Dividend.

Here’s a thought from me to you,

nothing equally divides by two,

the perception of equality,

gets crossed up with duplicity,

dishonesty, epiphanies,

the tattered wings of chivalry,

a vicious cycle gets pursued,

and chased down like a dog in heat;

Once again I’m on the move,

the disappointment is nothing new,

please don’t take it personally,

it’s not like you meant much to me,

complacency, mentalities,

the monarch of totality,

without a thing to prove,

the crumbled teeth of dishonesty,

In the mouth of a comical stooge.

Mistaken.

So, I’m “full of shit, and always have been”
according to choice words spoken by Oblivion,
I am busied with “feeling sorry for myself”
“throwing pity parties”, and inviting no one else
Damn, I guess this distant man is onto me
he caught me playing him and gaining NOTHING
in a flash, my character is bashed with bitter words
reaction to dissatisfaction best made by the immature
and, it’s by now so obvious how he’s dangling a string
and never stood a chance of accepting my complexities
sadly, it’s not too unusual in my own experience
my need to heal myself becomes a Monkey Wrench
and next thing I know, I’m every name but a nice one
because he couldn’t get me to crawl under his thumb
I’m obliged, to notarize my name to the realm of reality
I already have enough to sift through out of the debris
it’s just another case of the flip of the ol’ light switch
I’m just trying to get by, and I’m suddenly “full of shit”
it’s fine, if it soothes your mind to warp things conveniently
we can agree on one sure thing: that you have mistaken me.

Dissentient. (Weekly Challenge July 5)

Weekly Challenge:
July 5 Alliteration (Assonance)
Write a poem in which all the words in each line begin with the same letter.

I initiated its immeasurable impositions, independently…
shiny-sheened smokescreens settling, slowly spreading…
for faded fractal figures, fastidiously fermented figments…
tediously tethered to the tyrant’s terrain…
drowning dread deeply, drained down dissentient…
laughing loudly, layered like Life loves Lady Liberty…
again and again, another atrocity’s appearance assaults…
bygone be bygone, beautiful blonde burden burn brightly.

Bending WIll.

May 18 A to Z Poetry Challenge:

Another day of this,
Bending to your will,
Completely,
Divided by,
Everyone’s differing views,
Full of themselves,
Given the choices,
Held onto by hope,
I have let go,
Just recently,
Killed that hope,
Lost that dream,
Made it to doorway,
Never turned the key,
Open anyway for me,
Please just let me see,
Quickly now,
Rightfully,
Show the pages,
To me,
Under oath,
Viciously,
Watered down versions,
Xeroxed into truth,
Your falsified poetry,
Zealotry through words.

Suffer.

She will,
only become,
aware of,
the severity,
in the things,
that she,
has insistently,
gone and done,
when she admits,
to the obvious shifts,
in the gazes of,
the Almighty Ones;
she will,
finally be outdone,
deep inside of,
the smoking barrel,
of a black market gun,
will she submit,
to the things,
that she’s let,
grow into beasts?
Or will,
the darkness,
finally,
swallow her,
in totality,
just to make,
itself regurgitate,
her existence,
repeatedly;
the day will come,
undoubtedly,
a day that makes,
today seem sweet,
like times of joy,
full of ease,
gobble them,
swallow them,
get down,
on your knees,
a day will come,
that defines suffering.

Fucking Marrocans

The fucking Moroccans…
I did have to show my game and better my spade
don´t  like to do it,
and I have no one to blame for that game
than me,
put  me or i should say……
put myself  in those kind of situations where they think they can take advantage of  me
they are hawks,
and at one moment in my life hawks no shit,
I was a fucking wolf
I did love th HK 36 seemed it had a one 5.56(bullet)  so that was that
don`t need to hear your insults unless you want me to really go nuts
fucking useless , funny thing, he did get the shit out of there
pretty scare I suppose, worst part…mom heard the word
and that will be
for me a scare.

Fucking Moroccan then fuck you, already killed in that country,
don´t fuck withme in my own country.

Stay Frosty gents and gentesses

Plaster Hand.

I have this plaster hand…
Likened to yours;
Hanging above the kitchen door…
The one we made so long ago…
On Christmas Eve Day, just bored…
I have a poem written…
By your tiny hand;
As tiny as the one that hangs…
Above the kitchen door frame…
It says “Mommy I Love You”…
And the Gods help me…
If when I pass it by, I don’t hear the words…
In a sigh, a whispering…
I keep a tiny, silver jewelry box…
The one you saved up for;
Inscribed across the dusty top …
Is chiseled in, beautifully:
“I Love You Mommy”…
And “Mommy” dies a little more…
I have all these haunting memories…
Of having future plans;
Fulfilling hopes and dreams…
Just you and I surviving…
Getting back up to stand…
I saved these Christmas things…
Yours and mine;
Stored away like a box to mourn…
Every year, when it’s opened again…
And looks the same…
As the years before…
I held on to your special ornaments…
All of them;
Though I never hang them high…
I never get a tree anymore…
I see no reason why…
But I keep these things…
To remind myself…
Of the twinkle lost to my eye…
I held on to so many things…
Of yours;
Desperately trying…
To keep you somehow, near…
Closer at least…
Than wherever you are…
I have this little butterfly wing…
You brought home;
You flew it behind you like a kite…
A colorful ghost that chased you…
Right out of second grade…
I find these notes you wrote…
To me; To Mommy;
They read your apologies…
For spilling toothpaste on the rug…
And I want to come find you wherever you are…
And tell you that rug never mattered to me.