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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 8/11/12 ---------------------------------------------------------- There is a small soul within every crowd A soft voice against the senile bickering of the strong And the small souls wish they would listen Wish you would listen But the ears of the majority have been stuffed with pride The puffed up breads have come out of the oven And the oven closes on the non-finished They were never finished The masterpiece was torn They ripped off its horn as they lavished in greed Letting the soul bleed in the cruel wreck of silent despair As they laugh knowingly and unmercifully And I am left to listen to the blood trickling, groveling at my feet I am left to the weak—the strong The purified—the gone I do not want to ruin everything by mending As everyone is breaking I am bending And my throat is constricted The air has caught wind of a little soul’s voice Begging for acceptance. . .for love For an ear that isn’t breaded with self-indulgence Crusted in disgust. . .drooping the damned I am transformed into an image of a god For this poor, sweet, ignored soul Lies are his god. . .listen to my words And rot Listen as it constricts you—as I inflict you It is better if I had never existed I will not be worshipped in this prison! You are everything to me and nothing And the cursed breads rise Sweet scents pour into your flaring nostrils Watering my sunset eyes And you see me watch as they turn their minds away A guide towards lies and sticky debris You follow the path not caring where it leads Hearing the voices that refuse to clear their ears And that therefore blind them In worry and fear I caress your tear and swallow Your words like a vacuum The disposable bag is always empty with dirt Like a hearse I drive your body away My blackness flaring My horn honking As everyone is staring. . .not wanting to know what I am carrying inside
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