The Cut

my heart has gone dark, 

  catching peripherals of color, content, 

drowning in meaning, 

  Passion, a deep end.  

  

It is easy to feel justified, 

  but I rage against the world, 

 because who would I be, 

if I did not? 

  Death, sunken in

to my life-beating heart, 

tears glassing over 

 dismays lodged long ago

wine glazing sour hearts, 

gone tender to the beaten touch, 

  of death, and destruction, 

and violence.  

  Innocence murdered as refuge of void- 

the grasp for power, and the cowardice of running from God. 

as Satan promises an empty Kingdom, 

  and normally nothing more,  

In all the times I danced, 

  I was thrown away.  

As if competing for my own humanity..

  I never made the cut.  

Purgatory

Silent ghost, 

  morbid greys, 

  morbid greys

  in between.  

Lost my humanity

  to identity’s illusion, 

sectored, 

  like a life trapped and fighting it’s way out 

of sharp chasms.  

 Failed, as any man, may the only thing that be reconciled is my own conscious. 

Ravaged, though, 

as good as any broken woman, 

How good can that be? 

  What good is good anyhow? 

  The world reminds us everyday, 

that we are broken.  

Can your mind erase the subliminals?