Wooden Arms

Like a baby I’ll hold you in my arms,

And I’ll face you to the world,

And when you look up,

Peaking out, as the morning ray hits your face,

And your tiny hair gleam,

I’ll rub your head with such tenderness,

I know not to exist within  me.

“Can you see- See that outside?”

I’ll ask you in a hushed voice,

Not to frighten you with my shrill voice.

And I’ll tell you,

“That’s the world you’ll live in.”

And it’s dark,

It’s drunken, but when you look at it,

You’ll see that it’s divine.

That’s the world you’ll live in.

It’ll tear you down and

When you think all your strands have been

Ripped from the roots,

You’ll see how it picks out the roots as well.

It’ll be an absolute gleam in the eye,

You’ll dance around for

It’ll let you grow your strands again

And it’ll rejoice.

I am but a cradle for you.

I shall support and hold you tight,

Lest you fall down.

And when you grow old,

And hop out of my wooden arms,

I shall step back and close the door gently.

Hoping to one day,

Watch you become your own cradle.

Hoping to one day,

Watch you become me.

I am coated with an armor of gold,

I am given the wings of Icarus,

And I sore, I sore high and above,

Above towards the sun.

I cannot burn.

My wings are ageless,

And my gold shall never be shattered.

I am a broken harp,

My melody has turned bitter.

I am a wingless swan.

I do not go places, I am bound by the lords.

I am a chamber of shattered glass,

And you look at my with such pity,

It stings my eyes,

It stings my eyes.

Hard to Love

I don’t spill words with my tongue,

As easily as I spill blood from my body.

I don’t love as readily as I loathe,

And I loathe with intensity;

Loving isn’t as painless as it may seem.

When they portray love

On white walls with projections?

It’s an illusion.

Remember that when somebody tells you,

You could love them,

You could love the illusion

They have created just for you.

You could never love or ever

Even come close to liking

The raw existence of humans.

Since the beginning we have been cruel,

We have been selfish,

We have been filthy.

I am hard to love, in fact,

I am not loved at all,

quite rarely.

I couldn’t create an illusion for your pathetic self.

These words I write are filthy,

My blood is prettier.

All I do is loathe the existence of others.

I am hard to love, in fact,

I am not loved at all,

Quite rarely.

Muse of Tragedy

Do you hear that?

Do you hear that most sorrowful,

Most entrapping melody?

It’s the cries of Melpomene.

She sounds serene,

as though her doom isn’t strangled on her head.

She sings muses clothed with gloom,

And it sounds, to the faintest of hearts,

Like exquisite glass upon which the water blades crash.

She could always arouse

A maddening flame within me.

And it sickens me,

It sickens me to wait for words.

These words that may be apt sometimes, and others, unsatisfyingly ignorant.

Melpomene, oh Melpomene,

You are quite a tragedy.

And I believe I-

I just might be your daughter.

For this low hum under my skin,

And this sweet torment,

Could only be genetic, right?

You are a melancholic beauty,

And I was born

From the fire within you.

I am he madness

You gave birth to.

Unlike the delicacy within,

I have claws for fingers

And an undying fire in my lungs;

And oh Melpomene, oh Melpomene,

You ignite my veins with a fury

Unbeknownst to mankind.

I say again, do you hear that?

Do you hear that most sorrowful, most entrapping melody?

It is she, who raised my fragile being;

She sings those sorrowful muses.