These are my poems.

The hours tick by and still I find myself staring at the wall, staring through the wall, staring around the wall. I am one with the wall, and the wall is one with me. The wall tells me it's thoughts, it's deepest feelings, it's most profound memories. The wall tells me how I should live my life, tells me who I should listen to and who I shouldn't. The wall determines mathematical consistensies, polynomial equations, bilateral expressions. The wall knows all, as all know the wall.
I live in a little town filled to the spilling brim with little people, little minds fixed on little things. Loud music and slow cars, good food and bad indegestion. I never know who's lying and who's not, and there's always someone lying, somewhere.

these are not in any order.I left out all suicidal works and all works on/about love.


the humans line up at the wall,
white,
tall,
old,
their backs to me,
their heads an arrangement,
a beautiful assortment of shapes and sizes,
colors,
and heights,
their beauty not only increases,
but amplifies,
again,
and again,
as the most wonderful paintings of red,
and white,
and black,
are created on the wall,
tall,
and white,
on this cloudless day,
as I release my finger from the trigger.



The birds seem to lose their joyous songs on my passing,
their notes fall to a sorrowful harmony,
which bends,
and breaks,
in the mere whistling of the thankless wind.
I see everything in their moment of death,
or destruction,
or massacre,
the trees are constantly aflame,
or rotting,
broken in the middle,
newborns are crippled,
crying,
and fatless,
their bones jutting off at awkward and strikingly wrong angles,
their mothers are old,
withered,
wretched beings,
skinned to the bone,
I see men walking armless,
and falling,
legless,
they crawl through their lives,
hopelessly wandering,
the buildings are torn,
and shattered,
their floors are covered in a bloody much,
I can feel the death that hangs clear around me,
as the birds,
and their cursed anthems,
fall from the trees,
and lay,
severed,
on the ground below.


Killing by the thousands,
Another day,
Another death,
Each had their own lives,
and yet they're simply another number on your page.
Do you even care anymore?
Or are you just another American?



I am the fire,
for I will burn them all,
into the ashes, they will fall.
Eyes aflame,
their souls: a shame,
their limbs lay adrift,
through their corpses, God must sift.
Will He find humanity?
Or must he tolerate profanity?
Banned from the Heavens,
for their acts as heathens,
and too weak for Hell,
where the true dragons have fell,
they will've to live forever, from dawn til dawn til dawn,
trapped in the life of a burning pawn.




The fiery fallen angel,
with jagged ivory bones where wings should be,
flies still,
higher,
and furthur onward,
carrying with it the very essence of death,
into the hearts of innocents,
it shall one day descend,
and as before,
it will rise again,
to blacken the hearts of the claimed 'neutral'.







^^--- one of my worst.
Heavenly Protectors.
Beautiful, white, winged warriors of the Lord,
fight for him 'til their feathers are tainted,
and their thoughts,
mundane,
routine,
"Kill This", "Slaughter That",
They fight until their wings are bloodily red,
and their hearts: black,
simply from the horrors of war;
defending against the onslaught of evil.
Their only reward?
Is to slowly become the evil themselves.



The talented angels of death and destruction,
dance around in their giddy fun.


Television.
the people dance,
full screen,
full color,
taking full part,
in their short-lived,
perfectly happy,
wonderfully artificial,
and overwhelmingly sad,
love.



The lifeblood of the darkeyed, battling angel,
torn from alongside his feathered wing,
falls,
and dismantles an innocent, mortal soul,
the eternal quarrling of darkness and light,
merely destroys those who've long sing been cast abroad,
corrupting their fates and condemning their children's.



I feel Satan's eyes,
looking through mine,
and his hands,
guiding mine,
I swear it's him,
not I,
who takes innocent life,
who destroys,
and dismantles.
the serenity of the scope,
the warmth of my trigger,
targets that fall slowly,
my thoughts linger not,
not on their families,
not on their children,
certainly not why they chose to fight,
to die.






Forced to fight?
Of course not.
I am right,
they were wrong.






Why kill?
The silent killer watches his prey,
now,
sleeping cozily in it's bed,
with it's pretty little wife,
in it's inconceivable large house,
with it's children,
warm,
and full,
and happy.
"How could such a beast dare to have children?"
Our killer mutters, knowing this target for what it truly is,
it's a murderer,
it's a slaughterer,
it's a terribly evil man in the eyes of God, and in the words of God's book.
Our savior lad,
removes his personal copy,
and is reading from it in silence,
now,
"The Lord is my light and my salvation,
of whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
of who shall I be afraid?"
he muttered the words from memory,
for he knew that what he is about to do,
the evil he is about to banish,
is surely the will of God.
His eye back to the scope,
now,
watching the large, evil thing in his sleep.
it's wife, such a foolish young girl,
however fat with her third child,
is just rolling over,
and kissing it's cheek,
" Bet that beast isn't going to take that baby there from the Earth, is it? "
His eyes removed from his rifle,
to his watch,
a sober reminder of mortality,
and a dimly lit digital display: 2:34, and dark out.
His lips drink from his cask, slowly, thanking God for each precious drop of water, nothing else.
"You've already killed yourself, old thing," he whispered, " I'm just the one who gets to prove it to you. "
Redirecting his eye to the scope,
feeling the rifle in his hands,
seeing the bastard in his sights,
feeling the trigger,
carressing it,
he feels possessed,
feels God's hands close around his,
hearing His almighty voice in the depths of his head,
"Praise be to you,
Young one,
for you have pleased me."
God himself pulls the trigger,
and the stupid bitch screams,
blood in her hair,
and frightful stains on her sheets.
Just another evil beast,
just another abortionist practitioner.




