poem

Honor

Soft broken devil
writhing in mine
shattered confines,
stage seeping red
ink, signing away
our gushing humanity.
Soft broken
devil denies the door
as a window,
shuttered by–
splintered by–
soldered by tweaking
builders of the concrete
wall, you cherish
them. You brought
them with sound
assumptions, seared
flesh adorned with gold
leaf, Greek letters,
gilded chain corroded.

Y (a poem)

They think us strange,
we who don’t venture
into sunlight.
Scientists, Creators, Genius
bred in studios and labs–
strong-minded products
of a well-constructed mess,
we set ourselves apart
from yesterday’s beliefs.
We do not mold.
We do not bend.
We resist,
labeled stubborn
by the older generation,
self-styled mentors, our judges.
We question authority,
push out to sea,
bricks in that wall of defense,
seeking a seed of self-awareness
inherent in each of us.
Some might have died,
ripped open at the seam,
now broken, scarred.
We do not cry.
Our generation stinks
of death—
a sapling withered,
corroded by chosen elements,
leaving a stench
of lust, gluttony, dishonor,
rancid blend of blood like ours
and everything we’re not.
Mistakes clot in the vein.
We do not mourn
but smell the rot.
We do not mourn:
We live.

Pieces

I tear myself apart.

A million tiny pieces

surging, burning,

adrift in the blackest

Erythraean sea.

I snag them, snare them,

lay them in rows.

Fingers sift,

contain, dissect,

detain,

others taste them,

devour them,

butcher, badger,

they don’t understand.

They swish and spit them out,

pedants.

Poke, prod, search for patterns,

arrange the pieces of me

into designs no one else can see,

or toss them into a heap—

a mountain—

a volcano—

waiting to explode.

A'a

A’a