Words are Power

Poet. Writer. The soul is a cryptic entity. #poet cult All writings on this page are my own, unless otherwise stated.

[oh-the-poetry]

rock bottom fantasy.

Crashing from the highest points of the night. The lights dim as we fall. Narcotics and alcohol, the fuel for our passions. Your eyes dart wildly, widening and slamming shut hard. We drink and laugh, I inhale. One less breath. One more towards the end. The lights dance around us, as we bounce and trot. How glorious! A party of death and despair! We move throughout the night. The sun is rising as we are falling. I kiss your face, numb. Your heart slows pace and matches mine. We drift. The breeze lulls us.

[oh-the-poetry]

4am hero.

My eyes heavy, barely open. My mind racing a thousand laps to go. The coffee stops working, the blood flows slow, the heart weakens. Speaking to myself as I light another cigarette. This is a fucking joke. It’s a waking nightmare. Wanting something so simple as sleep. The bottles are empty and have no effect, just nausea. I have nothing but a smoke filled room, a typewriter and these eyes. They are so heavy. So heavy. The sun peaks in through the blinds, the pages are empty.

[oh-the-poetry]

malfunction.

Like so many women before her, she lies. Her words fall from her mouth, overflowing onto the concrete. Smashing and tumbling, fragile. Like glass, porcelain, fine china. I believe not a word. Her heart flutters and small twitches apparent. She was never any good at this. She insults me with the slivers of deceit she pierces into my skin. Her nouns fester, and infect. Her verbs disease and rot. In her, I find a bit of me, a liar. A heartless, no care scumbag. She learns from me, she says, she learns her craft from me. The teacher of ill spoken words. The smoke clears and she cries.

[oh-the-poetry]

in a field.

Something happens quite often in the dead of night. Lying still in the grass the blades caress my head. The stars above shine like Hollywood premiers. The flash and glint. A single breath leaves my body like fire. I breathe into the sky. A part of my aura released and floating ever so gently. Like leaves falling from trees or petals from sweet nectar flowers. I flow like rivers and streams. The cosmos sing a lullaby of nursery rhymes. In the distance I hear nothing and the calm of the earth is disturbing. Am I alone on this planet, for I too belong in the stars? I speak to myself,hoping my ancestors can over hear. The ethereal opera plays out. The lights dance with the darkness.

[oh-the-poetry]

the night owl.

The children walk the streets here. They’re dirty with adult knowledge, infantile all the same. An overwhelming sense of pride in their step. They rule the concrete jungle, a playground of fire. I once had a time in their ranks, I once thought I was invincible. The age is what tears you down, the years of the grind. Fighting off the depression, the pressure, the urge. I’ve grown older, not quite old. They have the world in their hands, old bones have no place here.

[oh-the-poetry]

sheltered.

I’ve been severing myself from society for years. Slowly. Quickening my pace as of late. With more non smoking areas and laws of public drunkenness. I see those health nuts running and jogging, so tiring. I just want to drink and eat and type endlessly. I listen to music loudly and choke back hatred. The screaming children in the night, infest my building. They call me an asshole. I relish those moments. The hot summer nights beat me down, sweat pours down the bottle, down my face. My writings soaked.

[oh-the-poetry]

imaginary friend.

I’m in love with an idea An incomplete thought The shadow of a goddess She could have saved me If she would only exist

[oh-the-poetry]

single nights.

Love is a woman you hardly know, with her pale white legs wrapped tight around you. Hate is pulling of the hair, the hard biting of the skin, the violent thrusts. So cool like a movie star, bodies shining, glistening, smoking in bed. After the lust subsides, just silence. No words, no conversation. You hope this stranger leaves soon.

[oh-the-poetry]

never fall for a scam.

All I wanted was love in a world where it no longer existed. The dirt and grime lining the gutter in which I resided, my only comfort. Knowing there is no further plummet from this low point. The bottom is hard and unforgiving, jagged and destructive. The pit is cold and dark. No one likes you when you’re down. No one likes you when all you want is love.

[oh-the-poetry]

Charles Bukowski

[oh-the-poetry]

To the tune of D minor.

You wanted it all or nothing. And I was willing to give into your demands. Even if it meant I would turn into nothing. I’d follow in the quicksand steps before me, just to sink in your wake. In the silence I would break down and sing your song. Every note better than the last. You stare in my eyes a look of love and lust, clouded with contempt. All you say is ” boy just keep singing, I tell you just keep singing.” push my head below the horizon and the choir screams on

[oh-the-poetry]

my last four minutes.

writing poetry in four minutes tops. the timer is counting down before the end. no more words, no more heart. what should i write about? love lost? hatred for the world? the uselessness of our race? death? life? god? religion?

it’s all shit.

i’ll write about nothing. besides, what writing is worth reading in a four minute time period?

the clock ticks, the seconds drown, the milliseconds burn. a minute forty till my heart stops beating. i’ll light a cigarette and take this time to tell you what i’ve meant to say for all these years.

fuck you.

[oh-the-poetry]

the tiny speck.

The time passes and I watch it. I watch it fall and dissolve right in front of my eyes. Grains sifting through rough hands. The high of fragility is overwhelming. I have no prize, no reward. A lifelong struggle to hang on to something. Anything. They tell me it goes fast, I tell them it’s blinding. The speed of light, a blink in the eye of the universe. And so there is no story, no tale of what I am. Just the garbage left over, waste.

[oh-the-poetry]

Ashton

She keeps talking to herself out there. Talking shit silently, as if I wasn’t here. She smokes so many cigarettes, even a seasoned smoker couldn’t stand it. She sobs at night when she thinks I’m asleep. But during the day spews loathe some insults. She wonders why I can’t stand her. We were once lovers, best friends. Somewhere between here and the drugs, she lost herself. She lost me. I can’t bring myself to leave, she might kill herself. Oh, then the guilt, I’m selfish. She’d be dead and I’d have guilt, fuck that. So she continues her onslaught, as if it’ll make things better. The ashtray fills, the room fills. She’s still empty.

[oh-the-poetry]

[oh-the-poetry]

Hirohito

[oh-the-poetry]