Suck It, Morning Rush

Today’s breakfast is Hotchix,
With spice and rice, so oiled and crisp
But there’s no lovely health, just a quick fix
Running on gut instincts
That bottled water will just swish.

My shoelaces unravel with telekinesis
That makes sense because of my raging
Which I threw out like garbage
But I took hold of that purple force
And said “Suck it, morning rush.”

I won’t skip away from the building
Even with no fire exit waiting
Because I still have more to learn
Like the many ways I can say “I love you”
Even while we’re stuck in a corner.

Even if this bracelet on my right wrist
Holds a bunch of roses always white,
With a crown of thorns, it’s still alike,
So I should bear it with humble breaths
So flow on, apologies and thanks.

Now let’s go take the next morning rush
And let it go suck all of our sun
While we beat it up with our loaded guts
‘Til it blows to send the light back up
So yeah, I’m back, my love.

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SIM PLAY

God the Father already knew how stubborn we were
Yet He sent His Son to live and die on dirty Earth.

I hear His simple call
To follow Him around
Yet when he BRRRRRINGS! my cross,
I’m hating leaning down.

I can’t change my number
‘Cause I don’t get His wares
Of Divine Tech Support
Which wants me fixed in here.

I do as the Pharisees do, calling myself good
But God, don’t let me hang like Judas Iscariot would.

Cynical Romance – or Why Love Sucks

Not as cynical as it seems, alright~ 😀

From A Clogged Mind

You know you’ve said it. More times than you care to admit. Even in marriage. Hey, we all go through it. No one is immune. Those who say they haven’t are lying, delusional or scared to face it.

But that’s ok. The trick is to get through to the other side. Cynicism doesn’t have to cloud the happiness that true love gives in return.

Here’s a poem to ponder when love sucks and you just don’t want to believe it.

Cynical Romance

Moira said to me

And in no uncertain terms

That she loved me

I was taken aback

I never had love

I mean

Love was glitter

Unicorns and BS

Yeah it’s a cynic rant

That’s just how I feel

Telling her I felt

The same way was

A sucker move

She’d leave anyway

Like most do

It’s in their nature

For people to tell you

what they want

You…

View original post 33 more words

The Empress and Her Guard

When I found a rose that knew her thorns,
I grew a garden rounder;
Thank her weedy floor.

No one liked to touch any part of her
Force she shimmered to shy,
Redness she murked and cried.

I hated her at first, and that was for certain
For roses were thorny and therefore broken.

Pieces rule the world, and she is its model
But then again, my theater’s in pieces yet made a prophet.

I became her guard because we are alike
And so I fink;
I still go to tinker.

“Empress” and “Praetor,” our “And dear” in titles–
I’ll root for this garden,
God, if good, please guard, then.

Surprise! is My Consciousness of the World

Surprise! is my consciouness of the world
Why I am here, O God, please tell me clear
Out of a womb, I choke on apple seeds
Although the skin nearer to what Eve bit
And I should say that, perhaps, You are like
A question that begs us all with a fork
But that would prove that You are above us
For even the sarcastic professor
You draw bits from for our vaccination
So I wish to have Your Eyes, if allowed
Or at least, Your Hand that pulls us well
Despite contrary claims made by captains
Who rag up and tuck themselves to show down
Us fellow fools who believe in one God.

Pride is a Gun I Point to My Temple

Pride is a gun I point to my temple
Or maybe metal that’s reforged through the ages.
It’s a forgery of desire with the Devil
Who can make it seem like the greatest aegis.
On its true master, it’s turned
And on its servants, it burns.
It makes humility seem like nothingness
By suicide that denies its existence.
It adds a “y” to the end of “craft”
And the Devil makes it lie fat,
Giving God a bad name
To the masses who give and take back.

Our Dirty Bread

A bunch of times, I joined a feast
That was popular among my fellow citizens.
It became something I didn’t want to miss
Because I hated having very few friends.
Their arms were on each other’s shoulders,
Behind their necks as they made a circle.
I joined in, thinking it was more productive
Than being on a pew and facing some pulpit.
The feast I was in was also like that
But it was more fun than those Masses…or so I thought then.
There were stories, and I could relate
For they were of youths who had been delayed.
There were songs, and I could sing
For we were fellows of the Bad Lock King.
There were dances too, and we were wild
For we thought being wilder meant being civilized.
And then there was the food, which was bread we seasoned
By throwing it at our enemies ’til they gained confusion.
When I ate them up, it was very sweet
Even though it was cold, grainy, and steeped.
All that had me coming back
And all that seemed like the best
But now, I feel like I want to vomit
As I try to leave this church of madness.

The Gun of My Face

The gun of my face
Does extrajudicial killings.
In their guns I hate
Are all the evidence I’m needing.
A strange switch for safe
Is what keeps them from firing.
With theirs seem the same,
All these bullets I’m sliding.
One barrel flows a cased
And everybody’s breaking.
Whose shot was it, hey?
All sights are now scrambling.
Gun safety, I fail
So my gun I’m muzzling.
Lessons, I should take,
Though your toting you’re loving.