Testing Creativity​

Dear World

Please Kill Me,

Hello, all of you essentially amalgamated (arm and hammers?) No….Associates. How goes your weekend?  Mine, is starting off with a FUCKING –  BANG! Loans, work, Trump, LIFE…You know what? FUCK IT! Let’s burn some material here……

*chugs beer*

Flip Flops & Guillotines

(A Poetry Collection)

By: Antwan Crump


  1.                                              The Weary Traveller                                                      
  2. The Drummer                                                                                                          32. T-Theory                  
  3. White Knight                                                                                                            33. Dreams
  4. Chapel                                                                                                                     34. Root
  5. Mother                                                                                                             35. Beauty
  6. Thunder                                                                                           36. Wage the War
  7. Social Suicide                                                                                      37. River
  8. She                                                                                                38. Gloria
  9. Time                                                                                        39. Hell
  10. Is it Not                                                                         40. Present
  11. Zeitgeist                                                                       41. Vodka
  12. Save the Roses                                               42. These Hands
  13. Bar-Fly                                                                  43. The Pill
  14. The Writer                              45. The Wind Cries for Me
  15. Intermission                                       46. Dance Together
  16. Faith on Board                                           47. Love Beat
  17. Degenerate                                              48. Pieces Broken
  18. Children                                                                 49. Insanity
  19. Hub of Infidelity                                  50. I Want You to See the Fire
  20. Bottle                                                                                  51. Marriage
  21. Painter                                                                      52. Who Could Care
  22. It Came for Me                                                                         53. Screens
  23. Forget Me Not                                                         54. Intermission (Cont’d)
  24. Grave of it All                                                                           55. Just Thought
  25. The Wall                                                                                               56. Nature
  26. I Don’t Smoke Anymore                                                                            57. None
  27. I Don’t Smoke Anymore (Pt. 2)                                                                 58. Duality
  28. Vitam Mortem                                                                                             59. Balance
  29. Bum Change                                                                                                           60. Rule
  1. Sleep


Weary Traveller


Beware the weary traveler.

His sunburned brow, it tells a tale,

of life too long, lived and gone.

His teeth they brown as minutes pass,

his smile insincere.

His back it angles over,

from the labor of the years,

his hands they shake fiercely,

from his age and wiping tears.

His eyes are readily strained,

meeting wrinkles round his ears.

Beware the weary traveler,

trust not his favors, nor his speech.

For if one fact does hold,

it isn’t peace his journey seeks.

Beware the lowly traveller,

to other lives he’s unattached.

for as your world begins to burn,

the traveler innately packs.


The Drummer


May we please make room for the drummer?

His incessant banging clings to souls,

deftly maneuvering options.

We watch him in awe, and with a tad of envy.

Our leers go unnoticed as he scours the sounds.


May we please make room for the drummer?

What has become of us?

Hatred in a dream,we don’t harbour the passion.

Lost in life, every strum is a calling for action,

whilst we remain inactive.


May we please make room for the drummer!

They come for him at a steadier pace than he,

plays and knows not, of his imminent faults,

unaware of his battle, nor its’ heinous results.

The notes he strums, repeating as his energy sulks.


May we please make room for the drummer!

He knows not of death, only the pulsating.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Forgive him preacher, he knew not what he did,

Too often forgotten, we just buried a kid.


So may we please make room for the Drummer?


White Knight


They hate the opinions of the many,

they hate that they are the few,

this paradigm not lost upon them,

their hatred blooms to spew.


They hate the pitter pat of thought,

they hate our absent gaze,

this paradigm not lost upon them,

they quickly built the maze.


They hate the color of our souls,

they hate, they can’t express,

this paradigm not lost upon them,

they traded chains for checks.


They hate the freedom love beholds,

they hate their supposed burden,

this paradigm not lost upon them,

they took lovers and burned them.


They hate what dwells between your thighs,

they hate, they don’t control it,

this paradigm not lost upon them,

they gave you sex and stole it.


They hate the ones that made them,

more so the ones they’ve made,

this paradigm not lost upon them,

they lectured as we prayed.


They hate that they feel power,

they hate it’s less than ours,

this paradigm not lost upon them,

they rediscovered Mars.




Who am I, if not a Chapel?


Does the spirit, not dwell in me?

For my many questions,

and forgotten answers,

there is but one worth knowing.


Who am I, if not a Chapel?


Do my feet not trudge the ground?

Are my roots not so embedded,

that my core is void of sound,

quelling the descent.


