son of cain
 

he's
unsorted. unabashed. formal with his emotions. unashamed. vulnerable worn as a sash on thunderous days. sport a badge of honor stained with the blood of cain. what's her name? love lost. lust loves to come in gangs. my father never asked if i'm ok. he told me he forgave me for what we brang. brought. sorry. when i'm in pain, my language crosses barriers all the same. rain forest. brain blots. lost in my badge of honor. should i say, i'm sorry? i'm not to blame.
fuck that motherfucker
fuck that motherfucker
fuck it. flames.
distraught and caught in daze. there's days i question, am i supposed to be gone? hoping to holy father that i'm totally wrong. rotary dial. noticeable drama. rusty robot. corrosion in armor. lunch with locusts. emotional trauma. bandages with no adhesive falling off of my stitches. i'm more then enraged, i'm sort of conflicted. sort of insane. hold me no longer. aborting the mission. there's holy ghosts that i pray too. prayers vanish. displaced. i read neitzsche and questioned myself. i read what she wrote me---- answer to questions dispelled. theres a wolf inside you, with a sheep in its teeth. what's yours will find you, and crush you to pieces. find your heart indiscreetly, whispering that i love you. distilled inner feelings. take a shot of me and consume. sometimes i want to be lowered inside a grave. mausoleum adventures. nausea and deflection. hardly seen. i surrender, any parts of me i dismember. i believe god isn't god if he's hiding his face. don't deny me my faith. close thy eyes then, sleep till forever. crying in shapes. not circles and ovals, more jagged edges and blades. that scrape down my cheek bones when they fall into place. tears become blood. blood becomes rage. it's what we sign our names in when we scream out our names. when I'm inside of you. inside of your brain. eye stare psychosomatic. why are we strange? lie there so damaged. why do you push me away when i just want to stay? why do i stay when there's blood on my face? a lion pawing away flys that nick at the scrapes. blood on my hands, nothing to say. asking if someone else wants to dance in my place. bach's chaconne, slow waltz into grace. i've had it to here. i've had it to space. satellite metal floating till it touches something to change. engaging in societal rituals just to escape. jupiter ring hula hoop interlaced. interlaced. "pale fire" on the coffee table as blade runner plays. hiking alone up olympus with a cain in my fist. never without format, never existed. a whisper so nuanced. edges affixed

Nietzsche? nigga u dislexick?fucc wit it

return feed plz

This medium's played the back burner. I've staved off the stow aways and rap fervor. Stayed off the road I paved in black journals. Paint thoughts in coded phrases that serve to sew the pace to match perfect. Stroll the maze. Wrap sermons in sultan capes. It's insulting. May my last words be half murmured and full of weight. My rock bottom's top's mossy. Go 'head and get comfy. Settled in to sediment. The sentiment's just breathe. Sentenced to sit with it. No sense interrupting. The premise is limits since we're just one being deceased in a blink, but think we're disrupting. Delusions of grandeur are human. Our ancestors and

i've had it to here. i've had it to space. satellite metal floating till it touches something to change. engaging in societal rituals just to escape.

dope

yo yalls tore it up.

Nice

i believe god isn't god if he's hiding his face. don't deny me my faith. close thy eyes then, sleep till forever. crying in shapes. not circles and ovals, more jagged edges and blades. that scrape down my cheek bones when they fall into place.

loved it. read it twice too, it was a cool ride

relatives wait. for something to develop in wake
cellophane and yellow tape protecting us vaguely, from
whatever we make intelligent then press into spaces
evangelical praise our matron saint rebellious phase, hail ye

We’re carved from constant bombardment of content. We’re targets
regardless of harm that it causes. Discarded. Just carbon. Despondent.
The martyrs. Marching in concert. Feet to the fire. Armed with the knowledge
of the fall we’re embarking. It’s part of the process. How long is this star lit?

This was sick, imagery for days...kudos.

Exhaustive catharsis. Thoughts become caustic.
I start to think, then I sink. Lost in the margins.
Haunted by posits. Daunting hypothesis.
The yellow king is telling me the crosses are sharpened.
A novice in blossom. A rose from manure.
Lick the bottom out the bottle. Under sobered influence.
The Joker. A loner. Moping through hubris.
The showman, imbued with social amusements
sewn to his two lips. Soul in a feud with
hope and it’s uses. Cold and abusive
to those who he chooses to open to. Suture
close where he’s wounded only to rue in
what’s old and been muted. An opus he’s losing.

Copious plumes of smoke in the room.
These existential issues are as loaded as you.
Soul the hue of soot cooked to soles of our spoons.
Cereal surreal. Smoke a bowl of Fruit Loops.
Inner child in denial. A photo of two
reflections reflecting. Both of them you.
The ghost of a clone. Throat in a noose.
In the mirror you kick the chair but don’t know from who.