Unspoken

It’s such a horrible loyalty that she has to her vice.
Such lovely destruction she carves through the skin.
It’s in her nature now, she doesn’t even think twice.
Her or it? The question lingers.
It… always wins.

She no longer feels its calming sting.
There’s no longer that pleasing pain.
She hears the angels as they sing.
Little rivers flow into her hands.
It has captured her, hollow shells remain.

It’s disgustingly beautiful you see,
no one sees the new prints of emotion.
She’s become addicted and would hate being freed.
Such a shame to watch her waste.
It’s just her deadly devotion.

Copyrighted.com Registered & Protected<br /><br />
56RR-FPCX-WOK4-QLSI

The Living Dead

Painting by Brian Zahn, Buffalo, NY
Painting by Brian Zahn, Buffalo, NY

I’m sick

to my stomach.

I just want to quit. I’m tired

of being told I can handle this.

I’m almost through but

I’ve broken down.

I keep looking

for that silver lined horizon

all I see is clouds.

You see the face that smiles

she’s fine,

if you really stepped inside you’d realize

my spirit has died.

I’m tired

of this act, life’s not a play

at the end

of the day all I can say is… I think I’ve gone insane.

Copyrighted.com Registered & Protected<br /><br /><br />
56RR-FPCX-WOK4-QLSI

Look Deeper

2014-06-08 13.24.18
Hiking in New York State, Zoar Valley

We are taught from birth, If you close your eyes to the wickedness,

you may find the world covered in silk.

But don’t ever look deeper, because you may find the truth too harsh to bare,

As they forever funnel pockets of gold into feeble channels of market fair.

These crystal tongues rest within flippant strangers, who weave a sweet fragrance,

just to steal the blood of earth.

Your mind is carried in waves, through a tube of pictures,

built on subjective subjugation and religious sacrament.

Oh sadness, the blanket of the tormented, the one who feeds the artist,

your song is heard through every steeple that

is filled with lies from men of cloth.

Oh sadness, gift your talons of purity into the flesh of the unabandoned eye,

because even in the light, truth scars us bitter.

The people weep, their tears are rivers and the palace is closed and silent.

The palace says we must satisfy the beast before the scraps can be left for the sheep.

They say submerge yourselves, in the crimson waters of negativity,

so bullets meeting target need no explanation.

Plastic soldiers that breed fanatic tricksters, eat willing of the dead,

that are quickly filed through this rusty train yard.

On and on the ticker ticks, for all the lines of the unmissed,

It’s disproportionate isn’t it, our kids, they who wallow in decay, homes taken away,

Bench sleeping, tent weeping, as they cut it away.

Don’t move, hands up, gunned down, for being brown.

Is this what the dream came to be?

It’s the divide, to conquer or to die, but not they.

In trust for the people, as long as you build a steeple or provide a checkout line.

Numbers upon numbers, an influx of credit for the sharks in the palace,

and they lock it away.

And rather than show love of your brother, or an acceptance of one another,

here upon the pavement, spikes are built, and the temple becomes the tormentor.

Yet, It just takes moments to rethink your assumptions,

education to defeat your illusions,

and acceptance to change your heart.

It is time to rethink the conformity, replant ingenuity, populate integrity,

and bypass the deformity of our society.