PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I of pagan blood.  Congregate on a Sunday?  Ha!  Poetry is always fighting to come out of me—even when my muses aren’t speaking to me.  They quarrel and bitch while the poem dances out of reach.  The herbs and spices accent the food of despair.  They taste bitter!  I spit them out in disgust.  I am sick of despair.  It’s a pain; nagging bitch haunting me; trying to suck my soul rather than my cock.  The poem in disguise; a lone ranger rides in to save me; firing silver bullets thru the heart of desperation.  I rise to sink to knees.  I bow; lower my head in silence.  Echoing thunder penetrates my solitude; shattering the still calm.  It rattles me!  Stupid pigs trample over my illusionary glances of future present—indicative of my self esteem, huh?  Yeah, I guess you don’t know; couldn’t know the pain in my heart.  New age malaise.  I’m the one to defrock the myth.  They fear me!  They know my power.  I don’t even know my own power.  I imagine it immense.  I could be wrong.  I mean, couldn’t anyone be wrong?  It’s so but fret not—or should I say—despair not?  Despair being a motif for anything.  Must have been a bad daydream.  Gotta eliminate impurities from my head before they contaminate my thought.  It seems difficult to imagine any other fate.  Am I missing something?  Did I overlook some major small detail?

Why?  I say why am I set apart?  Why do I stand alone; untouchable? Unapproachable?  I suppose I could question the Gods; throw lightning bolts at the heavens.  The angels deserted me.  I didn’t need them; don’t want their sweet caress.  I can survive in my solitude.  Only your arrogance can lead you to believe I need you.  I don’t.  You are merely a myth I have created.  The fable is complete but like old shoes it’s worn out its soul.  It’s useless to me.  Another baby I must sacrifice to the Gods.  I can not stand it.  I hate the Gods that oppress me.  I am seeking a God of Mercy.  One who allows for democracy.  One who is free; unoppressive.  I like to walk my path alone—on my and not his merit.

But I am wounded; pierced by mutation.  I am an American.  Am I not?  I need not hear your banter.  It changes little.  It changes nothing.  Szechuan delights tickle my fancy but still nothing is changed.  It remains a cloudy day.  The storm is approaching.  I feel it in the corns of my feet.  It approaches; fires spitballs of distain as a warning.  It curls its lips uttering obscenities at me.  I listen.  I have no other choice.  It’s gonna ramble over me.  I duck.  I falter. I shall triumph?  I wish could say, despair, desolation, destruction and sickness penetrate me; filter thru the funnel and make me stronger.  My soul attempts to siphon out the quintessence.  The impurities remain.  I can not eliminate them.  I am stuck with them for eternity.