Who am I, if not a Chapel?


Does a passersby not ask?

As the subtle psalms and hymns,

project into the streets and crash,

soaking puddles rise from ash.


Who am I, if not a Chapel?


Will my faith yet be unhinged?

No not in the god you seek,

however, life begins in sin,

awaiting our repentance.


Who am I if not a Chapel?


Could the query be more clear?

Even with responding ponderance,

befallen on deaf ears.

Must be another chapel.


Who Are We if Not a Chapel?




Go Now Mother. Your Boy Is Grown.


Fear not the complexion of the mostly absent nigger-dom.

They’ve seen it and revealed a liking, you taught me not to yield.


Fear not, the slang I’ve spoken, simply to fit in with the shade.

They’ve seen my dual nature and met it with universal praise.


Fear not my love of music, nor reaction to the bass.

They’ve seen my symmetry and played those songs to start each day.


Fear not my brazen wit, nor my annoyance with some peers.

They’ve heard my damning declaration, I trounce them every year.


Fear not my lust for money, nor the ways I choose to spend.

They’ve seen my wise investments, and I now invest for them.


Fear not my hate of past, nor my lack of care for future.

They’ve seen my present action and regard me more than you could.


I love you Mother dearest, you can tout this cloth you’ve sewn.

So rest assured I’ll be okay.


Go Now. Your Boy is Grown.






procuring my

everlasting fear,

unendingly thrashing

my hopes and dreams

you thrash without cause,

begging you to stop I recede.


It couldn’t be this way no not forever,

this burning sky this cur-sed weather,

devastate what, which I once knew,

I know not much, I seek no clue,

stop this blasted noise in trice,

for silence I exchange my life,

just bury me above the rain,

bury, me while I’m insane,

no I can’t negotiate,

I’m fading faster,

it’s too late for

procuring my




Social Suicide


It’s this thing,

This damned thing;

Pulsating through my forlorn psyche,

Watching me, a warning really.

It’s so hard not to listen.


This thing,

this damned voice;

It wants my life, I know it.

Grasping at the heels of my soul.


It’s so hard not to listen.


This thing, my damned own,

Scratching at my skin;

It wants my dreams,

I embrace the night

And now it seeks my nightmares.

It’s so hard not to listen.


It’s this, what does it want?

My emptiness is bound,

I’m left with nothing,

Not a life, emotion, nor sound,

It’s so hard not to listen.


This thing this damned thing,

It’s me, alone despised, I guess.

So if this only thing is me,

Revenge will come with





She stood atop a mountain of her own making.

Waiting for the jump she wondered how the world spun.


Would it be on the dreams that had so often failed,

or on the abortion of her sons.

What wonders life would hold,

beyond the blanket of regret.

The tears they ran profusely,

the sun began to set.


What wonders the world held,

so much promise in creation,

from ashes rise a phoenix,

from love, infatuation.

The memories they haunt her,

broken life she could not bare,

she touched her tummy gently,

she took a breath of air.


What wonders life would hold,

for you; yet to be she thought.

She tied a noose around her neck,

and prayed it remain taut.

She couldn’t take the pain,

spurned by the one she loved.

She knew her soul was damned,

yet begged her child’s rise above.


She swung beside a mountain of her own making.

After the jump she witnessed the world spin.




Interesting, what we deem worthy;

of a single moment, a moment;

that will never return.


They insist life is short;

yet they waste time tell,

what hypocrites do with freedom.


It’s clear there is a finality,

that much of the lesson has crossed;

However, I am a student of the infinite.



lest ye’ be doubted!

Judge if you may dare.


Enjoy the dirt,

or join me,

eternally delude.


Devoid of sanity,

devoid of death,

or rather truth.


Is It Not?



Is it not?

The whirling, twirling of it all slanted.

Depth, defying hope, defining fear.

Have you heard the angels cry?

Their wispy weeps, seep into my own eye.

They’re dry.



Is it not?

The long standing truce of hell and earth,

Broken with a bond of misunderstanding.

Its ruptured veins spewing violently on to nothing.

Spraying evenly on my porous skin,




Is it not?

The bubbling, bubbling, burning sensation.

A fetus severed from the womb before full maturation.

Thrust out of a world, and into creation.

Swallowed whole by the darkness.




Is it not?




Are we slave to the zeitgeist?

Do our modern thoughts ooze

with the relentless law of now?

Are our feelings manufactured,

is our spirit cursed to bow?


