Miss you.It's like walking without legsMiss you.18 hours ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
It's like looking without eyes
Cannot even find my ways
And you took away reasons to try...
Her Anarchy Pheromone (Incomplete)My mental cultures cut-line against the agile saga’s for I dwell to be the wild tattooed metal of this polluted fame.Her Anarchy Pheromone (Incomplete)4 hours ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
With every slit of flesh to show I am mechanical and how I melt away into your crucible
my guilt empties vindicated serenading in the fusions of the panics making pheromones with her neglected exhales.
And I see fire!
I see stained my tearing temple’s swirl into a gothic simple symphony turning me into a Pharaoh for the mic’s.
And I see fire dwelling on the toxic theories of paradox as I mark her my own life’s vermillion wish.
But dancing in the desolating cries her evening tempo’s dry within the mix of all these morphined fumes.
Nocturnal I see fire inside her pages mixing with their Zen’s of prophecies.
Afflictions ruminating desolating gravity to stain her in the end before my dying phantom quenching in the chemistry of darkness in their gothic eyes.
the fire that never burnedThere's a word I should not saythe fire that never burned14 hours ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
Stuck between my heart and my tongue
If only it had gone a different way
But in this reality, we are done
(Though in fact, I'm not sure if we had ever begun)
I can feel the syllables slipping
Sneaking up to be free
The leather, I am now gripping
Hoping that you won't see
(Hoping this quite desperately)
With apologies resounding in my mind
And the word eager to flow its way out
Everything I wish I could rewind
Has become everything I think about
(And really, do I need to spell it out?)
Sorry doesn't cut it
Sorry doesn't heal
Sorry, I'll shut it
Sorry, my heart wasn't yours to steal
A life once lostTo lose something forever,A life once lost22 hours ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
A bleak and horrid thought,
Is a pain too much to whether,
But always one that’s fought,
Against all reason, art, and tact,
Is that instinct- quick to act,
To find again that thing that once was lost,
And pull it wholly back,
But the struggle always closes,
Changed as lovers or as friends,
With a new bouquet of roses,
Though the heart may never mend.