In the house where I grew, I listened,
I loved. no wrong could come about me,
...
What is a man to do if his dreams are at war?
If that which he loves, will kill that which he adores?
...
My sleep evades me now, it claws at the corners,
Of my vision; seeps slowly into the mind's eye.
I fear, you see, that my sleep is not mine,
To keep; that in the darkness, it has gone awry.
...
Ice cream van, parked, at the end of the street,
A giant whippy stood on top. two duck feet,
...
These mountains of mine, made into molehills,
Before the breadth of our lives.
...
This is torture, when you make me talk first,
Plain and simple. not with pliers, knives,
...
Speech is not for the right, nor the free.
It hold nothing but a fine and a fee.
...
A single crumpled leaf,
Folds itself along the stones,
That are paved beneath my feet.
As this concrete wasteland,
...
A first-rate, half-arsed poet. Trying to create the odd sprawl of words that may just mean something, to someone, somewhere, somehow. I am engaged with very little of what my surroundings consist of, preferring to gaze inwards; some may consider this selfish, or egotistical, I probably won't notice, so neither will I mind. Political and religious dis-affinity. My opinions are not mine but that of my brain, I merely have poor impulse control. Kind regards, R. C.)
Irony.
I wonder how they justify,
Their feeble, pious lies,
When all to which they hold is faith,
In a belief that strives to find,
Fault in faith of fate.