Are we slave to the zeitgeist?

Do we hate because of prejudice,

or is it simply your turn,

are goals just repetition,

or maybe dreams we haven’t earned?


Are we slave to the zeitgeist?

Is our common disconnect a flaw,

or factory built discretion?

Ideas a flow of genius,

or the walls of which to reckon?


Are we slave to the zeitgeist?

Typing vividly, on screens,

such shallow waters.

What is to fear of pen and pad,

what are the reasons that you taught us?


Are you slave to the zeitgeist?

You uphold its every whim.

We’ve redefined the weak,

Yet still refer to strong as him,

but could his evil ways explain away my wretched sin?


Are you cause for the standard,

conforming to well-mannered,

are my mannerisms up to you,

is freedom too heavy handed?


I question the zeitgeist,

how could that be cause for fear,

we correct on its’ behalf,

we are the half that isn’t here.


So what more for the zeitgeist?

are you not insulted still?

you’re numb inside with follows,

when did Tweets become the pill?


We argue for the zeitgeist.

Yes we need to retain order,

but what of flowing naturally?

We’re merely waterboarded.


Are you part of the zeitgeist?

Let me know before it kills you,

yes your picture stills are beautiful,

you’re absent, are you still you?


Too aware of the zeitgeist,

the limits that it’s caused,

we used to smoke fags gayly,

happy cigs now call for pause?


I’m too scared of the zeitgeist.

What it’s done to ruin me,

for simply speaking up it declares,

only damned are free.


So I’m a slave to the zeitgeist,

not because I choose to be,

the definition of a slave,

at least not slave to me.


Save the Roses


Save the roses for the buried;

Let them wait for their demise before we praise them.

Would they not do the same, should they’ve had the chance?


Save the roses for the buried;

We can not, and shall not tolerate over-confidence;

However allow them the sacrament of admiration, if they so deserve.


Save the roses for the buried;

Let them wilt damn you! Should they choose to never die.

We keep these roses close, til’ maggots eat all that we can recognize.


Save the roses for the buried;

And let their spirit witness all we should of told,

While they still remained with breath, before their heart had turn to mold.




We bleed the thickened DNA of people not of us.

We drink the tears of earthly pleasures,

bound by sudden drunk.

Allow sobriety to slip our not so gentle bonds,

Belief that every shot will carry us to be abscond.

Our mistress is the prayer we say in secret, not to tell,

behind our shallow masks we dwell,

for heaven finding hell.

Our Peter Pan-like optimism, shadows our regret,

and we question every day what strength this may beget.

Our lies. Our lies, we tell ourselves,

yet claim to kill to find the truth.

The battle that we’ve courted,

never won, we beg for truce.

And all once it’s over, life is lost, the one we knew.

The poison has our ever-shattered minds,

absorbed in sudden due.

The debt that we’ve accrued, its interest, more than we can give.

With this light, we found demise,

but we forgot to live.


The Writer


































Faith on Board


“Faith on board!”

said the Jew to the atheist, as he rolled his eyes.

“What faith is such?” the heathen asked,

“In God!” the Jew replied.


“Faith on board!”

said the Christian to the atheist, as he sucked his teeth.

“What faith is such?” the skeptic asked,

“Jesus!” he said with glee.


“Faith on board!”

said the Muslim to the atheist, as he bent his brow.

“What faith is such?” the doubter asked,

“Allah!” he screamed, then bowed.


“Faith on board!”

said the Buddhist to the atheist, as he drift in thought.

“What faith is such?” the pagan asked,

“Rebirth!” that’s all he sought.


“Faith on board!”

said the homeless to the atheist, as he did give mind.

“What faith is such?” intently asked, he replied,

“You all be kind.”




His pension was dry,

he was never one to save,

ironically though he courts death,

he’s too young to collect on his 401k.

So many years wasted working for the town,

he had committed, to garbage,

throwing it and tossing it around.

The years on the truck had worn his back,

he refuses the lower dose of Xanax, his

doctor recommended, it simply doesn’t rid the pain.

Eight years to go, before his checks,

come surfing through his mailbox.

“What to do until then” he thinks to himself everyday.

His smell had drove away his wife,

his friends had also followed suit.

He steals from the bodegas,

when he’s caught, the swears to sue,

and never does.

Too young for the attention,

too old for anyone to care,

he waits for death to come a knockin’

with every new grey hair.

Effin loser.




I’d watch how you speak to children.

Their shallow minds, absorb quite well.

