Obsession

Obsession

Staring out from the sixth floor, Ignored the latch on my door, For locks are for bureaucrats, And latches you know to crack,

The window is open now. You’re up in my room, somehow, I haven’t been home in days, So you’ve taken up your stay.

You should know that you’re obsessed, But you’ll never quite confess, To inviting yourself in, Getting lost in my linens.

Your girlish nature is gone, In the dark, singing your songs, To candleless devotion, You’d light wicks in the ocean.

Your spindling hands on my dress, Wish I was in it or less. But the fabric has gone cold, And now it’s just my scent you hold.

You should know that you’re insane. But I’ll play your childish games. Because I know that you’re there, Wandering around, skin laid bare.

It’s a hot-blooded affair, Though you say that it’s not fair, That I think I don’t want you, But even that isn’t true.

You have faith for a mirage, It’s personal sabotage. You are a creature creeping, Like I don’t know you’re peeping.

You should know that you’re deranged. Such a sickness can’t be changed. But you don’t want to repent, Each move worth the time you spent.

You find lies that comfort you. Wish I could tell you the truth. My truth is a lie as well, It’s a curse we can’t dispel.

And yet you lie in my bed, Wishing I had lain my head, Settled next to you a while, Gave an inch, you took a mile.

You should know that you’re senseless. And that I know you’re breathless, Rolling in my silken sheets, Head filled with your thoughts of me.

“One more night,” you say aloud, “She’ll come home and I’ll be found.” I’ve always known that you’re there. You’ve always been within my snare.

I’ve got you caught and found out. And yet you haven’t a doubt, That I have not an idea, No knowledge of mania.

You should know that you’re bizarre. You should have checked in the stars. Under the moonlight I’m here, Lust and bloodlust mix in fear.

Creature in the Night

For the creature in the night, Not a creature much as I, Thought she might give me some fright, Thought she might hear my last cry.

But the creature in the night, At the moment she arrived, Twasn't me who had the fright, Twasn't me eaten alive.

Procrastination

I need to wash my hair, I want to go to bed. Haven’t had a good whole day For years inside this head.

Good that means productive, Productive meaning work. Working meaning getting up, Habits I can’t shirk.

It’s way past nine by now, Almost nearing ten, And when I think of getting sleep, I start to think again.

Early days are in the morning, Busy nights they fall. Showers, brush, those are needs, But sleep just takes it all.

When I want to work anew, My head falls limp and flat. But those nights I want some rest, Brain cells buzz like gnats.

Crowem III

What is a Crowem, If not a poem, With only crows involved?

But that isn’t true, For in the Crowem part II, Our subject was a sparrow.

It was neither a crow nor a sparrow, To be stricken with unseen arrows, But I am no ornithologist.

She was dead on the street, A fate she wasn’t meant to meet, She hadn’t begun to decay.

It was a chill autumn morning, And I’m left in mourning, Finding her body that day.

I cared not for disease, As I fell to my knees, And lifted her body upwards.

No cuts or bruise, But death not a ruse, And I settled her into the grass.

Her feathers soft, her body hard, A life taken with no regard, A moment that time stood still.

I left her there. I hadn’t the time to spare. I wonder what happened.

Paraphernalic Subversion

Your needles to my slotted spoon, It is no use, absinthe pours through. Green fairy, a fae that steals me, Takes me from this atrocity.

Stolen faces see stolen names, A cord that's pulled, haunted refrain. Packaged and sold like miracles, Though we all know it's typical.

Your lighter to my leaky pipe, Black mold grows up, pierces in stripes, Waterlogged papers peel from walls, Leaving us thinking, "Is this all?"

"All to live for, only to die?" "Something we live but only lie?" Lies of life and satisfaction, No recourse, only reaction.

You're the blunt to my force trauma, Open the box, like Pandora, Find it empty, already cracked, Like my cranium, your attack.

Get in the trenches, it's a war, Gangrene and rats I can't fight for, Without purpose, sing sorrowed tunes, One more drip from my slotted spoon.

Burnouts

Everybody has their own vices to cope with a life on high alert; Running on and on to keep up with the roulette, ‘till you’re irrelevant and inert. And you drown yourself in silent desperation until your insides are rotten, But even then everybody loses and everyone is forgotten.

The worst half looks in the mirror and lies: Tells itself that legends never die. The better of us know better than to fight life’s dysgraphia. Everybody knows that we’ll burn like Alexandria.

So until then we wait and count our days, Indulging to hold on to glory before we fade. The fading begins and it won’t ever stop, An abyss for us all when the memory’s lost.