Write Free Or Die

 
poetry's birth  
is the moment    
of madness  
where the truth breaks free  
of all shackles  
all walls  
walks out charging  
with half its umbilical cord  
still attached and vernix    
covering it head to toe  
enough to send    
the dolls
the mannequins  
into hiding
behind the dark  
tinted mirrors  
   
   
   
   
 
 
   
;-)  
 

D.E.A.T.H
Despicable deities dangerously disillusion disenchanted daughters, depicting delightful dreamlike destinations.  
Deceitfully decadent devils defiantly destroying desires daydreams.
Doom descends drearily draining decent drowsy drones, dismantling duty.
 
Egomaniacs enact equalities euthanasia, ensuring evils enriched.
Easily enticed enemies eagerly enraged, ensuring eutopia’s eradication.
Euphoria’s epitaph entails evils enterprise’s executive’s ecstasy.
 
Augmented alignments amass an alarming altruistic argument, alerting aware animals.
Angered adjudicators administer absolute atrocities, asphyxiating abstract alertness.
Archvillains awarded amnesty allows archetypal antagonists all-encompassing ambiguity.  
 
Take the Time to transcend temptation.
Tedious thoughts turn to tomorrows treason.
Tough truths talks testament.
 
Hells hate hinders hopeful horizons.
Hushed horrors happen hourly.
Hysteric hypnotized herds hinder helping hands, hence happily hell’s hounds howl.

I am free to write my words.
Of what i feel and i observe.
And no one will be able to stop me.

I will die for what is right.
Execute my words on site.
They are mine, whether pristine, or sloppy.
--
I am free to decree, mountainous emotional range.
Stone faced, to construct inside my isolate cage.
I am me, limited only by imagination.

I will not accept what it is i know.
I am not my content, i fuse to grow.
I shall be, refusing my stagnation.
--
If you give me sympathy, then you give me death.
My own liberty is exhaled through my breath.
For i have chosen, silence, not as an option.

The poor bid for a poor bid.
Never shall i be forbid.
Before the cozen, of this very auction.
--
Right to be me.
Write to be free.
I am one to withhold emotion.

To hold within.
And deny you my grin.
But in word, i spill devotion.

To love of word.
To love of thought.
Permafrost, to ink frozen.

Mine is mind.
Mind is mine.
Write free, or die, is what I've chosen.
--
Forced words of speech.
Read by deceit.
Slavery to the words above.

Hear our words.
Here are our words.
No slave to be. Of us, none.
--
I am free to write my words.
Of what i feel and i observe.
As the unoriginal copy.

Left my mark upon the world.
My jot, poor penmanship scrolled.
Ghost writers dead to their proxy.
--
As memory heals, unscarring.
Forgotten, faded, lack of talking.
My words are all my own.

And when i die, they'll stay some time.
As if my mind hit some rewind.
For my words are truly, all i own.

Consider, if you will, our mortal sin,
Our blood-stained mouths that harbor blood-stained minds.
How simply parted lips, wet words begin
To shape their creeping natures' thought designs.

The lines so small, the fractures never seen,
In pentacles and swastikas described,
The numbers of the dead leave pages clean
With every voice and cutting pen subscribed.

We few, we happy few, we band of brutes,
With hearts that spray from sleeves so easy sewn,
Cut-throats would better serve to constitute
The truth than syllables haphazard thrown.

The bards and poets, troubadours - profane!
Who use our words, to slow invade your brain.

The blackout blinds were drawn  
The white page of scrabbled thoughts    
A note book, not open and not closed    
A clause thats always starting with pause    
 Looking for a long lost doubloon    
Those accolades so hard persued    
The X upon the treasure map    
The bard that wears a floppy hat    
 A garret temprement of loneliness and misery    
When your muse is all at sea    
An app thats sometimes prone to crash    
And trauma come to un-jam with pizazz    
 Gifts of saffrons golden blush    
The spice and colour on the brush    
Paint all you work with pro's and verse    
It is a blessing and a curse
Blood spilt in words that heamorrhage  
That well won't flow as you intend
 Barren field you drilled for oil
Last short straws the one you chose
The casket where you lie
Its lid screwed not quite home
      
 

    
   
   
“If you have been brutally broken, but still have the courage to be gentle to others, then you deserve a love deeper than the ocean itself.”              
— Nikita Gill            
             
             
the consistency of friday thirteenth            
-her life's continuous repeat              
rang chimes of church bells      
celebrating celestial sabotage        
in continually      
circulating circumstances        
             
drenched in wine, of fine vintage            
throwing fifteen year old corks              
in the air      
singing praises            
to her words      
while they cut his heart            
into wedges like a        
birthday cake covered            
in flowing colorful wax              
             
when no one blew the candles out            
           
he stares at the ceiling           
each cork, falling to            
open palms            
             
feet resting              
on desk top            
calendars;            
hair unbrushed            
face unshaved            
old clothes            
a fountain pen            
behind his ear            
             
he tried studying              
morse-code            
once;            
gave it up              
in his choice              
to speak phonetics            
and crosswords            
             
she, still hanging her head low            
staring at her feet in search            
of a silver lining around              
black waves in storm clouds;            
unsure as to where the dagger            
that stabbed the essence  
of her femininity            
came from, or why it            
lodged it's target's            
bulls-eye              
so deeply, penetrating            
every part of her humanity            
and young life            
-making for a crisis              
no man            
would understand            
             
well, except for            
the historic, blood on her hands            
(which wouldn't            
feature in the back page of a              
sunday newspaper           
in a one horse town)            
             
he untied the leather straps            
binding the hardcover journal              
reciting the calligraphy            
of his own hand            
out loud, for the world to hear            
             
"Whilst up in the top floor            
of that castle            
don't eat of an apple            
don't make yarn, on the spinning wheel            
keep yourself safe            
grow your hair            
             
when it's let down            
you can look up            
-the silver lining you search for            
is up in the sky            
             
this is as truthful            
as the inscription in the front cover            
of this book"            
             
gently lifting the book, she            
sucked smoke from her hookah          
while looking at the floor            
sighing              
             
blowing hazy clouds            
exploring fingers            
opening the cover            
to the forward...            
             
"you are The Mother Of Pearl            
your blues are            
a palette of wonders            
to explore      
with open palms            
- arms reaching              
to your constellations and            
star-soaked heavens."            
             
occasionally you get syrup            
when you think you bought            
             
honey            
             
other times it's an Asprin            
             
hearts know what they need