Though it may not mean to you,

to them it’s heaven or it’s hell.


I’d watch how you speak to children.

Their clarity is foggy yet potent.

Though it may not mean to you,

it leaves them stable or just broken.


Hub of Infidelity


We meet here, we’ve met this before.

Into your eyes I see you’re insecure.

Weep not my sullen angel,

as I wipe them from your cheek,

this love of ours is much too strong,

to back pedal our passion would be worse.


They don’t have to know the times we meet,

nor what we’ve spoken of.

For as of now we’ve done nothing to report.

It will happen, no one survives a heart split in two,

nor misses the beat of pulsing appendages.

Weep not my sullen angel.


Perhaps this sin is earned, what we’d missed another life.

Would you leave if love would let you,

or would you stay the night? Stay the night.

Too late for the regret, or remnants of what could have,

Stay with me in the moment, think of them not,

while we lay as man and woman, despite our independent promises.




You meet it at an age

when sight and sound are hard to grasp.

You continue through puberty

we’d sip and than we’d laugh

High school becomes a chore,

for the boring or the scholars.

But sip a swig of this

watch as the boredom finds you power.

You sip and sip again until it’s time to graduate.

Diploma, center stage, vomit, you forgot to eat.

With college it’s accepted,

excuse the boorish behavior.

A few more years of this

will turn what’s urgent into later.

No time for future planning,

too busy being elated.

An elder passes by, and warns

the good feelings are made up.

The moneys running low

it’s time to make a bad decision.

To rob and rob again for the bottle, singular mission.

The cops say sudden “freeze”,

as the liquor exclaims to run.

A shot into the spine,

you’re more concerned about the rum.

You were forced to part with it at an age,

when sight and sound were hard to grasp.




Who dares disturb the painter!

This whittled brush cares not for interruption,

sit still and bask in the lines I’ve not painted,

it’s painful, is it not?


Who dares disturb the painter!

My staggered muse is waning as you whine,

move forth if you shalt not approve the divine,

this wine is timelessly stroked, imposed, eternal.


Who dares disturb the painter!

Would you cease that insidious knock, birth is taking place,

can’t you feel it, can you not see it?

poor be the blind who refuse to listen.


Who dares disturb the painter!

Trust in this truth that I present, stand and ovate, you malcontent,

little heathen! This is God! This is you! This is me! Can you not see?

Who dares disturb the painter?

The painting.


It Came for Me


It came for me just as dusk approached,

its hallowed eyes watched diligently as I pondered about,

hoping, thinking, waiting, breathing.

It cared not of my sins,

nor of my mean deceitful ways.

It cared not for my narcissistic,

longing for more praise.

It watched as I fed, an endless feast,

more so than what required.

It leered and licked its lips,

I felt its monstrous desire.

Awaiting its’ attack I strained,

peered into its’ soul

staring back at me I knew,

to hell where we must go.

I simply couldn’t take the wait,

with poison I released.

It brought me back from depths of flame,

I screamed “do you not cook your feast!”

A silent stir had overtook,

the night had fallen true,

With hate I staggered off to sleep,

then the demon followed through.


Forget Me Not


Forget me not, as I have forgotten many.

Through false promises of memorium,

I scoffed at their intent.

Now in the presence of demise mine own,

I fear I’ve not queried enough.


Who will remember me?


Forget me not, my sullen ways,

my filthy mind, my lustful gaze,

aggressive searching for the truth,

the damning nature of my sleuth,

the many children I’ve brushed off,

the elderly, I mocked the coughs,

sickened ways the world perceived,

planning death, my dreams conceived,

this evil, won’t give cause to grieve,

and yet I plead,

and yet I plead.


There must be one, remember me.


Forget me not, as I have forgotten many

Though promises of memorium, I have left unfulfilled,

surely I have left a legacy worth repeating.

Do not scoff at my intent,

nor my mortal determination,

simply promise you’ll remember it.


Grave of it All


Pray for the dead.

Pray for the dead.

Pray for the dead.


Is it god, or some other,

that forces this tribunal,

false promise, phoney funeral,

haven’t we all been given.



Pray for the dead.

Pray for the dead.

Pray for the dead.


In the ground they rot,

as their memories fade,

with their once youthful skin,

now lost to us, the ending.



Pray for the dead.

Pray for the dead.

Pray for the dead.


In essence it’s a prayer for us,

as well as those before,

in theory, every prayer,

is self aggrandizing, internal.



Pray for the dead.

