you fanned the flames
from one senseless spark
everyone saw how
these things were made
in the worst possible shape
there was not an iota of truth in it
you did it for one purpose, to be noticed
and get a higher position
in this rat race of brutal bullies
smoking, snorting, or injecting crack
just like you did
with your boys at nights –
memories that last
forever
only identifying my weaknesses
only on one side
to hit with more force
making it more fun
than to bring it to the table;
after that Monday I tried really hard
to throw you out of my heart
it didn’t help, it was the same
for a long time
it stuck to me like an old splinter to a tree
and I think
you will stay there
as you represent
the first unrequited love I’ve never had
and the next ones without fulfilment
leaving me alone in disfavour
bordering on insanity
will you ever let me be…?
---
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About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
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At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly3 days ago in Horror
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