I have no feelings on abortions, one way or the other. Just needed a situation.



Gods have fallen,
and so have the Devils,
None are left,
save for the few warriors,
Angels with tainted wings,
Demons with good in their souls,
and Men of Earth with their minds ablank.





The shards of eternity lie carelessly dispersed among realities,
crossing some,
seperating most,
sometimes merely causing a laughable havoc,
and usually forcing a state of disorder,
upon everyone,
and everything.



Eternity has been broken,
and with it,
so will all of humanity,
and everything it's trying so hard to destroy will fall with it,
For this is the way of Gods,
to do away with evil.



Men of Earth are inconsistenly kind,
they seek to give,
and need only thanks from smiling faces in return,
but,
save for these few days a year,
they are greedy,
malicious bastards out only to save their own neck,
and to have it bath in gold at the same time,
They'll do anything,
Save, for most, killing, or breaking their own family names,
just to be better,
just to be warmer,
and fatter,
and altogether richer.
Men of Earth are evil.
Evil runs their souls,
evil has been consuming each man of greed since the day of his birth,
and the day of his death?
His children will be quite happy with their share of it, you can be certain.
There are too many people in the world as is,
and it pains me,
simply,
and completely,
to see such children in poverty,
or those in perverted situations with their families,
and friends,
those who can't be happy,
and those who've been denied their mothers,
fathers,
siblings,
those who go day to day worrying aobut their lives,
their food,
and their water,
is it not possible to help them?
is it not possible to help ourselves, and our world?
Can we stop the greed,
stop the capitalism,
and stop the torture?
why must so many suffer?
Why are these children dying?
Why must a mother wake to her childs breathless body,
and cry her inevitable tears?
Why must she seek refuge in alchohol?
Or drugs?
Or by death itself?
Why is the world choking in the grasp of capitalism?
why is nothing to be done?
Why?
Are we afraid?
Can you imagine,
just imagine?
You're just as much to blame as the king of Jordan,
as the president of the United States,
as the policeman who beats the bloody pulp out of a black man,
and doesn't do his time,
you're just as much to blame as the ones who cause the wars,
as the fathers who run away,
and as the mothers who have children they can't support,
you're as much to blame as the one who passes by her,
the one who looks upon her devestated figure with distaste,
him or her who sees only the dirt on her skin,
the age and experience of her clothings,
and one who fails to see past her crude manners,
you're just as much to blame as the dealers,
and their custumers,
as the terrorists,
and as the counter forces...
You're just as much to blame,
for you,
too,
aren't doing your part.




I walk outside, the grass grows around my feet,
the trees rise green at my sides,
and the path winds begging to my front,
The birds sing their natural, unpractised and oddly soothing melodies.
the waterfall is merely a passing thought,
cognisable only for a split second,
the crashing and flooding that comes all at once,
quickly,
violently,
the water across my face,
the bits of rock that scar my legs.
a blink of the eye,
to clear the overwhelming water,
and a shiver of cold,
but lo!
I stand again in the forest,
with wet cheeks,
and bloody knees.
I remember the falls,
etched forever into my memories,
the present agony,
reminds me clearly of what had just been.
the birds seem far off,
even though I see one,
flying,
now.
my thoughts race to decide,
what had so recently come to pass,
as I sit atop a rock,
and cradle my head.
suddenly my eyes go black,
the chirping is dead,
seemingly far ago,
a single thing,
buried under decades of life.
My eyes open a little,
and see light,
humongous, grand, glorious white lights!
for some reason,
I grow terrified of these,
so I force my eyes to part completely.
A moment passes,
and I see tiles,
series of white tiles, straight above me.
tears well,
and fall,
innocently enough,



^---incomplete.


So pitiful are the deceptions of the brain,
for nothing beautiful lives on,
and all must inevitably burn,
the trust I place in you,
my love,
is a trust that will inevitably be broken,
in this plane or on the next;
for no mind is moral,
no thoughts are ever irreversible,
slowly dissolving ties,
slowly losing everything that matters:
Gods, peace, other ideals that're soo easily arguable;
no room for faith,
no patience to enjoy the moment,
no grace to save the next,
no appreciation to mourn the last.