A Fantasy

Dealing with being left behind, resigned to continue living. Sister poem of "A Reason", this one is a little shorter.

Next time I won’t be so delicate, when you want to play rough

Worship the pain

I hate you for a reason, remember?

Your hearts as cold and dismembered as the fallen rotten leaves of a bottomless holocaust dream of grieving December, a firing gun shatters Hippocratic, romantic arrow in my heart, just another dart, needles between my arteries, cauterized lobotomy

Next time you shoot at me, I will bleed maternally until you burn to be nothing but the flicker of a lit wicker, dim under the midnight trim of the wings of darkness

Embarking into the spark spotless, stark among the white lights of digital blight, formidable inevitable treble blends through the sentimental cemetery of renegades, bathe and wade in the barrage of bullets and blades, until the shade kills the sun, and the lights go out for every angry gun

Glittery pitter-patter of the rain of the fallen drowning collateral batter, in the sprawling walls of maroon saturated waking of shattered teaspoons of blood splatters, daggers of madness tattered immune to foolery, mutilate me until the sheets drip and weep with the fleeting emptiness of a leaf at the bottom of a pond, done, drowned, raw, the lights are out for everyone, but every angry gun has peppered me like a zeppelin, stepped on stickers deliver sinners as the sicknesses visions beckons and bickers with the passing seconds I reckon it’s over, this lonely silence is the only islands these eyes could ever recognize or know, where the clovers grow sober the world over, all hopeless, and every angry gun has buried my body sodomized into a serial killer, so real that it’s become unbecoming of me, ethereal dreams willing rise to be nothing be blood sweets

I will not die a something of Satan, I will die in the nothing, the suffering the hatred I was made from, an unloaded gun, I will rise from the earth and spit dirt currents, so you can reload your explosions unload and blow me open full of holes, broken under my unforgiveness, emotion corroding my mind ,hopeless, motionless, encroaching broken down in the mass burial mound under Nirvana

Let my spittle cry me a little river of livid drowning ludicrous isolation, dine on me in your hatred, my blood cheap beer, my heart dark coal burning warm feelings unbreathing, my space remains vacant, my hollow body under the ceiling houses these shores, pour the gore without remorse, sour crushed grapes raped into wine, define evil, cut vocal cords bore me, but when the world shouts, what else could I be?

Devoured by insatiable cowardly

I never had what I wanted, needed, I was alone long before I was an egg, semen, redeeming every firing gun, bulimic on the run, undone under the scarlet coverings of death, raining red bloodshed

But when you killed my people, threaded the devils heavy metal arteries through my seams, and stitched a monstrosity's obituary molecular segregation inflamed in the observation of a concubine of my judicial judgement,  I realized in my wholesome evil, under the jails veil, beneath all the flaws of lawlessness

You burned the chronical of hospitality, abolished and smashed my masterpiece into a romanticized fantasy

I was pretending, believing in a fairy tale under my chainmail solitude, bailed in the shallows fragile bending under the pressure, drowning in your leisure, every firing gun lives in peaceful feathered flowerbeds

This divine genocide has opened my festering eyes

Coping in a fantasy within the confines of reality

I guess I never remembered a grieving December to believe in, in my shacked freedom of faded reason

Controlled by a covenant of puppets, I reluctantly suffer

In a fantasy forgotten in the manslaughter, abandoned Armageddon, left behind in the cold cellar

Smelted, imprisoned in my sanctuary, reliving their heartfelt deaths to the last breath, alone

I guess I never really had a real home

I guess I never had a real hope

Just a computer filled with poems

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.

Reviews

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Being left behind can be painful. I feel like everyone is moving on with their lives and I am stuck in a hole I can't climb out. It can be painful but can't kill your hopes.
Really a good one! If you can do something you can be proud for you need not regret at anything. Look you are so good at writing poems... This one speaks much of you to the readers. May be you are left behind somewhere but know that you have left all of us behind with your poetry. You are on your way.
This was my favorite!... "Next time I won’t be so delicate, when you want to play ....pain".
I hope you have read what happened on the website during recent days ... I don't know if you still want to continue with that. Still I want to ask if I can publish this poem over there?

Best wishes and Good luck!
MC.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thank you, you make me feel a lot better about it all. I'm glad you enjoyed the poem. You can use any of my poetry on your website, I always feel proud that I can share that with you! I wanted to message you back when you last messaged me, but I got caught up in other things. I'll do that now. The fact that you've got my back makes me feel better. Thank you, you're a good friend.