The Escapist

The Escapist

Sometimes my escaping
leads to me scrapping myself
off the floor.
Substance abuse
let loose
has become my demon
from which I have no freedom.
Lost in chaos
I use it change my emotion or keep it in stasis
what a waste this is
I have to face my demons
of psychological fear
work through the tears
become a form of me
that I can eventually be
proud of,
and escape like Phoenix free
when my sadness has left me
and never use the poisons again.

We are Boys

man up?
When did our yearning to protect and serve
and keep people safe?
turn into rage and wanting danger?
We are no stranger to tragedy
avidly wrestling with our desire for violence
was it taught by society and our father, are they keeping silent?

Soldiers growing colder each day
to the god of man we pray
to teach us a better way.

Anger our, “man up” emotion
lost in its devotion
we need different role models action man won’t cut it.
As we destroy ourselves fighting and wrestling with the anger inside
as we collide with the alternate worlds we hide
inside the potential we have
and are told to bite at ourselves
as “man up” is the only thing we hear
we disappear from the innocence
we held dear
the blood stained tear
gives way more often to anger and fear.

The citadel of tears

Stone grey walls.Where silence falls.
Where mouths do not speak

birds do not sing.

On her throne a Queen in a land of mourning 

every day a new day dawning

brings hope but still salty tears fall

like rain down walls.

She awaits the ghost 

Who cries in her dreams

With trepidation.

Every night she is visited.

Every night she is not free.

The citadel of tears is mourning 

and so is she…

Out pouring

Tears well up in my eyes
I dream of being a bird to fly away
To transform with angels wings
But I have no song to sing
The voice, your voice
Weighs me down
Every day wearing a painful frown
The tears of a clown
Is how my father felt
I knelt and prayed
For it all to go away
But in the cold light of day
Cold reality is that I don’t know
whether any of this is real
Delusions, confusions
Flowing, constant uncertainty
Knowing what you would say
You always say I hate you so much
Pessimism has always been my crutch
I loved you like a songwriter loves his piano
The answer is you don’t give a damn though
You were my muse and I have lost all but your voice
Which torments me in every choice I make
Mighty oaks break, their branches tear and shatter
Do I really matter or are my words just noise that clatter
I thought I once met Jesus on my 16th birthday it was my wish
Can I fish my own soul out of sea
Still I yearn for you girl with many faces
Many expressions but I have spoken to you and you have words so few
I cannot escape all the torment you have put me through
and yet I would move my aching soul and bones
Just to sit and talk to you on your throne.