Long Self destruction Poems
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OF WARS AND THINGS…
(A TRILOGY OF PEACE)
I
The whole world is a war and we are its
Victims; you and me…us;
Fading silhouettes of life, chasing tomorrow
In euphoric bliss…
Riding high on a giant white cloud:
A mushroom nourishing on pregnancies
Giving birth to new world war ghosts.
Living today has be indefinitely postponed;
The world has declared war on peace.
II
In psalms of dreams, webbed in the labyrinth
Time spins; praying to the fertility gods,
I stole a hole in space and planted a flower;
Mourning peace amidst
The empty shadows of wars never won.
III
They say flowers don’t grow here anymore:
Earth’s womb a victim of nuclear pus;
And her tissues of civilization lay rotting
From atomic infestation;
Military plagues mutating shells of humanity
Freaked out on self destruction.
As peace suffocates at the conference table,
God is denied a seat.
I am the queen of self destruction.
Ritualistic Razor sharp scrutiny of my reflection -
constantly spewing hate at my mid-section,
whilst effortlessly faking the pursuit of perfection.
A crumbled up heart beckons restitution in the midst
of train-wrecked relationships,
ruinous friendships,
and crumbled up to do lists,
in white-knuckled fists.
The essence of happiness remains a mere mirage
for one who is an expert in self-sabotage.
With nothing but empty reminders sprayed out on a dreary collage,
it is exhausting living an ever consuming facade.
Procrastinated plans worship at my feet,
whilst brooding and bellowing as I hit snooze on repeat.
Impatiently my ambitions take a seat,
before wisely declaring undeniable defeat.
Daily my mind’s army assumes a familiar avoidant stance.
Love and hate engage, again, in a repetitive dance,
between an avoidant retreat and a stagnant advance.
It is clear: as long as I sit on the throne of
self-destruction,
for me… for being whole..
there will not be another chance..
When it gets like this
It always comes to that
All I've done is serve my obsessions
left with only one option
The question to be considered
Did I make a reservation?
Again I gambled with what
I couldn't afford to lose
Double downed against destiny
Showing a ten card up
It's a risky game to play
But such a painful pleasure
one more screw up
and I'll own the whole collection.
I'll sacrifice my pawn
nothing more to lose
The remedy for self loathing
is a lethal cure.
There's always a vacancy at the Last Resort
Home to irresistible misfortune all the comforts of self destruction are inclusive.
Miserable place to watch
my ego die.
the paint peeling off the walls
I can feel them closing in
My room has no windows
So I closed the curtains
I didn't want to see
what wasn't outside
A soul lost to infestation.
Those scars, a work of art drawn with a chainsaw.
Rise, gate to Hades.
Broken arrows lay upon collapsed ruins,
mile high trees covered with ash and snow.
Let yourself fall quietly asleep at the entrance.
Tombs of the ancestors tainted with silver tongues,
no more false prophets.
Blood and fire, rose color ruin.
Destroy these walls with your echoes
with those beautiful screams, break it, smash it apart.
Vete al diablo.
Self destruction?
So, that is how you’ve chosen to end this battle.
That is not beautiful.
This so called Hades you saw
is nothing compared to what I have gone through,
living in a world of complete utter darkness.
Sometimes I contemplate about my own self-destruction.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way this state has simply become a dreadful inevitability.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way my mind hums with a silence that scratches my soul.
I wonder if I am at fault for the visceral, undeniable pull that tugs at my sternum.
Fatigue.
It’s a conflictive concept.
It’s practical. It’s biological. It’s physical.
But for me, it’s the definition of my existence.
It’s the medical complications that pile up through my fingernails like tangled vines on a hanging tree.
It’s the pocket-sized triggers that push me back into a room with claw marks on the door.
It’s the way that no matter who I am, what I am, or where I am, I will always be a victim of exhaustion.
Not the sleepy, heavy-lidded homesick type.
But the invisible type.
The blood-itching need for evaporation.
The throat-clamping desire for combustion.
The tear-scarred plea for deterioration.
