And as the bugs dig at your flesh
I wonder do you still dream?
The affection you so dearly craved
Is it satisfied by the maggots?
And the warmth you begged for
Do the worms hear those pleas?
The touch of the bugs
Is it the comfort you dreamed it would be?
Or must you find comfort with the soil?
As the bugs dig at your flesh
Is it cold?
Do you crave for more?
Or does the soil treat you well?
I dug my fangs into your flesh
But you did not feel them
You didn’t even notice as the blood poured out
But I tasted it
And I kept craving more.
And as your blood grows sour
I realize I miss when you tasted sweet.
But did you ever?
I fear I must unlatch.
My jaw has grown tired
Holding on just for this bitter mouthful
But I cant help but wonder
Will you miss the bite?
The pressure of my teeth
Will you miss the ache?
Or did my fangs truly sway you none?
If I were to be anybody else in the world I would hope I could be pretty
I want to be pretty just for a day;
Pretty to everyone, pretty to just someone.
I want to be loved just for a day;
Loved by everyone, loved by someone.
And then if I could be loved by anybody,
I would want it to be you.
I would want to be pretty for you,
Just a day is all I need.
I want to be funny to you,
Just a day, I can make that work.
delivered me back in the dark shadows
and the underbelly of the web,
where impossible mission
to differentiate the outer limits
cast by edge of night
essentially rendering a twilight zone
where obscured criminal activity
clear as day in retrospect,
versus earlier this month
when yours truly gung ho
obediently got a crash course
in cryptocurrency and electronic
of human bondage
blindsided to the Potemkin Village,
who never heeded the red flags
now forced me to revisit
nightmare scenario of pennilessness,
whereby an absentee vote
I went there for nothing really.
A slow Sunday,
some food,
and the kind of conversations that leave no trace.
No Place for Freya
Nature is in crisis because of us, but we do not seem to care…there is no room for Freya in Norwegian waters.
–Eurogroup for Animals
He taught me how to wield
the weapon made of words—
a blade that kills,
now saving lives,
like it once saved mine.
My own work
pulled me back from the edge.
And in it,
he lives—
my teacher,
the man behind the lines.
Words—
once carved deep in the mind—
outlive the flesh,
outlast the hands
that once shaped them.
His words stopped me
from falling
to the hundred voices
that came to kill.
They caught my train
just in time
as I stood on tracks
with no will to run.
He never held me,
never came near.
God I can't wait to go to
Heaven
Any day you call me to go to
Heaven
I Will be ready to go heaven
I know that you will send
Your Angel down from heaven
To get me
And he will carry me
In his wing
Also when we will reach heaven
The Angel will knock on heaven's
Door
And God will open the door
For us to get in
And in heaven, I will sleep in
My brass bed
Every night
Oh that Delphic twist scrambled offset,
outside fringed flares pen vogue,
dark is a diamond netherworld plume,
as the singed sunset slumps,
mega molten partitions skip
when token,
of nestled nests Russian doll style,
capsized in vacuous emblem tarnished regally,
toppled and tailed by uniform upright,
circumstances pilloried sparsely while I archly asses,
dive enthusiastically then delve when edgy impulse,
fires dormant limb reined in ruinous by late phase,
winter skin adsorbing without awareness instinctual,