Hematite.

Rust to dust from upon metal chains

of a blooded palette of centuries claimed 

rattle an echo of unholy remains

accompanied by a cascading roar of living disdain

for all hearts beat still amongst the shadows shade

as from the path many have swayed 

towards the lure of temptations gain

an eternal debt that must be paid

for the night is long, like ghostly pain.

Aching hearts

born of absent crying of blessings scorned  

free also of sin, as God and Devil mourn

but love still adorns upon life torn

like a rose atop thorns as the sun rises upon hollow dawns

aching hearts worn

warn against what was sworn

so bless the unseen with more then

what we understand as serene

Echoes in the dark.

 Pushing through, dark room

a given clue, darkness glooms

a bedridden muse, that night consumes

a light hearted smile is but a ruse

of a figure that the mind subdues 

for who's that, that entices doom

a silhouette dressed, in blackened hues

standing in the corner, of my tomb 

for the night is young, echoing the life that I lose

midnight struck the hour that this mortal paid his dues

pushing through, the darkened room☺

Giving singles a bad name.

 To know them more then they know themselves 

a grievous act of manipulators tired of being left on the shelf

watching others trading cards, well holding the cards they've been dealt

because of their demeaning evaluation their left only caressing the tabled felt.

No questions to learn distracting facts leaves just jealous acts 

to impact what's intact with their absence from the pack

"how powerful are the ones that cause cracks" 

no addition just subtractions is but an equation that leaves the equals trapped

a lone artist that can only dabble in the abstract for nothings exact

no specific hands to play for they feel the deck's stacked

and a friendly game turns to a monetised transaction their ready to retract

oh how I loath to interact within continuous social debates of ignorant counterattacks 

that leave me gobsmacked at the smiling deaf that only exist as a patience test

that inevitably ends with me signing the stress of two fingers split as I eventually quit 

believe what they will, and say what they may say just as long as I'm far away 

for I don't want to be the main character in their narration of whatever they find fascinating

as nothings more sating to them as baiting or rutting the mating and to me either is just aggravating.

Own being alone not as a loan from others 

there's a reason for it that's known or yet to discover

it's never to act against lovers

for that's when the alone, justly suffer.

Talk.

 How times have changed of where opinionated blame

justify red rain within eyes of the children that remain

of lines erased in a world that'll never be the same

a grain of truth disdained within malnourished pain

the only hate speech is hate to speak. Papers left plain

of anything but the signature of a name

lost is the humane when there's no will to obtain

our perpetual soul, that's somehow misplaced in our earthly reign 

it's so sad of what "Power to the people" became.

May the bread stay broken, untaken

of fences mended among the splintered forsaken

and let these bloodied thorns be a symbolic token of peace awoken.

Bang goes the drum amidst a choir soft-spoken

let the beauty tame the beasts of what we left wide-open.

 

Yearning.

 No worth since birth

from outside learned

way beyond or below concern

oh, how the young did yearn

for all but the stern

oh, how the young did yearn

to be old with wisdom earned

but the old wish dominates the urn

within atmospheric burns

how long left, becomes the only question 

with no rights to turn.

Slammed doors in place of a child's face

commonplace is an adults disgrace

that grew the jealousy that others felt safe

oh, how the young did yearn for even a trace

of love and trust for, of the human race 

without the need for the chase

with age comes wisdom that the young's replaced

with memories encased of how we died with haste

oh, how the old do yearn, for even a taste of what we waste.

 

Green green grass called home.

Green green grass of home

was a greenhouse that I sold

for sake of broken glass and stones that stayed whole

a pebbled path to what was lost, turned into a main road

for fast cars with high beams that highlight the cold

so huddle for warmth to find only me I could hold

with clouded skies that gift the rain to feel less alone

and a lullaby like thunder to soothe the mind of its woes

to wake to tomorrow and see what I'm told

for one day it will be a garden to rest my weary soul

with birds and trees, bees and flowers and honey like gold

in my damp and loud, green green grass of home.

The fascination of interpretation.

Anger forged poetical forms of flipping the bird 

a smith that uses hot-tempered words

that says fuck the crows that attack those unheard

that don't follow the crow'ded herds

the dead feasters, that passed away anything of self to learn

no soul to urn, nothing earned, as body's burned.

The death of free speech often comes from the meek

as they care more about their reps, as their obviously feeling weak

for God doesn't fear the Devil or his heat

he gave us freewill to choose to where we retreat

but how can we choose a door when the halls are just walls 

covered with concrete with blankets on the floor for the poor

while they enlarge their spreadsheets, that hide behind law

for how can we beat the odds when we can't even break even 

then turn around and bitch slap Oliver for asking for more

gruel from the cruel  that continues to play with war

a deathly reward to silence the bored 

that voice that the game of life is more then we can afford

how can we be right when we can't write what's freely abhorred

or adored, for every positive has a negative and every negative has a cause

for righteous applause, for who knows what the future has in store

or who will end up wielding the molten words poured into swords 

for interpretation is liberation a freedom to be explored

not something torn by the scorned

that saw what they had a right to see but not complete to see

completely a deadly drawn thorn 

for it's just interpretation, artistically born. 

