The Kiddie Pool;

Here's to the part where I write badly edited spoken word poetry:

Absolute evil does not exist in this world. A few stains of innocence will always smudge the view; somehow, innocence isn't always pure.

Somehow, relevance hasn't got a clue.

Even if you evacuate the scene, a few drops of nonsense can purify the most elaborate loops.

You can tumble along the hallway, wrap my door, knock my bones, twist my knuckles, because their white is too honest and you can't bear casualties anymore.

I am not your crest; your target's way beneath my head; it can do nothing but kill me. My hell is not your Eden.

Even if I confuse the lot of my being, I won't bleach the dirt at my feet, preach what tics the clock. 

It takes too much dishonesty to distinguish distrust.

From West Amman until your pebbles trundle the fortune of breaking sticks for legs and stones for clones. Stones are bricks that pause the downfall, of the city that lasts. City on gunpowder. City that laughs. City that flounders over guests and cats.

I am clinging on each reason to stay. So don't cut the ropes; I carry your heart.

The tremble in me is sparked enough to sleepwalk. Don't you dare call me weak, when I've been losing sleep trying not to sleep-talk. Clutching my fists behind my back because I didn't want dreams to last.

All I know of fear; is that it is further from a black eye. A walk through the rasps, begging for the quiet.

Aphrodite would've made it out filthy and wealthy, cursing at the bolts. 

Put on a wreath of shame, crucified underneath your skin, praying you would grow out of your deeds. 

I halt despite the fact that I am yet to discover my company. The fervent rush at the end, seeking revenge in violent spit, spilled at gunpoint. Frantic pleas, or in lieu of them, quivering bliss. I tighten my hold around the words left unsaid, lost in clenched jaws and claws for interlocked grips. Crooked teeth sharing entries to diaries. Secrets are not so secretory once they collide. Chaps still fight, cry, lie for the best. Hang on best, even though the damage is done and consent is in resistance, when a portion of you leaves your body, it can't but slither lusciously into the possibilities. Gone. Forever.

I don't need you to save me. I belong to the demons; at least they talk to me.

I am only redeemed by my stutter. My beam isn't my shelter. 

Shallow thoughts are meant to surface.

I let my feet create my land, free enough to stiffen my thorns.

Father Sorrow,

Until you give up your throne, don't chant from above.