Masochist

This one’s been floating around in my notebook for years…. dark. ugly. but not a  bad little piece. I only share it because it’s past.

 

 

Faithless, lonely, and impure

Is what I have become,

And if you look

Inside my cup you’ll find

No lack of rum.

There is no party that I

Won’t throw outside.

I’ll light it all on fire before

I take that ride.

Cause of death, unwanted—

Memories, unclaimed.

If you saw me kill and maim,

You’d know my claim to fame.

I’m no masochist, for

I do not feel the light on my burning skin

That won’t rise for suns.

Blood and guts and

Screams and cuts,

It comes back and forth again.

This is how I know, my friend,

The universe itself began.

 

 

Horribly Decent

Horribly Decent

A boy walks home through the woods

With death at his back- a long, trailing beast

In lethargic pursuit.

Inside the child is as frightened as the critters he sends running

With each reluctant step towards his reckoning.

No escape.

Not enough time; endings come too fast.

His thoughts are trapped in a loop of

Questioning his own intelligence.

In his terror he cannot articulate

The melancholy of

His only fortress

Turned into a cold, dark

Barracks of betrayed emotion right

Before his very eyes.

He danced, sang, and grew in those woods once.

Those repetitive wisdoms they’ve

Branded into his conscious serve no purpose

In this place.

When he questions, there arrive no answers:

Only imposters with luring glares of

Shadowy comforts.

Monotonous patterns evoke a sensation of a

Terribly dull knife dragging

Haphazardly across his jugular.

But this boy once had ability.

He never acclimated to that hateful passion

Needed to get by in modern times.

This child, as is customary, is to be tormented

Until he willingly murders the individual within him.

Overcome with latency and jelly-legs,

The young man hides in a shady alcove

For a respite-

Segment after segment

Of the Beast crawl by.

Going against the wind

That carries spiteful scents.

The beast takes over his perspective.

He is not himself anymore.

How horribly decent?