Nemesis

Been sick for a while, then I finally get inspiration. You know what happens? My word document crashes and I lose the majority of my best lines, and any reason to finish the work. Here's an attempt.

Nemesis

Part 1: The Left Hand (of a Power-Hungry Fool) 

The left hand of the power-hungry fool; even the devil has a name 

Even God must hide his hate, half a mind to tempt the fates

That mask of anger; only he can wear that mask like it’s his own face 

Denouncing God, not understanding solitude

Dismantling solitude, destroying hope, disowning despair

We will decide the difference between fiction and religion

We will decide the difference between heaven and hell, devil and angel

The difference between life and death 

Disfiguring progress as the winding road of immortals leads through our straightjacket shackles and the corridors of Belphegor

Regressing in bedlam’s devil handed the sceptre

Outcast’ing shadows of what we thought we were

Of requiems sepulchre sleeping restlessly for a dream to call reality, secure

Dead resurrection reeking of beacons flickering ventriloquists in the dusk of homunculus

Offering the sarcophagus of narcissistic missionaries, saints, madmen

The bishops of monolithic photosynthesis speaking sickness out through the rotting choir of their mouths singing gospels of an apocalypse

Wrecking witness to the reaper’s business, the sweetest flower of abysmal amaryllis

Crimson equilibrium swings imprisoned on the slipknot chains locked in our hearts

Soothsayers mosaics of braille fairytales fumbling desperately to feel again

To touch another’s soul; will bleed their words until their throat runs dry, bitter

Like crippled amaranthine photosynthesis

As the serendipitous antithesis eclipses ellipsis

Inquisitions of ventriloquists of hieroglyphic crucifixions’ equilibrium  

The delirious onomatopoeia of paraplegic allegiances indecency’s deviant  

Antioxidant of slipknot doppelgängers esophagus of Apocrypha screaming hymns of bohemian cremations' whim 

I love my scars, scratching at the records of shattered symphonies

They are the greatest painting my body has ever known

The greatest comedy, my greatest tragedy, broken back together again,

Smoothing out the canvas over the bones of my foundation,

A city being graffitiing by man’s nations, like a polychromatic Abaddon dwindling in the twinge

Imitating mosaics sieges of all creation swallowing the diabolical Catholicism electroconvulsive Holocaust like a Morningstar Babylonian

Spines of thistled muscle intertwined in the kaleidoscope of sheet metal Armageddon tangled stragglers ever personified in the horizon’s empire where I built a heaven of my own

  

Usurping Merkabah’s cardiovascular Avalon of sabbatical tapestries emasculated tenebrous memories  

It is December again, the words leaking through the threads that have now frozen in the facets of my broken-minded labyrinth, left behind to find myself, lost, alone

Serpentine, running wine of watercolours in my heart, my art, brine of dripping antagonistic sanguine anarchies  

Electroconvulsive penultimate lobotomy’s arteries disharmonious starving dreams on the parchment of archenemies

At home with my demons, trying to see another’s point of view

I found a window into the soul, opened the door to my heart

And learned to look outside myself

House another’s hatred, while I lock mine out of sight

For we do not see eye to eye, so we cannot share the same views

Shedding some light on another’s woes, I looked the other way

A shadow of an angel flickering like a night-lamp, or maybe a devil

Or a deviant, or a man, or a woman,

Shared its darker side with me

And we both were only half a daybreak free from yesterday and tomorrow  

Part 2: The Heart of Darkness, is Broken 

Lighting the way into the abyss, shattered stars staircases reflecting off pools vaporous gazed at me like a falcon before flight

Tripping over life sentences, stumbling in the dark, looking for the exit sign as we all burn in a cool hell 

The foundation of God is built from the bones of man

And I keep on walking thinking it will get me somewhere,

Ventriloquist to the winding passages of my heart

Pathlessness revolts, deep in my despair, an empty funeral, lowered down into the box

Buried alive in this solitude I have come to know

When sometimes I just want to crawl into a corner of my life

Curled like a ball that dibbles over oblivion,

Yet still hates me enough to miss out on any goal or purpose

Scorched by the rain of resurrections’ pestilence

The sky a crumpled page of biblical gibberish ripped from the notebook of God

Apostles star-crossed fossilized in the diaphragm of silence pretend to understand death

Screaming dreamlands of rhythmic precision

My astral blasphemy cascading crusaders of bipedal cathedrals

Mountains of men clothed in their regal medieval onomatopoeia in the bondage of monasteries

The intestinal renaissance bioluminescent crescent emptiness

The white chalk scratching at the blackboard of my buried past

Shadows of midnight, ghosts and poltergeists

Decrepit entropy centipede's of rebellions’ in eldritch entities

Evangelions pray to deities, fables that man hasn’t yet wrote

That haven’t yet found a home in the projects that were never finished

The failures that never lived

The word of a God who had never been humanized

A fire that never burned body to ash

 

