#poetrynet

i’m alive again

no more ghosts

no more gardens

no more summers

not that i ever had them

i don’t pick up flowers from my garden and write about the weeds

i don’t hear god in my head

Of saying the

Same words

I'm honest

I'm true

But you

Make me a liar

With your doubt

the little meadow behind my house reminds me more of home than the building in front of me. i’m almost tempted to run through the blackberry brambles now overgrown, no one to tend to them, and scream like the child i can still feel inside of me. she is a wild thing. her shout becomes mine as i stare into the thick, woody branches. the neighbor across the street stares at me. but only the town dogs answer my call.

Slimy, delicate pus;

It rolls down the face,

Squeezed from the eyes.

Tiny trickles

Of man’s filthy fickle

Health.

A clumpy, cascade of a pallid white,

Red streams like some berry jam

Mixed in with the rancid refuse.

Specks of brown,

Of a decaying, faecal tone

Mix themselves thoroughly,

Further,

Into that repulsively relevant rancidity.

It falls into the mouth,

Assaults the tongue,

Infecting every innocent taste bud

With a noxious gut-wrenching shudder.

It tastes of pure, unadulterated illness

And of a living, decaying death.

One can feel it slide its way down

Into your system.

It smells much as it tastes;

The sickness of life.

That rancidity emits its foul odour,

Which snakes into your nostrils

In a demoniac vapour.

It cascades into your skull

And surrounds the brain.

It soaks,

Deep,

Into that veritable sponge

And turns it to a pallid, green and bloody ball

Of all-encompassing illness.

Feel the natural corruption.

While amongst the natural!

Flies buzz, slugs writhe,

As you sit your picnic.

A burning summer day

With abundance of life.

Little courtesy gifts

Of maggot friends

To aid the pus.

They writhe upon your lunch,

Infesting it.

They bathe and splash amongst the ill-soaked rug

And all your sickly refuse that has come to paint your picnic rug.

They writhe in your eyes,

To feast at the source,

And they dig away at your bloating flesh.

Don’t fight them,

They are your guests.-sothig

I hope this isn’t too much of a bother and it’s acceptable enough;

@raavka @thebookishsatanist @adudewritingpoetry @haunted-diary13 @sociapathic @nocte-in-purgatorio @poeticstories @omnipotentdarkness @occultdetectives @between--alleys @sadsixes @delightofdark666

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she is weary but

the hand that holds her pen is

steady as can be

(and my mind is running, cutting and cutting itself off-)

i am marching

off off off to find

(you) an empire

i have smelled the turn of flesh, warm to cold

(it made me: sovereign, ruler, dynasty maker, emperor)

i have smelled the turn of flesh, warm to cold

staining the dirt dark wine in victory

i thought, a mind not quite my own

“that man died for me.”

-see but the blood of these men is not the same as:

red cheeks sticky with red cherry sap hitting my red robes hard

-and the dirt was not the same as:

pink shell sand molded by pink flush hands under a pink spilled sky

these memories burn different yellow gold orange molten fires 

pressed against my burning eyes

(is that hate for men who have taken everything or tears that cannot fall i cannot tell i-)

pressed against my burning eyes i see 

both-

kingdoms rising through blood and wave soaked dirt

one pushes up to choke my chest

with that smell, the smell of flesh

one is the rising pitching laugh of-

oh brothers

brothers brother brothers

you are the kingdom i am trying to build

you are you are you are—–

i am marching to you.

i am marching to you.

- Worth Fighting // N.A