Pray for the dead.

Pray for the dead.


The Wall


The creases of the barrier defy me to break them.

They taunt me with endless glee,

each brick a mockery of my own fragility.


I weep not, for tears are what the stone of heart seeks.

The woolen soul however, is reliably to comforting,

to fear recourse more than the silent mockery of the wall.


I scale its’ sharp terrain, as the blood drips to my chin,

I think of hopeful heights, and yet the wall she whispers “sin”.

The depth it mounts beyond my fears, and all that’s left is me.


My worst enemy, a foe, a hated rival, the wall knows.

It knows not of me, yet of man and it’s attempts upon it.

Upon the wretched top, my lacerations heal, as I peer beyond.


The wall, the wall, it knew, that it could not defeat me.

Yet should it bide its time, I would inevitably defeat myself,

should I not be worthy, as the many that have scaled before.


I Don’t Smoke; Anymore


No. No. I don’t smoke; anymore.


I had, but I had to quit,

the coughing was just too much,

and the money, oh the money

spent was just too much,

and the time, oh the time   

spent was just too much.


No. No. I don’t smoke; anymore.


Certainly I had, but cease I did,

despite the menthol kiss,

and burning cotton round my lips,

my gums they’ve blackened, coal-like,

the women aren’t fans of such you see,

and those who are, should not be trusted.


No. No. I don’t smoke; anymore.


Yes I did partake, but refrain I do,

the clarity, oh the clarity, is worth nearly

a thousand of these withdrawals.

the heavy sweats, the bleeding gums,

did I mention petty quarrels?

The life of an addict reformed, I’d highly recommend.


No. No. I don’t smoke; anymore.


Indeed I inhaled, but ex-habit that is.

the wisdom, oh the wisdom gained,

from facing my mortality, a cancerous demise

awaited me, now it does not, at least less so.

Anxiety, pish posh, my sobriety prevents it,

who cares of rancid smokers breath and the like.


I Don’t Smoke, Anymore (Part 2)


No. No. I don’t smoke; anymore.


A slave now to none but time, and in

my newfound freedom, I am a changed, nay

better person, no more lurking in the dark for me,

the whole world now sees my yellow teeth,

and when I tell them I refrain, they simply

conclude “gingivitis stains”.

A yuck-mouth decreed, at least I’m freed,

so many hours, life retrieved,

a sentence or two, too long and heard

of friends exchanging sullen words,

hateful verbs, they seem so tense,

I use my own, thoughts seem too dense,

from years of meditating puffs,

and now the mad, contentious, huffs,

is this the life of more I want?

I want to smoke!

I hate this font!

I hate this screen!

I hate this poem!

I need some air,

but there, the smokers roam.

Never care, I need escape,

I join the pack, my heart does race,

breathing in my body calms,

so does my mind, the end of qualms,

the boys they laugh, at my reprieve,

yet they feel bad and offer me,

a single smoke, I can adore.

The glee my lungs were longing for,

I broke in two, temptations door,

Then with pride I did implore,


No. No. I don’t smoke; anymore.


Vitam Mortem


Endless though the times may seem,

it is this youthful naivety

where eternity does truly exist,

fear not the hand of death,

this imminent end only strengthens our joy.


Believe not the rotting corpse,

nor the maggots therein,

it simply represents an existence well lived,

an existence completed is the greatest joy,

for us the living ghosts of the milky way.


Play the symphony of life with every breathe,

and live to die every day until you succeed,

for that is the life that will be envied,

the ooze from which your youthful

naivety had been spawned,

Only to return, accomplished.




Give me my exact change!

Don’t dally young man,

Don’t dally!

You’ve a train to catch,

have you not heard the news?


Give me my exact change!

Don’t wane young lass,

Don’t wane!

Take heed of yourself,

have you not heard the news?


Give me my exact change!

With speed dapper Sir,

With speed!

Time is of the utmost imperative,

have you not heard the news?


Give me my exact change!

With care dear Madam,

With care!

Cumbersome digits are for the flawed,

have you not heard the news?


Give me my exact change!

And proper living quarters.




The thing

that thoroughly

titillates those

theoretical thinkers;

though talented,

this tends to throw

them thrashing

through their

tried theories,

too threatened,

then tainted,

to take






A child once asked,

what of dreams?

Well dreams are tears of the soul,

clamouring endlessly to reach the surface,

and then to become your goals.


The child then asked,

well what of bad ones?

Curious that he should ask,

the bad dreams are fears, growing into strength,

so in dark times one shouldn’t crash.


