K-Sajid

So jealous of my puppet: Sitting in the limelight; Invoking laughter; Inciting cheers; Still, to him, Am I, God.

It's not so easy, being the archer's arrow. Life has sharpened me to perfection. Streamlined my form to balance out my odds at piercing another man or two from amongst the immense bovine foray. Pent-up momentum, built up affeared rage, releases the strung arrow. Emotions spent would now inflict the cruel pain upon a naivete's heart. The convergence, is truly a consummation ages in the making. Treachery of the gods- assurance of vulvic revelry. Remains lie beneath those great golden gates, less worthy to look at than a Hittite whore. Remains lie still, yes some are still alive. Ashen fatigued remains. Hollow shells. Death caused by vain pride

Life through my bloodshot eyes Could be trouble sometimes For they see through these hypocrytes lies, And all the promises that destroy our lives, God can't help you no matter how hard he tries For your faith in mankind have stopped seeming right. And you wouldn't even want to put up a fight For justice, she's blind, she wouldn't let you see the light, And now you're under a darkness darker than the darkest night For you finally see that the world as you knew it has died. No fairy tales for your children for they must learn the truth Still can save your world if you believe in the youth. Life through my bloodshot eyes Could be tr

A tinge of orange lightly touches the horizon, portending another dry winter’s morning in a few hours. A deafening silence is only momentary. The woodcutter hacks with all his might, and another tree joins the ranks of the coffee tables and the bookshelves.

The seed of a concept, caused so much violence Mind of sheep, so knavishly moulded, Some know better, but are under an unsigned modus vivendi, Conceptual evangelists shed carmine blood, but undermine the silence. Addled phalanxes, prepared for mass suicide to prove it's existence, Fermata from their fecund trance will leave their souls folded. How can an image wield such tyranny? My insolence shall incense it's wrath, and they worship this malevolence! I won't turn to what blinds my mind through catharsis I'd rather take responsibility, this poem is not a Freudian slip, Am I a sinner for my thorough analysis? So be it, a profusion