And I wonder if all I am meant to be is a hanging tree;
vexed by the vines of her own making and hung by the carvings of her own captivity.
Going back for just one more…
A drink, a pill, a thrill
Going back to discover the arousal
Flowing through arteries
Veins with a crimson flood
Of stirring compulsions
Complicating the silent thoughts
Of one who is hooked
On the drink, pill, thrill
The artificial joy that leads
A heart toward self-destruction
Going back for just one more…
Idea that fills the spirit
With a sort of feigned joy
Inspiring feelings of fake
Happiness that colors moments
In hues of ebony sorrow
Wicked pretenses brought to life
Amid lonely silence and fright
That lives within the one who
Listens to the synthetic ritual
Learned when the craving consumes
Going back for just one more..
Phony feeling of hope
Lingering on the haunted mind
Of one who heeds the impulse
Leading to using again and again
Taking all that the feeling gives
With a lingering ache for a chance
To loose the pain and sorrow
Within the false stimulation
Of a drink, a pill – a thrill
That leaves you yearning for
Just one more!
It is the one fear I have never experienced,
And I would not wish it on anybody,
As once embraced,
There is no escape,
With harm to others and ultimate self-destruction,
Always the end result.
This fear grows stronger every day,
It feeds off any negative thoughts,
And seeks out any feelings of guilt,
To grow even stronger.
To fear being Human,
Must bring to those infected unimaginable pain,
With no kind wishes in sight.
How can we lesson its impact,
When lines between what is real and what is not,
Are constantly getting blurred,
And only our bad deeds being carried on the news.
Maybe, just maybe the Power of words like,
Hope, Love, community, friendship will get us past the fear,
But for that we need poetry,
And lots of it,
So, get busy and don't be shy,
The sky is the limit,
Once your hidden talent is let loose on the world.
I sit, my back against the black.
My thoughts a jumbled supplejack,
a wanna-be amnesiac.
Oh, autumn leaves a fluster,
the winds in tipsy bluster.
I’m weightless as I drift away
on whiskey wings, a moth astray.
My grief in ashtray where I pray.
The equinox is tilted,
my wispy body wilted
and in my stupor do I dream?
Are clouds I seek a false redeem
as sunrise bleeds through jagged seam?
Damn seraphim and serpents
and fantasy disturbance!
I keep my secrets like a sphinx,
my insight an elusive lynx
…a widow with a hard drink jinx.
Yet soul, a black-eyed-Susan,
still blooms in bruised seclusion.
Dawn’s dapple-gold flint-glints like stones.
As hard on eyes as nightmare crones
who rattled empty bottle bones. .
As half-light scries the mirror,
my pulse does bring me nearer
to burning on the altar of the sun,
my moonshine valentine…
Please answer this simple question
Why don't people learn their lesson
From the past hatred and violence
We need to put an end and silence
To the bullying we cause
Its on our hearts--mine and yours
Lets pull it out from the dark pit
where it used to be so lit
With love, kindness, understanding
Instead of the place we've been landing
On a road to self destruction
That could use some love construction
If we all opened our minds
It would be easy to find
There's so much we all can fix
One by one, and brick by brick
Making a wall to keep out
The brutal hatred that we shout
Using our hands instead of words
That can be painfully heard
Let's all keep our future safe
Giving us all a great place
To live in harmony and peace
Little by little we'll decrease
The bad sorrow that's been growing
Keeping a new love light glowing
The dark side’s very nature is self-destruction,
Bringing pain to all, a dangerous seduction.
It spreads its madness, twisting mind and soul,
Yet it’s addictive, taking its toll.
The longer one lingers in its dark embrace,
The harder it is to leave that place.
Though they know it brings them pain,
They too must share in some of the blame.
But why do some turn toward its call?
Are some just born to watch themselves fall?
Not born to the dark, but drawn to its might,
Through circumstance or an affinity’s fight.
They refuse to judge those caught in despair,
For they know the weight they bear.
In the bleakest moments, it feels so near,
As if falling to it is the only way clear.