A disc shaped mirror.

One race multi-paced bragging about shoes unlaced 

while the human soul is slipping of wars copy pasted

'big dicks' cum basted come taste this, in battle grounds wasted

politicians only master the baiting of no more mating 

while we're asking, why does together feel outdated, hated

Iran-Israel India-Pakistan Thailand-Cambodia, 25 already in a trench dug ditch

even entertainment with the US-UK battling the rap shit

I love lyrical poets but not when it's already all over the journalists lips

we learn from leaders unrated where without a gang can't come face this

no self written code just an army written list of words spoken with a lisp

no conviction just flex on rolling with convicts that never miss

rule with fear no respect, I say F the ear of speculative hits

where they seem to busy with playing battleships

give me escape from personnel pits, not a reiteration of holes that coffins dip

one category multi-story bragging about shoes unlaced on beats retraced

how many times are we going to hear the same old gory of battle lines misplaced 

by the flexing egotistical headcases that only lift drugs measured by weight 

hold up, wait, gotta sniff a gram of this 

only pull up for a shoot-out not to lift themselves or others out the pistol grips

hate listening to the I'm gangster shit, need evolution on the rappers grit

from the over sensitive throwing physical fits over a dis

since when did the genre give power to a bitch

used to be about real world shit like getting shot in the back real personnel hits 

and come out swinging in the booth to make the other quit

to get buried in the abyss, socially dismissed 

since Tupac and Biggie they twisted it to rap it, aiming for the Ritz 

that was some personnel shit only between Pac and Big 

until they saw profit in making the east v west to make Suge and Diddy rich

and we all know what Diddy did with his

the same as the politicians did with their desert island discs

just saying the mirror between entertainment and reality is some real world shhh

can't talk about that list, that doesn't even exist.

The percentile of societal decline.

 Lust for the nice side leaves a target open-wide

for the wrong will always find with no way to hide

90 doing it right comes with the 10 that falls to the grind

the 10 that's used to beat you down always on remind

the you they define, as the 90 resets to 0 that gets redesigned 

as a fake climb to a pre-emptive decline to fall behind.

Lust for the selfish wants comes with ready excuses

where occasional rights hide the many uses

90 doing it wrong comes with the 10 that seduces 

the 10 that's "aww they be trying" that hide the many bruises 

that's them redefined, as the 90 resets to 0 to condone what many produces

an ego with many uses.

If the first is the aim 

either get used to mistakes that'll claim your name 

or you can give in to the blame and become one of the same

or you can stay away with yourself and learn to value your brain

before you lose yourself to the shame

and only find joy in the addiction of an unreal game.

 

A tongue-tied guide of ones mind.

Legs made of rubber and a spine that shudders

leaves a mind full of thoughts yet nothing to utter

for letters turned to numbers within an incoherent mutter

like 1's lost four words, mind full of clutter

talking with a heart aflutter amidst a love stricken stutter

for how can fall for another when it was lone recovered

and the lover that suffered.

Anxious the question.

 Muscle pumps blood with racing beats 

derailed thoughts to run from the seat

where complete became obsolete 

a thinking parrot upon the streets of ideas on repeat

flying in knots as breath deletes 

fighting unconsciousness where the heart deadbeats.

No solo walks for only the parrot squawks

no meets and greets for the sake of the internal talks.

The blackout blues of, who the fuck are you?

Escape, escape.

Days filled with impending doom

no room to breath inside expanding tombs

just phases of mazes living in claustrophobic catacombs

shivering cold with no clothes, for it's where you can only wear what darkness looms 

no sun just moon of cascading booms of celebratory tunes 

reverberates the exodus of deflated balloons that bleed the air from exit wounds

for escape is but a breathless muse that lies in it's ruse 

that gets lost in it's complacency, of dejected clues. 

A dose of injected rope.

Gut wrenched with a centre left blooded

a spine stabbed to a mouth that's scarlet flooded

turned the red tongue to a Devil that thinks wrong

just sing songs that the ends the same with days prolonged

an infected clock of flatlined ticks and tocks

sounding alarms on the mental blocks of doors locked

of damned dos and don'ts upon the social notes

of crossed out hope that's replaced with the capitalized NOPE.

A lethal dose atop a steadily declined slope.

Story board.

 Story born from back to knees and kneels to feet

of a soft coloured heart beneath bewildering heat

for who or what was feated beyond the defeat 

is all but decided, by the narration of times receipt.