Princess for a day
A fool for the life and kinship blood
Push, shove, this scratched love
Short tempered means to transient victim of kin deranged
Will you Belittle offers so?.

Your language of distaste
Leaves a bitter waste
Unable to digest
In this augmented existence
Of finite quantity and envy born.

The order, a pristine disorder
No room to breathe or to be
To bend, never true
How can you be familiar?.

This will never exist
The space, yet cling tight
I spoil like rotten meat
The hormonal wrath
But was it me?.

Anger at the minimal, to maximisation of you, mediative piety
Aborted and cut, bearing fangs
Yet is this me?, was or will it be?.

You act and treat as in martyrdom
As if a 21st chromosome within me dwells
My remedial life school you teach.

A black headstone calls to this paranoia
Your Autistic belligerence
Preach at yet fall victim to white powder reality, patching over true faces.

Where is your seat?, where is your throne, a home of true warm abode
Are you tired?, of which?
I, the Virus, the pus bacterium?
Or is it deeper set of past history turn?.

Ian V. Seymour ©2012

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s