untitled #7

Well it is not quite faith when you demand proof,
You know You,
so you know what I live to lose.

I was told about an idea of Truth,
a concept not too far removed,
To decide between the takings and the choose.

A simple thought,
triggered to amuse,
that I could live for me,
and not for You?

well now I forgot what is faith,
arrived just a bit too much just a lot too late,
how can I exist in this spate,
of gorish words and sounds,
And a churning mind to make.

The Divine Lie

words it seems,
are sometime given to me.
At the implosion of tangible bodies,
and at the expulsion of personal humane thought or notion,
a little rhyme takes over,
an immeasurable human poem -
that lends itself to that comforting, faithful ancient lie;
My Body is a Temple and not at all really Mine.

in progress #5

well you are not a tortured writer if you can't write,
you are just simply tortured.

its not fair on the dead.

you selfish fucker.
who here actually had the courage.

not.
you.

Search yourself some pride.
just a little anything
to show that you did try.

Shell

you are dead.
you died.
you murdered yourself.

and you know I comprehend
and am even thankful why,
but now falls the enduring effect
of us dull ones who are left -

what did you do.
I know it was thought through.

what this life
ruptures inside.

untitled #something

I was watching a documentary on alcoholism,
and it made me cry,
But
this drunk, right now,
I simply cannot seem to remember why.