The child proceeded,

“If I do not dream, does that me mean or crude.”

No dear boy, no not at all,

it means your dreams,

are coming true.




Deeply rooted is the flower,

whose seed was rightly planted

whose mound was attended just so

with space allowed nature’s faults.


Sprout true does the stalk,

who’s allowed to lean just so

whose new petals sing along

with the winds changing breeze.


Grow steady do the branches,

which extend past its infancy

whose sturdy new kin

grow from them in kind.


So high is the tree,

whose grown callous to the wind,

though its’ beauty still sways,

as it’s never forgotten its’ beginning.




In the face of beauty,

the unkind become mute

the evil now neutral,

and the hateful less potent.


In the face of beauty,

the frugal are giving,

the thieves are repentant

the sinners regretful.


In the face of beauty,

the liars aren’t heard,

the obscene justly proper,

the corrupt now straight arrow.


What is beauty?

What it does.


Wage the War


Wage. Wage the war.


Against your just dissenters.

Against their reality.

Against the oppression of thought.

Against your nightmares.


Wage. Wage the war,


Against what you can not do.

Against what you can.

Against what is said.

Against what is heard.



Wage the war.




The river runs deep

with the blood of the forgotten.

And atop ride the waves

of those who have forgotten them.




I followed her one rainy night,

for in her form I was enticed,

a beauty one should never know,

A gorgeous muse from sky to road.


She sang, sang of glory.


She may of noticed me a bit,

those lengthy alleys, barely lit,

I hid behind a wall of stone,

my angel shouldn’t travel lone.


She sang, sang of glory.


Her pace did quicken, as did mine,

Her breathy air, had panics sign,

Her heels they clicked,

until they broke.


She sang, sang of glory.


Let me help you up my dear,

her hands they shook,

her eyes they teared,

“Don’t fear me love” I said sincere.


We sang, sang of glory.




In the middle of the ocean,

silence may be the most deafening sound.

The constant crashing of the waves, becomes

a wretched white noise.

Fear is simply a passing fancy,

one would hope to feel fear,

replacing that is this surmounting,

and immense loneliness.

Not a day goes by, where I don’t pray;

a wave will cast me over.

Perhaps if only my body made it ashore,

my soul would feel some reprieve.

I’ve forgotten what my life was,

I often lean aside this slab of wood,

and try to lose my name as well,

but it is often all I can remember.

I think this used to be a door.



It’s hard to be here with you,

I mean here and now.

Even as we speak my mind wanders,

from what was and what could.

I want to be with you, truly

I do. But I can’t fight this

calling, calling me.


It’s hard to be here, with you.

I wish I could say it wasn’t.

Even as we converse,

I traverse the plains

in mine own; Existence.

Perhaps if I ponder it long enough,

I will discover some moral fallacy.


It’s hard to be, here with you

I fear I can’t, but I promise

in my mind before,

I was with you all the time.

The shame of life undone before

it had a chance to live, if I could

be here now; Then, is the present

I would give.




Oh luscious vodka,

you tempting muse,

my vice of choice,

my clever bruise,

you burn so well

so Absolut.

Three drinks

Three Olives.

I love the Goose!


In painful times

you make me grin

in sadder more

you help me sin,

where would I be

if not for you?

Some Madoff type,

some pudgy tool?

Some pesterous Pa,

indentured fool.

Slave to choice.


No! Slave to you.


These Hands


As I lay in these hands,

these hands that have

weathered, plans

I had made stand

untested, simply theory.


These fingers have made

promises, palms of promises.

Is it that they are not brave,

or their master unwilling?



As I lay in these hands,

these alchemists attached,

I think of the taps,

what I’ve built,

what I’ve done to take it back.


These paws of mine are

troubled, idle playthings

for the devil, an angel’s cry

could moisten eyes,

while these hands,

applaud the puddle.


The Pill


Speak to me God!

Does this night not reek

of brittle bones

a shallow will

a hastened soul?

This heart not cry

for everlasting,

peace on earth

or just in passing.

Death defies our

mortal bonds

for hatred spreads

beyond our arms,

look at your priests

see what they do,

where have they

led your people too.

These children now

are starved and raped,

still as adults

they can’t escape!

The bombs!. The bombs!

they claim defense,

if they explode,

our species ends.

The pills! The pills!

They have us drugged,

one tablet kills,

the others numb.

