[Untitled] - August 09, 2008

Are there happy poems left?

...or am I to awaken endlessly

to nightmare visions of what I wish to write.

Rape me.

Control me.

Contort me.

Are there peaceful people left?

...or is my anger and my

dripping disvalue to dote fondlessly upon me.

Beat me.

Misuse me.

Abuse me.

I've Been Too Tired To Write - August 09, 2008

The soft edged haze of light

has faded

and in it's place

been traded,

leaving behind no trace,

with a jaded 

heart's disgrace.

Sickened Dreary - August 09, 2008

I see this clearly

I'm only reaching up to help 

My soft and supple self

From slipping into 

Somber states of sickened

dreary.

Suddenly weary faces...

The eye which,

with ease,

replaces any feeling which was felt 

with the shallow effect of 

superficial surfaces.