Bad Angsty Poetry
As a rare treat, I write awful poetry. Enjoy, or don't.
No comfort bullshit either, I think I make the reason why not pretty plain.
A belly full of rot
keeps me awake.
I mumble the names of amulets
of angels, recited. forgotten.
But my failures
the demons of memory and ill portent
demand the sacrifice of my security.
I never feared my father
nor my mother's displeasure.
God was made immaterial
Gauzy, a half-thought impotent.
But torments must have a face
and so they are a mirror.
How easy, to go mad.
How simple is the life of the fool.
But my heart does not beat for flesh
or the words of man or woman.
If in my hubris I say I am englightened,
it is because I see my hands bloody.
Mine is no crime for song or story
but the quiet murder of the wire across my throat.
This death is a death I have chosen.
I have not the conviction.
I somehow cherish my self,
tarnished and rotten.
It is only the gold reflected
in your eyes that makes me think
I was ever worth anything.
No comfort bullshit either, I think I make the reason why not pretty plain.
A belly full of rot
keeps me awake.
I mumble the names of amulets
of angels, recited. forgotten.
But my failures
the demons of memory and ill portent
demand the sacrifice of my security.
I never feared my father
nor my mother's displeasure.
God was made immaterial
Gauzy, a half-thought impotent.
But torments must have a face
and so they are a mirror.
How easy, to go mad.
How simple is the life of the fool.
But my heart does not beat for flesh
or the words of man or woman.
If in my hubris I say I am englightened,
it is because I see my hands bloody.
Mine is no crime for song or story
but the quiet murder of the wire across my throat.
This death is a death I have chosen.
I have not the conviction.
I somehow cherish my self,
tarnished and rotten.
It is only the gold reflected
in your eyes that makes me think
I was ever worth anything.