Weak

A bunch of old poems put together like Frankenstein. I hope you like the creation I made.

I wait until someone says something, before I judge them

I wait until they do something, before I hate them

I wait for solace, before being molested

Pleasure is illegible

Evidence is inevitable

The fear in the air edible

Let it all drown upon my mind, and water down my spine until I become flexible in the effortless of my maniacal exile

Detestable in my delicacy, experiential sea breeze that will bleed me dry of the notes I cry, sacrificed to keep praying, playing for god’s pennies, payment

The emptiness I feel inside is buried behind a wall of lies

They show me the wall as I fall through yesterday’s blue haze, a fire blazes midnight inside my heart, candle mounted in the dark soaks the shadows in fragile twilight tranquillity, in this rising silence, an island of hope drowns down paralyzed within a half-alive sterilized world, I hold onto to my own, realigned what defines me, sinking in oblivion, a stone buried under the world, a lion in a cage, a bird that can never fly away

Poetry is emotion unleashed, the rhythm our bishops, the speech our priest

The spit our wine, the words our beat

A heart that bleeds eternally internally outwards, moving forward, in a watercolour world

Suicide provided petrified

Varicose rivers of permafrost, mercury hurt, lost in the flurry, leaving your irises tear dried tongue tied afterlife blurry fog to preserve through the fear on

Omnipotent injuries fringe humility

And I try and I try to understand this labyrinth we’re living in

There isn’t a way to take the shapes and make a home, only stale words, images, and poems

Imagination a thicker liquid than stone, cruising through the unknown, drown in the saucy monotony, and breathe in rancid fantasy, and see visions of people risen under gods’ of oblivion, colonize your mind and mine away at time, behind the glass, the world’s past, a flower growing from the ashes, the lovechild of passion, a mix and mash of sacrifice to read between the lines of cloud nine divine find and contemplate contentment, take the shapes and create heaven, beautiful as silver jewels, judicial tool that hammers between the fine lines of apathy, and crafts humanity, in all the concrete gravity to ramify family from others bonded by brotherhood stronger than blood or gold, harder than a fired soul, brighter than a lighter’s song, burn the world with everyone, and take the golden sun spun out of lies, under the slumber of dreams and moonshine, marooned in loves life, sublime in the afterglow, creativity’s virility on the down low, immaculate to emulate, recreationally tasteful, the flaws of God's angels

Fragile frames full of the disdainful, will we stay faithful, unplugging the cable, and cradle the baby born from maybe, her heartbeat stable, frail, is she just a label?

Is hope a fable, is imagination incapable, in this waking world, have we forsaken in our concentration that we ourselves are the wild child of creation

Aim for the sky, and you’ll have climbed the highest mountains

Everyone has their own strengths, their own weaknesses, and their own way to forge onwards

That canvas is painted, looks like hatred, scythes of righteousness reap the sleepers

I triumph, I succeed, but I still bleed, only to be strong, because I was weak

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.