The Voiceless
He walks along a path of broken glass, like a bass swimming through an ocean, a city of blood.
Words are spoken, things are heard but ignored is he, until we.
You heard him, that broke him.
He wants to be heard but don’t listen.
He wants to be seen but don’t look.
He wants to be but don’t let him.
Your perspective, your perception, an infection.
Oral tradition, Catholicism, gray pants, and twisted trees,
Kill him.
You did that, you killed him.
He is gone, never to breach,
The outside world was as if he was never there.
He wasn’t there.
Remnants of the law, a record,
In reality?
Ceased.
Looking at women with a sneer, a tainted gaze.
Locking eyes with other men with confusion.
Lurking in the stalls, the stalls with no standing, the stalls with giggles instead of screams, until he strikes, breathing heavily.
Loving him you don’t, fear you embrace.
Luckily he leaves.
You say he’s a pervert, riddled with monstrous intentions.
With tall legs and furrowed brows, run.
You are scared, for your life, your kids, and your back he won’t snap.
Hairy, how scary, you stare, your piercing glare,
But he’s not prepared, beware,
She’s just as scared.
Ode to God
My empty god, you aspire to kill me.
I loathe the way you fear, punish, and crouch.
Racing in my mind when I’m meant to be.
Reaching into your diplomatic pouch.
Allow me to show you the way,
A race to an end so covered in one’s deceit,
No being could see the true play.
Eyes are set on being complete that you miss the defeat.
Why can I smell the hate?
My dreams are crushed underneath my silver, shrinking platter.
A shot star crossed an x on its way to fate.
A reason to matter makes my worn heart pitter-patter.
I am away with my one true desire,
But remember my knuckled words as they bitter to the once wire.
Shame, Snow is to Blame
With flushed cheeks and burning eyes, watering like the melting icicles lining your porch, you sniffle.
Like a child with a curious stare, you wonder how the sun rises so brightly on the skyline but the snow sleeps quiet below your feet.
You stomp, and clomp! It crushes softy, soundly, like an angel is dying.
Your feet feel like ice blocks, your hands' skeleton trees, circulation is trying but freezing is spying.
As the snow begins to kiss the grass so dry, your eyes begin to cry, to water, eyelids beginning to falter.
Thirsty your taste buds plead as they shrivel and scream, Spring is the season of which you dream.
A bleak December, a month to remember.
A fan of winter, you are not a member.