 

The Heart is a Cage

To feel again my heart is an empty box discarded in the landfill of lost souls

Turn over a new leaf and bury the seeds of rebellion for the reaper to harvest our sorrow like a crop

My heart is caged under the boneyard, my love for you only grows fonder

Let the blackest sacrilege of apathy bring happiness through catastrophe of the rhapsody of wrath’s anatomy

Travesties of tapestry decapitated by the bladed scythe for the ones too ripe, my fruit is rotten, my words forgotten

Let me rise from the shires sired from divine shrines of serpentine liaison lairs binded to the winding rivalry

Unravelling cataclysms on the battlefield when I lie in soft meadowed mementos of apocalypse, crescendos of nocturne 

Psychotropic bondage armadas armaments left in the Argentum of Armageddons’ Nephilim

Who died to provide a pillow for my pride guidelessly unified almighty

Brightest moonshine to the spade of nightshades’ grace

Feed my my steel love-starved heart your inner demons, sleeping in that death, the final dreamland, bury the past, and let the future rise from graveyards incarnation

Let the burden of hurricanes surrogates purgatory born from pandemonium rigour mortis metamorphosis to pandoras phantasmagorical

That locked the door torn from the hinges of my heart and left the keychain of bloodtied nooses across the hallways crucifixion

In that hell of belladonna’s diabolical monarch to the empty darkness of charcoal courtship vorpal to the corpus

Penance to the nemesis of referendum reflection decorated with the flames of agathion conclaves wronged by psalms of Nirvana chlorophyll incorporeal blinding kaleidoscopes

The stained glass afterimage of a concrete cathedral of our own upheaval

Kneeling for crematoria in the chrysalis of cryptic hieroglyphics

That guide our omniscient apparitions bewitched in astigmatisms

Of heavens hallucinogenic hemorrhages; like Armageddon isn’t just entropy

Shattered bits and fragments of agony humanity savagely left cadaverous in sabbath of church

I preach to the heavens, but still crawl on the earth, I reap no Nirvana, I feed on gospels of dirt, I’m not under, standing, been grown since birth

Not Islamic or Christianity, damnation is words, if we lived broken silence, we’d listen for worth

You scream in your violence, yet whisper for God, peace for our kind doesn’t end in the stars

We cannot pick up a single peace of what’s been torn apart

We built our own Salem, foundations, heard the last curtain call

If there is a heaven, hell burns in our hearts

There are no more angels; I watched the sky fall

We make light out of souls we’ve left in the dark

We stain the fabric of history, leave a brand and a scar

Blame the static hypnotism sporadic and jarred

Escape to the magic of fiction, where there's still good in our hearts

And let the prison of our lives enshroud the breath of a spark

The twirling twilight clouds hallowing sunsets of hearth

Climb down through the chasms and walk the stairway to Mars

Either the wrath of Abaddon, or the kindness of God

In the shadow of greatness, there's a light, flickering infinitely

On

 

Author's Note

I really, really wish I didn't lose what I'd written. It was gold, and this feels like copper at best. To be over halfway through a poem full of inspirations and beautiful flowing reason in the words and then the next moment seeing them gone is probably my biggest roadblock when it comes to writing. I don't like losing a great poem and trying to replicate it.

I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.

Reviews

[.]

It's difficult to believe but God knows best... You have the Philosopher's stone, that's your pen, your creative ability that uniquely only you possess. I liked this poem but if you think it could have been better, I'm with you. I lost so many art pieces burnt down, you know that when it happened but I still continued to create the best. Now I think it happened for good, it accelerates my growth, thinking and creativity. We are always better than yesterday and best today! I'd think that the lost piece was great but the best is yet to come. Grow out of that and create the best till you're satisfied.
Coincidentally my next poetry is "Philosopher's stone". It's coming soon. :)
Good Luck!

[.]

For the poem I think the first part needs a bit more work. I was great from 2nd part, I could create images actually.
The heart is a cage- "To feel again my heart is an empty box discarded in the landfill of lost souls" is the best start up. No mystery it straightly approaches and shoots precisely on the point where it was aimed. As a reader I appreciate the word choice, still need to work on arrangement of ideas serially. As a friend always encouraging to write more, write best. And I always get the best from you even when you keep doubting. I think you actually found the Ruby in a copper case, who just you need to open it. Who wants gold when we got a Ruby!

[.]

You have no idea how desperately I've waited for a new poem from you. This is amazing!

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thank you so much! What you said really inspires me to get back into writing. You're right, we can only get better from here on out. One poem that might be partially lost will be followed by hundreds or thousands made in the future that will likely be far better. I'll be watching for your next poem or course! :)