Don’t Be Mad

An instruction guide
Or tutorials displayed

Your predilection
For predicaments,
Valid against;
Hackneyed forbearances,
Corrupted balances,
Ridiculing statistics.

Whilst entertaining
Gritty whines,
Barred drunkards;
Efface their opponents,
Dismantle then restructure,
Adjust and adapt to rules.

Wielding a knife
Is the quickest way
To run.

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Without Her

Uniform directional velvet strokes
Of distracting idealistic sheen.
Velveteen faux pas fabrications
Eclectically tucked underneath
The gleaning unctioned pall
Of previously held beliefs,
Of Love’s imagined appearance,
Of Love’s supposed transfiguration,
Of doubtless felt patches,
Of thoughtless assurances,
Of windowless panes,
But really,
I know
I’d be okay
Without
Her.

Without reminders
I forget everything
Or so it seems.

Kings, Kibble

“Sixty thousand, the worth of what I produce
Sixty thousand – the value of the order, the pattern
In which I tap my fingers on the keys
A pattern that I taught myself

I sought to share this pattern
That others might benefit
But they’re too afraid

Staunch defenders of the viruses that kill them
Of inefficiencies, of nicotine breath and Netflix
Of selfies and the salve of satire that makes their living tragedy okay
Imps impressing imps, they’re still children

Anti-wrinkle cream, Gymshark TM leggings
Oats and kale, steady gains
ColourPop XXL Volume Lip Liner
The latest Yeezy sneakers, market retail $60,000
But still no personality

Sixty thousand
Is all my knowledge equal to a pair of shoes?

I built a rope bridge, stretched the fibers with bloodied palms
Across the ravine, from the land of beer and poisoned lotus petals
To this heaven-sent dimension
I built a bridge and welcomed them to pass
Yet they munch the petals, content,
Writing satires about the bridge I have made

Now, their bellies, full to bursting,
Distended and ugly, they fall silent
Fiery tongues tamed to trembling lip

Speak, they say, and we will now listen
And I stand, at the outer walls of my patience
Seething, fists clenched, tearing,
Demanding why they did not listen sooner

And I see their ragged bodies,
Their shriveled countenance,
Volumes sit inside my chest,
Tales of unseen wars, keys to unknown doors
I speak

And they nod
And they nod
And they smile
And they turn heel and head back again, petals-in-hand”

– My Angel.