Swallow the son
Shine
Your sin is not my shade
Fly
Ignited alive
On paper
This trauma mastery
is a dime bag of bull shake
Holy Shit!
For Fox sake
Your fragile egos
Eat sensationalized lies
For breakfast, lunch and Donner
Inglorious gluttony
Insatiable beasts
Running at break neck speed
A spectrum of death
Walking, talking paraplegics
Choking on grey matter
Prefrontal
Night mares
Galloping towards collective gallows
Burning truth speakers
On pitched forks
Pitching them down
Donut holes
Swallowed whole
Gallons of
Liquid poison
Consumptive predilections
Perversions of enlightenment
I can not stand
The it wits any longer
So from the flames
Pooling in my belly
By weeks end
And merciless
excruciating!
Day light
I burn bright
xo
Sunday night is a Ruth-less bitch. I just wanna go home.
Thy book people shall be my people and all my babies will be comprised of pages.
~
Born in Providence 
Hitting it on the nail does shift the oppression.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Does that make poets hammers?
LikeLike
When the needs be!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wow – such passionate, honest writing!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks M.B. Sunday nights seem to be when all my feelings come up and out. Thank god for the arts.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Right? 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
I read this top to bottom, then bottom to top. Brilliant both directions. The nightmares make it hard for me to stay awake.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you and sometimes, likewise.
LikeLiked by 1 person
And I love the painting.
LikeLiked by 1 person
❤️
LikeLike