PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

crushed in my nailed fingers

this pen knows no bounds

it bleeds my treason of the soul

to the prejudiced page

like a pack of hungry hounds

while in my head this theoretic murder still

periodically pounds

I can tell by the shaking in my voice just how

gruesome all this sounds

too much of my precious time is spent on conversations

I don't wish to be in

Property will always be physical while paganism is a

crippled form of sin

my contemptible life I find is held in question

yet once again

all because I care to uphold everything I write or say

and only grimace behind my ever present grin

my inner pain is an associate of guilt

a cousin to fame

is (wo)man's dignity self built or is it merely handed

down from shame..........

( written July 28,1992 pm)