What is this now;

what we’ve become,

when strong is weak

and weak is dumb,

this world evolved

to deaf and blind,

at worst they drug

to give us time,

time and time, again


I’m Atheist

and begging you

to show them all

there’s more than pills

there is no drug for willing;



The Wind, Cries for Me


The wind she sings to me,

in unmatched pitch with grace,

she calls to proclaim her love

as my skin quivers at the message.

She knows my faults,

she’s seen them

yet to her they mean nothing,

my presence is all she desires,

lustfully hailing my name.

What luck of a man

I must possess, for such

adequate attention,

undeserving I run,

thinking she meant to choose another.

She is not often wrong,

this time is proof of that,

as she carries me beyond my sprint,

encouraging me to fly.

In her most treacherous of outbursts,

do not fear, for you are safe

for the wind, she cries for me.


Dance Together


Rest in the glory that fate has brought us to this moment.

Sinners, in kind on a mission to immortality.

As Ying and Yang must dance as one,

this song desires our accord,

in infinitely grand symmetry, we must dance, together.


The steps we’ve never learned,

await us to teach them their direction,

such an honor should cater anxiety,

I know you don’t feel it either.

so take my hand, I’ll take yours, we must dance, together.


Love, Beat


Could this love, beat my addiction,

and evolve into ours

as we pioneer into the unknown?


Could it steal away the aches and pain,

that withdrawal is want to thrash upon us?

Are you my answer and my cure?


Could this love beat my addiction,

or will I overdose before there’s time?

I’m not yet ready to leave it behind.


Could it misdirect my past desires,

things I’d tried to erase, with absence?

You must be capable of making me quit, at once.


Could you forgive my constant, battle,

will you stick by me through this internal war?

I’m almost convinced to die from this is noble.


Could this love, beat my addiction,

and evolve into ours

as we pioneer into the unknown?


Pieces Broken


My broken mind, it looks for

many things to piece together,

the remaining shards of life

are firmly planted in my lobes.

The glue that keeps the galaxy as one,

proves neither strong, nor effective,

for every piece of glass corrected,

I shatter two more, to compensate.

I do not want to hate, simply

embrace what I have known,

for a broken mind, can not be broke.

Does that not make me stone?




Insanity is subjective,

I find it insane to question such,

that same man on the corner

screaming aloud to no one,

affects more souls than a giving one.


Insanity is objective,

it cares not for whom or when

it strikes.

A mother of two, drives off the cliff,

a heroin addict may save her life.


Insanity is the answer,

how else do we strive through monotony?

The money, the numbers,

and money again,

who sane, remains same in society?


Insanity is a gift,

the kiss of a power not solely for good.

The priests are “sane”, the teachers to,

their young lovers;

Sanity misunderstood?


Insanity is cultivated,

by things we chose ought to fear,

this thought of sanity

however is such,

another mortal idea.


I Want You To See The Fire


I can show you the way of the devil.

If you are willing to spend time in hell.

No, this is not a sentence, nor trick, or rotten spell.

I want you to see the fire. I need you to see the fire.

Where goes the soul of Judas, or his kindred spirit Hitler?

Do you not question what of, Bin Laden, or if his soul was forgiven?

Take in the sight of corpses, digging for freedom to be reburied.

Take in the smell of misery, breathe in the Sulfur. Horrid. Very.

I want you to see the fire. I need you to see the fire.

The skulls and bones of sinners never caught, are crushed underfoot.

Their spirits forced to watch, as every victim packs in their soot.

The organs, yes their yonder, see that mountain, those are meals.

They eat themselves, six times a day, with the bones of those who steal.

I want you to see the fire. I need you to see the fire.

Those were just the modest ones, hold in that swallowed hurl.

For as we approach the demon’s den, worse tortures do unfurl.

I see you’ve had enough, for now we’ll keep the tour on hold.

Though when you return to earth, I pray you keep all but this untold.

I want you to see the fire. I need you to see the fire.




If we ever wake up

promise that you’ll look for me

I do not trust my own direction

but I trust yours immensely

you’ve seem to got this figured

I would envy, but I adhere

if you may lead me forward

then forever you’re my dear

I’ve gone as far as I can go

the pressures they exist

the finish line is none to kind

I accompany, you assist.


If we ever wake up

I promise I will take

a solemn oath

to be beside you

damned or not

as the living or as ghosts.


Who Could Care


Who could care?

The constant bombings







Who could care?

The imminent end







Who could care!

The endless lust








Who could care?

Someone did,

long ago,

was that not enough?




