Premature Mental Mercy

You’re a skilled gangster.

Playing mind tricks;
your hands are so dexterous,
lingering over this hollow, souless shell.
I’m faking enlightenment,
that trance was only sleep.

Waking up bored,
like a restless nights sleep
with dreams of being chased by your physical charm.

It’s no chase, just being followed
because you’re,
complacent with the plot
and it’s unspectacular shifts.

Like fuck if you knew where this was heading.

Crashing and begging for mercy:
Likewise I want some forgiveness;
but you’ve eaten alive the last chance of hope
that I spat back.
Empty words, like empty calories.
I can’t forgive you for your unsurity.
You can’t even forgive me for my own hell.

And screaming bloody murder
you yell at your reflection, fog up your mirror.
I plagarize your dedication
and give it up much too late.

And though you’ve butchered
the last piece of soul I promised to leave you,
I threaten you with the last shards of mirror you left in me.
You’re fogged.
Sharp as glass.
And a pain I’ll never let die in me.

The X-anists

An existancialist once said
That the significance of events is only relevant
during the time in which the notion exists.

So we burnt our old journals,
Our old newspapers,
Our old stories.
And in doing so,  might have lost touch with our mistakes.

The concept of moving so steadily to one place
moves steadily towards fear
and steadily towards death
and the move is so steady, so gradual
One would think we knew where we were heading to.

It’s our pre-imposed future;
so destined, so stable, so unnegotiable.

And where there’s a line that may or may not choose it’s path
No matter what, never proves it’s destination.
And no matter how long the agoraphobes lock themselves away
They are no different then us
for ending the same as us.