Frightened in the sight of my own disgruntled figure

Twisted limbs and ligaments.
Bones visible: one or two segments.
Through the fleshless skin
that strays from my abdomen.

Rotten skin beneath my chin:
"Who is the ugliest?"
I should win. And much of me,
I do agree, would frighten anyone to see.

Once I saw my death, in essence,
in a mirror's last presence.
Trodden down, I clutched the ground
roaring forth a wicked cry.

"Who am I to refute the universe,
when to it I am so perverse?"
No one loves me. No one can,
I would blister instead of tan.

Below my waist the skin is paste,
Above it, decomposed waste.
Bastard form, a human vigor
I am my own grave's final digger.

A role to never meet a single soul
I've banned myself in one last goal
A route from which I'll never wander,
I've thoughts to always ponder.

Someday I hope again to see me.
Have I grown like a tree?
One day, I think will be the day:
A final resolution to end dismay.

Poetry Addiction

---Spirited Sanction---
The structure of a single spirit
mistakenly mates and makes itself
another dumber figure in a trance,
a thing in a vat all covered in dust.
To be quite so unsure of
every attributed value,
to hold such an inexplicable concept;
to the streets and down the avenue
you should tie yourself.
Until the surety of the bold blue sky
has found itself in thine feeble mind;
until the blackest mail hath found it's pry
should you befix your gaze and let it grind
through the turmoil
of every sill game,
pop every single boil,
and beautify the existence of
your one true goal, thine only soul;
wrap your head around this:
You! Make your own coal!
define the martyr for which you live,
revive him, then smack him dead!
Is left right, or has right left,
smack every little bitch he bred!


---Affair---
Affair.
Pleasant night.
What's at stake?
Lost your sight?

Rumble.
Violent night.
Little big secret
starts a fight.

Explain.
Pause in time.
Weary words fall short;
sublime.

Refrain,
from sudden death.
From showing them,
a single breath.

Cyanide.
Peaceful night.
Smoother than a gun's
smoldering meteorite.



---In A Rut---
To sink,
into your drink,
and to mellow out
the world's social bout,
is just about
the only pleasure
I care for.
And not a single demeanour
could drown my pride,
not a washing tide
could sink my ship,
wreck and rip,
or make me sip
another man's drink.
Not even a gilded gift
would make me blink;
But a balloon, to pop,
to fizzle and stop,
this lovely daydream.
My soul itself would scream.

Though,
of course you would know,
"Forgive & Forget"
is my motto.
But alas, henceforth,
for what it is worth,
the skies above shall send litter,
sweet candies shall turn bitter,
and below, the mound
will shake and sound,
'til gravels' ground
and truth is found.
Then slowly, assuredly,
as time does tick,
as trees grow thick,
it all becomes pressure-free.