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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In the depths of desolation where death is presiding in a smug kind of cocoon of parasite, lies, a heart of calcified care, buried deep inside a grim stalactite of unrequited tears. Apathy's icy grip holds tight holding back the meaning of your days and times and your spear. The battle standard needs to be plucked from the ground and dusted off as you take a good look around and get pissed off. No longer yielding, to be sold as unhappy meal toy a token for free and void. Imprisoning the soul in it's narrative wane, where prohibited to be an action again., reacting a core at the marrow decision. Warming the bones from a cone of cold that puts out the flame, that leaves you in the unskeletaled stasis of lifeless thing. But I, the poet, strive to break through the ice, to thaw the numbness, to ignite the value and advertise the price. With words as my tools, I try to chisel away at the disrepair therein the withered within. Of ideals that are a very real thing Archaeology of once was, unearthing the family, the preciousness within, the child, the husband the grin, the support of a wife, exposing them bare to strive agains against the stripes of strife. I summon the winds to gently erase, the erosion. Doth it go numb as a feeling betrayed? Dumped on your psyche like a season grayed. In your valley of dry bones. Apathy, shackles that bind the soul, and withhold the rains, in the infernal spirit of suppression possession that swallows you whole into a k-hole. Release the Kraken, among the gates and eddys and walls of drowning pool tides, release the floodgates, not the responsibilities of responsible Life. Feel the surge of passion, the rush of the fight, as hearts reawaken, yielding to the light. Spring forth, new life, integrity, cut those shackles away. Drop them to the ground like they were a filthy habit, habitation of the weary. Summon the good kind of pride that had nearly died. Feel the power of righteousness melt away the petrogenesis and glow you, grow you again, fertile inside. Since when does evil get special access, like the elitist, in your recessed- pockets. Let us call to arms, the alarm systems warmed, by pockets of resistance. Make them suck on that, red flag! Be aroused into the voice of your sensory charms, intuitively calling their bluff, make them answer for theiRspit and show where you come from, and put them in drag, before God puts them into the designing of their own, pit.
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