
Deserted, my will vexes me
As I tumble into oblivion
I am at a loss of words and will--
This silence drifts into my mind
I conjure a pool of empathy
[Pretending that I am no different]
My demons bathe under my skin
For, my heart is their tyrant--
I am persecuted by my vacant will
With-held from my embittered perception...
I will get a gin and tonic
Functional* alcoholic
Hello, my name is Adam
I am living like a fallen angel
****-faced--
My heart is misplaced
These vices, devices fall upon me
[Into an ocean of choler]
I am almost human
Sliding carefully towards depravity
With the ghost of my conscience:
My aspiration is in the rear-view-mirror--
Yet, I forget my reflection
So, cordial and kind
Each morning, I remember:
I'm a funkshunal alkahawlic...
I have been wounded
Robbed off my clothes
Some thieves attacked me
Eaten by moths
I'm lying there
right on your path
Eaten by anger
Eaten by wrath
The rage and fury
Choler and spleen
I'm full with blood
I'm not clean
I'm half dead
I'm helpless
There's no one
Who could care less
I have no shoes
Nothing to dress
I can not walk
I must confess
You walk by me
Leave me aside
And then from death
You can not hide
You walk by me
Salve - Patch me up
Transport - kind treat me
It is a wrap
A wrap which is
So full with life
With love you'll be
Husband and wife
You'll never die
You'll never cry
You'll never have
To ask more why
As love is pure
Love isn't shy
It's not afraid
Love always serves you
As your maid
A gentlewomen
Mary virgin
It's love my baby
It always spins
Rage
Bursts
As a
Volcano
Saying words without
Reflecting the final results
Recognizing the topmost personality flaw
Generating to reach out for the temporary treatment to subdue distressed nerves
4-18-2016
For Own It Contest
Sponsored by Cyndi MacMillan
Mad As a Hornet Contest
Sponsor:John lawless
Relating to the wrath of my long day,
I've seen choler moments singing my song,
But as I keep walking with head held high,
I'm shot down, turned around, knowing I'm wrong.
That was the day I became furious,
Like a tempest, violent weather storm,
Strange lonely continent, on God's green earth,
My rage started the second you conformed.
Bombshells exploding, my daily routine,
Trying to make sense of all the days lost,
The moment I tried to center myself,
Came up empty and can't afford the cost.
All you had to explain, your lost love, me,
Disoriented, grievance, self pity.
Date: November 17, 2015
He grins like sweet summer sun and dons a musky mojo,
causing the blooms to titter and roll their sweat onto him;
trancing the sage-less, sarky studmuffins to stare in awe;
and I, the shufflebutt, love to lean my days on his beam.
Like sugar pine he is to me that scares not the swallows,
who are in sound search for the fragrance of elysian life.
Critters beyond twilight are no better against his sense
of humor, which oft makes me surely grow in such a rife
for when the banshee wind wails I’ll not be in a pretense.
But when all around him, not calm, or earth is in hollows,
there is this wrath in him that he can wake in a fine line
and prick you without knowing, as if you touch the roses
and sense their thorns. Also, in his choler there is his kind
of love; feel it, be the perfect cone of my heart’s verses.
The raging storm occurring outside my window
Can not compare to the constant choler
That tempers my heart this maniacal moment.
Why? Would you like living a pawn of love?
Forever being forced to feel painful pangs
Caused by a cruel manipulator. Like a captured
Pawn without a pertinent part in the game of love.
Only to stand alone among the active players.
On the sidelines, stagnating, unable to sever
Yourself from the fray. A preordained pawn!
Whose role resembles " love's labours lost"
A cruel comedy rendering me a pathetic prisoner
That must persistently prove my legitimacy.
Rage on teapot tempest! At least your wrath will wane.