The beautiful screens

staring back at me

whilst I marvel at their

advanced ways

in merely seconds,

news of the world,

in seconds less, porn,

even unheeded!

What a wonderful time.

A wonderful time to be alive.

No more awkward silence,

for we no longer must listen.

No more steady gazing,

for we look at what we choose.

Why feel each other’s pulse,

when I can simply like your post?

Does that not show I care,

I’ll “like” another, I care most!

What a wonderful time.

A wonderful time to be alive.

Do we exist at all?

I’ll ask Siri, or press 1.

Do you not hear my call?

If I go viral, have I won?

Oh the screens, the beautiful screens

staring back at me,

whilst I marvel at their

advanced ways.

What a wonderful time.

A wonderful time to be alive.


Intermission (Cont’d)


I went on a jog earlier,

and saw the woman I will wed.

She had an under armour top,

and calves seemingly of lead.

She led me bout the trail she ran,

on only special days.

I followed at a distance,

as to hide my stalking gaze.

She came around the corner,

I ran back, then turned around

To pass her from the front,

as to wave and smile; sound

I thought at least, as she stopped

at me opposing. she removed her

earbuds and flagged me down

“Oh God,” I thought,

as my cover had been blowing.

She smiled, and I quivered

forcing my lips to smile back.

She admitted that she followed me,

she never runs this track.

I sheepishly responded,

I had followed her as well,

we laughed it off a moment,

exchanged the digits for our cells.

We went about our jog,

in love we’d begun to fell.

You should know this is irrelevant.

Just felt I had to tell.


Just Thought


It is often the subtle penetration

of life that wears down on us

most harshly.

It’s easy to handle

the major tragedies,

as we are manically preparing,

almost anticipating it all to fall apart,

that we may re-build upon

our apparent shortcomings.

It is in those insignificant follies,

however, the average person breaks.

That lack of acceptance

has destroyed families,

toppled dynasties,

and altered history.

Just thought you should know.




Beyond the heart-breaking

fixating, nature of us,

lies a salvation beyond that of heaven.

It is that realization, that the heart

dos’t most potently take hold.

Heed the message of the unearthed,

rose and fight, until the sun casts

it’s glances upon you.

Absorb it in your skin,

allow it to overtake your essence,

as you are no more than a piece

of what we’ve taken for granted.

Beyond the heart-breaking

fixating nature of us,

lies hope.

It begins in that moment,

that moment we’d forgotten.




Keep  me sane

Keep   me sane

Keep    me sane


No! too much misogyny.

Too much of that

been gone,

so gone, past us

beyond us,

insurgent to the cause,




Amongst us

between us

let us hate you

in your true form.




Fight beyond the wretched sin.

Fight beyond the forced grin.






Just beat off,

and sleep.




Oh the worlds we’ve lived,

simply satiated in passion,

yet the attraction boundless.


Prepubescent hauntings,

devoured by our will for change.

That will is same.

Whose will is sane?


Gone be the human in humanity.

Death to the anarchy,

and thank you, my adversity;

you’ve evened out the curse of ME.


Gone the life of death.

Existence, only search for breath.

So in the search of depth,

we lose purpose, time obsessed.


What else could make time nervous?

Another time, I guess.




For the love of all

evil-natured and good willed

persist beyond the failings of the past.

Know the limits of life,

that they may be your goal.


Entrust the screaming trumpets,

know that they, and they alone

lead the sinful and practitioners,

though to opposing ends

the course is often same.


For the love of all

do not cease the trek

that has called upon you,

for true progress, purely

lies in the balance.




When so many fight to be chiefs,

who shall lead the Indians?

Damned to no governance,

they shall surely cease to exist.


Rule should not be so thusly coveted

As time has proven this trait signifies demise.

Stay the course, await selection,

or perish beneath your hubris.




And as the night comes to an end

thoughts of the day should fade.

Drift into the ether,

lest awaken weary upon the morrow.

Embrace the tactic of you soul,

ease into dormancy,

listen to your limbs,

as they become weighty and still.

Lend your mind to the darkness,

perhaps you may even dream,

as forever and before,

the sun will rise once more.

Slumber young one, slumber.



2 thoughts on “Testing Creativity​

  1. Blimey o’Reilly! Someone’s certainly been burning some literary rubber.
    I am very impressed. So I will go through at a sedate pace and re-read.
    Hope you get the bills all sorted. As for Trump. Well. I am wordless.

    Liked by 1 person

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