Dilemma--poem

Which one to choose?

The toxins of the night, singing their siren song,
beckoning the gluttonous child to go forth
and devour
my next conquest
where your skin is my canvas
if you’ll only give me the colours you feel
so I can craft my legacy

yet

there you are, deaf to my tune
deaf to my heart’s percussion pulsing the sirens along
or maybe I’m muted in your orchestra of possibility.

Do I decide to retreat, coward myself into a person
who cloaks in the guise of ordinary disorder,
unsure of what my standards are except for the notion
that they exist
in those whose nights express what their days should not,
forcing myself to believe their sunlit smiles all the while.

My morning presents danger, in my
intrusive desires, clouding the light of my dreams.
These day-mares exposed to my mind’s jury controlled
by the orchestra you conduct, unaware.
Their symphony condemns the personification of these thoughts,
solidifying the poison within.
You’re my freedom’s expression,
and my captivity’s master—
my what if’s are my shackles and chains.

Whichever I choose, the outcome won’t shine
with the sun that exposes all sin.
In the dusk of my patience,
your orchestra’s verdict awaits its release.

Whichever I choose, the poison will linger,
in veins reaching out to flow with you,
or in placebo words of love and affection
given to those who would take it—only to hide it in darkness,
where the sun cannot reach it
where my heart will freeze
and the song will die while
your symphony roars.

Tattoo--poem

I'll never forget.
I wrote this a while ago, but it came to mind recently.

Tattoo

I was there,
It happened,
and I couldn’t wait to leave.
My mind’s departure marked
too-early-in-the-morning
for a smooth escape.

Nonetheless,
at ten-after-a-decent-hour,
my feet guided me home,
unaware
of the shadow
lingering
on my tired
flesh.

The mind has a way
of waging wars
against the body,
numbing reason,
reaction,
giving cause
to sickly sensations.

Guilt’s a man-made thing,
yet woman-made was mine.
for Fault cannot be extracted
from where Guilt sank its
venomous teeth.

Reality’s an anvil
that crashes down
on my Coyote-dumb
head,
so comical is the sight
but the result
is something
grotesque-
Gruesome aftermath
of the weight of one’s deeds,
splattering composure
on the canvas of my past,
mixed with the bite-marks
spawned
from Guilt’s poisonous
lust,
bears the cancerous
frost,
invading the flesh.

Frost can burn,
with each brewing regret
rushed to the forefront
of my private
vision,
leaving scars
like a book-
A document of what was,
what is,
what could be
if the venom is allowed
to remain.

I can’t see the sun,
or the moon’s
lustrous glow,
only the scenes
like a movie,
inscribed on
my skin.

Moment after
agonizing moment,
the what if’s cackle at me,
(if I had only left before
the scenes began).

The scar was
reminder enough,
but became prescription
when denial
froze my senses-
Except for
touch.

Fool me once,
and you carry Fault’s Torch.

Fool me twice,
and my Guilt
transforms from lesions
and burns
of your cruelty,
to a permanent
Tattoo,
reminding me of what
I should have done,
reminding me of you.

[Y]our
sins slice through
reality’s grasp,
and shackle my wrists
behind my back,
so I can’t siphon
the poison
you forced me to allow,
embracing guilt,
embracing the pain,
for the physical
woes are nil
compared to the Tattoo’s
condemning reign.