The Poems And Confessions Of A Mad Man
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There's so much that you could say to back up an irrational behavior to cover for it. A confession or about a faltered mental state, amid illusions, sights, incantations of hearing a voice— of exorcery and of being possessed. The only one thing that you weren't allowed to speak of, was of you being you willing the act.
Willing it out of volition. To be savage, and unhinged, is a sin, is blasphemy. But why? The Devil is obscene and real, so is the savagery within unleashed where you have wandered out of reach from the realms of sense and conscience. Dwell with me. Wait a little more?
The Poems And Confessions Of A Mad Man Image at Mighty Ape NZ
Hop back on? Or await what's in store? Glad I waited Glad patience I found There you are Coming back round. Madness plays in loops A sick little spin on the carousel. Jazmine Mar King of Sweet Madness. I will wait for you. I will follow you. Break me.
Beat me. Use me.
I am yours I have let go of control. I have lost what it means to be human. You break me till I fall to my knees. But you love me all the way down. You cut me open and kiss the wounds with salt upon your lips.
The Poems And Confessions Of A Mad Man
Sweet evil ruler of my mind body and soul, don't ever release me from this beautiful cursed bond. Don't leave me to wander around lost and confused. I need your hate. I need your love. I need this exotic abuse.
So rare that few have tasted. I don't understand this form of love, but you are the ruler of this love. You know how much to torture. You know how much to love. You give enough and take plenty. In my previous guise as a journalist, at least once a year, I was tasked with calling serious poets and asking that most patronising of questions: what is poetry for?
I was the big clunking fist of journalism giving poetry a noogie. This annual ritualised bout of bullying usually tied in with the announcement of the short-list for the TS Eliot Prize for poetry. The latest nominees were unveiled this week. Shortly after I would find myself speaking to some of the greatest writers in the land asking them to justify their art form. Or arts journalism. Instead they sighed deeply, humoured my imbecilic brief, gave good-natured quotes, and probably penned a zesty haiku cursing me once they put down the phone.
We'd better do everything right, or face court-martial in the end , As we're judged by every viewer, watching C. Today a friend of mine died, from a rocket attack , Blew his body apart, when he was hit in the back. His family will weep, when they receive the bad news , He will be buried at Arlington , closed casket, dress blues.
Car bombs and snipers, kill a soldier a day , The people scream in our faces, for us to go away. The temperature hits, one hundred forty in the sun , We feel we've got it made, when it's only one hundred and one. I have to go now, for the burning in my chest , The bullet that entered, has made such a mess.
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I wonder if I'll die, if I might, if I could , I hear the medic say, this kid doesn't look good. I feel my soul, begin to drift away , This soldier is gone, I hear the surgeon say. Catholic School. On September 6, my parents sent me for my first day of kindergarten. I'll never forget the smell of crayon boxes and the look on the faces of the other kids in my class. I remember a lot of the little kids crying as though their mothers were abandoning them forever.
One kid named Mike even pissed all over himself after being there for only an hour or so. I figured this kid was going to wash out of the program for sure. Needless to say, after a week of pissing himself, his mother pulled him out of that school and put him into another. I can't blame the kid though, because that kindergarten was one of the toughest classes in the joint. Just the mention of her name still sends a chill up my spine. She reminds me of my Army drill sergeant. I remember one time when a class mate named Patricia, was coloring outside of the lines in the coloring book.
I can still hear what Patricia told the teacher. With a look of horror in her eyes, she said, "I'm going to tell my mommy that you hurt me! These kids were dropping like flies, but I had 4 of my siblings, along with my mother, who had made it through this Basic Training part of this hell hole of a school, and I knew I had no choice.
Everyday I wished my big brother had quit when he was in kindergarten so my parents would have sent us to public school, but that didn't happen. I knew I had no choice but to keep going back to the belly of the beast where Ms. Tellarico ruled with an iron fist.