Objective sent me a placeholder verse on the 30th in case he couldn’t post
Compacent Distrust
I think about "Helen", my lovely Helen of Wales,
that keeps me from death as heaven prevails...
But,
the mask is off. I laid it to the side for a minute
to give myself time to think. Pride quarantined it.
Eyeliner of ink stain sheets from crying this week,
I'm an artist that thinks:
"Don't look at him. He's denying he's weak."
Got a photographic memory. It's dramatic indeed...
I relive sensory turmoil to each archaic defeat.
This faux pas cynics ritual became a habit of self,
every lost path in it resemble my signage to Hell.
Listen when I say this. Sheesh...
I got a story I'm dying to tell:
At 12 I had
my first taste of cigs.
It was Prince from a stolen box with gold lettering.
The stick feathering between finger tips and sold better things
than festering grief overshadowed by mom's nihilist beliefs.
She died with conceit and cancer as a harlot brought from concrete,
we so-so believed our connection was wholesome and sweet.
My room was a lonesome retreat with moans from beneath,
groans, cries and scones toned my teeth
while they grinded to Tom Thum and beats.
With songs on repeat nicotine hit.
My escape was so wrong but simple and neat.
The door below slammed open...
Sore whore scammed, coping.
"No more", this hoe's hoping
cus her core dams' broken.
Walked inside my room with severed ties masked by clever lies,
asked if I was high. Sassy smiles wide, fast sighed then I replied past contrived
I'm tasked to stay alive with a savage-like mind that's damaged inside, I...
White face glaced her appearance, said I should stand up and fight.
... But, why?
At 27 I'm still pondering on a bed of discomfort.
Wondering if broken trust and money laundering lust
can pull myself forward.
Fuck, this drive isn't much.
But it's a sombering crutch to a following mush of bi-polar rush
to buy everything you need and keep your environments lush.
High scholars brush over nine dollar lunch and white collar brunch,
my night lights dim grey sky colored walls empty hearts wouldn't munch.
This soul isn't eating it either, it's defeating this eager
motivation for life to be simple and sweeter.
My situation of strife looking bleaker and bleaker,
my position is nice but equally bitter.
Each pill making my liver strain and then shiver,
even the posture looks healthy but weaker.
I glance to the side thinking this plight was what my mother was battling.
Heart torn from my chest, I move when addressed and passion is rattling.
Orange roses away from my view compose wimpers from lack of attention,
the gift from a business man don't deserve nurture, nor an ounce of a mention.
Butterflies dance to their trance of love this litter is supposed to protrude.
I'm hetero in nature, so his act approached me as evil and crude.
(I want them to die, too.)
Got a hair dresser that's smooth, but there's more to this life...
this story's nothing but secrets that's kept from my lovely wife.
I'm back in my room with a cig forming smoke signals form hand,
how can a child-like self live to be the man that I am?
