Two Daggers

Two daggers,

one, darkness

laced with

glowing Spring.

Hers.

The other,

sliver lightning

curved and rounded

twisted with gold.

His.

How many days did

She water Spring in red?

How many times did

He strike the root?

Nature’s predators

forged from earth and fire,

sharp and dangerous.

 

Until they came together.

 

Clashing,

sparks flew

their hearts ignited

fire consumed

the dance began

He spun

She leapt

They collided

both burned

blissfully hot

They struggled together

and then,

collapsed.

 

Two daggers,

one, darkness,

panting red Spring.

Hers.

The other,

silver lightning

wet and dripping.

His.

Nature’s predators

forged from earth and fire

sharp and dangerous.

Two daggers,

forever together.     

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It’s Hard to Say What Feelings Come This Way

It’s hard to say,

what feelings

come this way,

alone at night

in a simple room

not quite right,

an illusion

of security and love

cracked by allusions

of mystery and gun fire,

a thief or a drug run,

meetings for hire,

an insipid cesspool

of drooling runners

committed to a fool

lost without brains

and no direction to lead

even the lame,

and they will come

hands over their knuckles

bent and fearsome

knowing only what

is told to do

marking caves of sluts

a featureless phantom

hounded and grabbing

for spaces in lanterns

confounded by even

the simplest light

like a priesthood heathen.

It’s hard to say,

these feelings

that come this way.

If I Could Paint it on a Canvas

If I could paint it

on a canvas

it would be red and black

smears with no pattern

dripping with pale skin

two spots for dead eyes

haunted and hunted

by the same hand

that pats on the back

and stabs with a knife

bloody and brutal

kind and caring

my hand

that locks me

in a cave

made by man

chained to a wall

years in the making

answering to the voices

that live inside

my head,

I answer

and do their biding

like a slave bound

to a master,

I have worked

for years to be

as they want

picking at the scabs

of my imperfections

never letting them heal

for the fear of never

being good enough

striving until I

can no longer feel

dropping blood

on the mud caked ground

pushing myself

to my feet

although I can

go nowhere

chained to the ground

lost with only

my dreams as company

too afraid to make

them a reality

when all I want to

do is sing dance

feel breathe fly

faster and further

until I remember

that I cannot fly

and I fall

deeper and harder

crying back to the

voices now laughing sneering,

they told me so,

how dare I believe different,

safer in my hole.

If my body is an

extension of my soul

then why does my

body crack and break

ooze and reek

making me scream

in the night,

or is it the day?

trapped where time

no longer matters

surrounded by the

mute screams

of my conscious

and desires

of what I have

always wanted

but never dared,

the void of my

splintering heart

filling with the cackles

of the ones I have to please

and when a hero comes

to find me,

release me,

make me smile

laugh again

wish for the warmth

of the shining sun

and asks

where is the key

and then I realize

I don’t know where the key is,

that I have hidden

it somewhere safe

and the hero does

not understand,

but how can someone else

understand what they have

not created?

and so I remain

locked in the box

that I created

with the knife

that the voices left me

so I cut open my skin

and paint on the wall

red and black

smears with no pattern

dripping with pale skin

two spots for dead eyes

It’s open

again.

A wound torn,

written

in blood.

I answer

with cries,

scorn,

pain.

There is no thought

just,

feeling.

Raw.

Simple.

Pure.

 

It’s closed

again.

A wound healed

sealed,

by time.

I answer

with laughter,

happiness,

smiles.

There is no thought

just,

feeling.

Raw.

Simple.

Pure.

 

I feel,

therefore,

I am.

I Feel