Seven Days of the Week

The days will run on by us

No eye-contact, single-file

Mile by mile they will pass us

All the while we try to connect

Try to talk to the days that pass

While our flesh wrinkles

And eyes turn to dust

Our bodies, Collasping to the ground

Into heaps of bones

All the seven days stand around us

Wondering where the time went

The Promised Land

I hope it’s like they said

That the land has the softness

Of a thousand beds

That each blade of grass

Holds a field

That the rain massages you

And that you never go hungry again

That the food springs up from the ground

At a stomachs grumble

The Fascist Pet

Meticulous planner with the soft heart

Well, a heart that was soft, but now, battered, calloused

Hands tiny and fingers wandering, wanting

Servile loyalty to his God

Someone has to lead

His face is better than mine

So it shall be him

He will be their God

But I have plans

I am the mechanical clockwork

Behind the face of God

That keeps this whole charade going

When the face rots away

The people will see what we really are

What we’ve done

I will be absolved, hopefully

Drunk Poem

I lose a little bit of my soul

Everytime I listen to it

Everytime it makes me feel something

The past tears away a part of me

Claims it forever

And I can never touch it again

The blank emotions watch

Trying to remember what it was like to feel

Because honest to God I don’t remember

It starts to worry me

So I try not to listen to the music I used to

To keep the fading feelings safe, locked up

 

I think I never truly felt anything

That I forced it

To match the music of this world

The rhythm