There needs to be a category for prose.
Irate I view the world in pulsing hues of red.
Imbued with natural strength my wit developes an urge towards cynicism, wrough impossible circumstantially.
Death craves the living, despondent souls searching witlessly in the cold of loneliness and heartache. Dividens paid in full become the debt of the faithful, their trust as ill placed as mine. Time only nurtures the wicked. My every whisper to your ear is memory, indelibly portrayed as the evil believed slain parentally so many years ago. My banishment was ill-conceived. Perceived so incorrigible that focused efforts were never cast, I am the iron smelted but un-forged. Half-cooked raw potential for change. Rage, primally inherited after millenia of breeding permutations, retains that simplistic, brutal, eviscerative up-beat pulse which gives adrenaline the space to create havoc out of thin air. Despair not, value only diminishes with the tangible, and I am but the whispers of memory. I am but the spirit eternally attached to your mind, and at last, the nurturing of time has brough on an era to be mine.
Poetry by Phill
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Written on 2011-04-01 at 03:23
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Infinite steps led to a wrong conclusion, and now I slowly rise from the ashes of indescretion. Pausing, only for a breath, the scars of deceit stretch woefully and burn at the provocative bridges that connect cancer to healthy flesh. I dream of relief. Belief haunts the power within me, discouraging independance as though faith were a genocidal tyrant.Irate I view the world in pulsing hues of red.
Imbued with natural strength my wit developes an urge towards cynicism, wrough impossible circumstantially.
Death craves the living, despondent souls searching witlessly in the cold of loneliness and heartache. Dividens paid in full become the debt of the faithful, their trust as ill placed as mine. Time only nurtures the wicked. My every whisper to your ear is memory, indelibly portrayed as the evil believed slain parentally so many years ago. My banishment was ill-conceived. Perceived so incorrigible that focused efforts were never cast, I am the iron smelted but un-forged. Half-cooked raw potential for change. Rage, primally inherited after millenia of breeding permutations, retains that simplistic, brutal, eviscerative up-beat pulse which gives adrenaline the space to create havoc out of thin air. Despair not, value only diminishes with the tangible, and I am but the whispers of memory. I am but the spirit eternally attached to your mind, and at last, the nurturing of time has brough on an era to be mine.
Poetry by Phill
Read 672 times
Written on 2011-04-01 at 03:23
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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