PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Rightful might in the fishing stream so I cough in the ruff

Crunching my feet in the marsh like a hunter in my grasp a firefly

Drowning in the mud grail

My veil dark I drank it made me sick

Like a weight in my knees so I was coughing and spewing.

Though my trophy was when you removed my frown

When you sat at my ditch pile remains of what is all there is of a grave, last rites, last remains

I was at a security prison gate

The raining jet sun glare of too much at cost to ever remember what was a loss.

The dice like mice eat and multiply. Vultures over victimize.

Sudden beginning of laughter from angels whose futures’ are done. Laughter from angels whose words echo crows cringing that began and begun singing for forever the threat of past words stretched for eternally.

Such as now like you will or have already began to laugh-point at a lost marble now I live like you.

Deteriorating not immortalized like the Hell chosen dressed to freeze, in golden marble, always formal, choosing to be deserted from love, scum.

Seemingly only a move without a tribe

Or a moon without a tide

The riff raff are at last the ridiculous fools in charge of suitcases seeping in cash

Submerged seized in the gluttony of no limits not an end

Perished, perverted

The will to start again the consumption of greed

Wrists may be small, wounds may be swallowed

No charity can find a cure for the mass manufacturing of population control disease slaughter

Now some were the same others were a rip off sum of the number of times no one was heard in the town criers collection of voices

Something you said got me thinking about the music again

At a loss muffled like a woman’s mouth ragged and gagged

Withstand a bullet held cuffed in control

Suffered were the ones left covered without a tunnel

In a monotonous scheme this world seems to be having fun being fucked up

In a monstrous monster lunge

Realizing then the music begun

Oh no oh shit but nothing will be written yet with eyes will not be forgot

For realness or willingness forgotten is the one percent drop of the hit man’s sweat

A new tune like spring the marsh will no longer be seen frosted stale yellow and crunch under your foot

It will make the ever meeting markings of the omen hand shake

The will to start again the masquerade billionaire’s feast

Will be will ever be as is stands as is and always as such

Oh music start again but it rippled instead

Only to be playing what is rated deliberated in a ever blasting scheme- This world is blaring and the snooze alarms keeps beeping every five minutes between.

-мαяу ∂'єитяємσит