The Hell Butterfly

Posts tagged “Poetry

Red Versus Blue

Value of the gold of gods

diminished in the eyes of men.

Atrocities of blood long shod

Convince us not to start again.

Death, destruction, fear and doubt,

A people running, hiding scared.

Glass in the throat. We cannot shout.

It’s war and we are unprepared.

Electric tongues of famous faces

spit their lines amongst deaf ears.

They try to shock, their lies leave traces;

lightening scars awash with tears.

Athena won’t you come to me,

explain the reason for this woe?

She will not come, our destiny,

to take a seat and watch the show.

Smothered in a napalm blanket,

tiny hands begin to reach

up into the flames that drank it.

No more children left to teach.

Through echoes of the promised land

the sound of drums attempt to tell

the story we don’t understand:

we are the reason we’re in Hell.

They arm themselves with dictionaries

for words too striking to ignore.

They slip them into policies

they don’t explain, but kill the poor.

Cry me a river, grab an oar.

O, Amphitrite strike me down!

They took our freedom, then took more.

Faith can’t save us. Let me drown.

There is a lesson left to learn:

do not succumb to this defeat.

Through glass walls we watch it burn

and play our mantra on repeat.

“O, woe is me, this world is cruel.

Please, no more, my heart will break”.

We make our coffins, fit to rule,

and lay down in them. Our mistake.


– The Line –

O, why must I be Hamlet?

Two feet walking step by step

along a line that is paved with blood.

Poison in my heart, pierced.

To my left I see a family,

all smiling like they mean it, yet

plotting,

plotting my demise.

I must deny you, sweet girl.

The right is all-destroying Darkness.

Though true, it’s right, but is it right?

Whether ‘tis nobler to agree,

or disagree,

or walk the endless walk of Time

and His cruel agony,

perhaps soft Sleep will tell. To sleep

perchance to dream. Dream forever.

O, Ophelia, why can I not choose like you?

Sleeping with the fish, warm in the riverbed,

I envy you.

To sleep the final sleep, it’s true,

may not have been your choice.

But you could make one.

The crazy girl that sung

and danced

and broke out in hysterics just because she could,

because your fate was sealed by foul lips

that uttered words like nails to your coffin.

You were so pretty. They thought it a waste.

You made the choice to take it, crushed

though you were by the weight of your rejection.

Forgive me,

I could not, cannot, choose.

I walk the line once more, my dear Ophelia.

I do not, will not, drown.

My eternal Princess of the deep.

I am but Hamlet,

and I’ll never choose.


-Sleeping Pandora-

Shattered lines.
Literary shells
from a voicebox unprepared.
Physical, the trepidation
of the sentence, piercing.
Trapped between the walls
that make them.
Choking.
Broken letters lose their meaning.
Lexical annihilation.
Harsh are the shards
of a syntax born of Mutiny
and Melancholy.
A fist unclenching in
the throat of the destroyer.
They will not come.
Glass fragments of Soul’s window
impale them,
those suicidal words of murder.
A knot entangled in
the fleshy chamber, lodged
somewhere behind the traitor tongue.
Intent betrayed to silence.
But for the throbbing ache
that stabs in spite,
all is unchanged.
He shall not bleed.


-The Eye-

Hurricane;
swirling torment over water;
destruction in a blink;
here one moment;
gone the next.
Never does it solve itself,
the grey skyline confliction.
Never will the dust settle
on this heavenly candyfloss annihilation.
Above the water,
where the shipwrecks sleep,
an ever-watching pair of eyes
awaits the fall.


-Corrosion-

Blackened.
Mind and iris.
Fuzzy edges of a feeling.
Sense nonsensical and
line after
meticulous line of poison red.
Slice of rust.
Blackened.
Liquid pulsing into
flakes of coal-stained ruby.
Scarred,
forever etched now with those screams.
Oppression in a vaccuum.
All is lost.
It sleeps.


NaPoWriMo: April 4 – Hear No Evil

Busy busy like a bee,

Noise always surrounding me,

Buzzing buzzing all the time

Makes me think I’ll lose my mind.

It’s hard to take it anymore,

Don’t think I’ll make it out the door

Of my external world of pain

That’s trying hard to shred my brain.

This hurt, this anger, every day

Is getting worse and I can’t say

That I will make it out alive

If I am forced to live this lie.

Pain pain pain pain in my head,

Now the noise wants me instead.

Knives knives burying themselves inside

The segments of my inner mind.

Cutting cutting cutting deep

And making me forget if sleep

Is help or hindrance to me now

That I can’t tell my up from down.

Constant constantly it drones

And makes me hurt and makes me moan

And forces me to figure out

If anything I write about

Is ever going to help me gain

Some sense of semblance here again.

The noise, the noise, it buries me.

It drives me to insanity.

And yet, the silence soothes my nerves.

It calms me. It restores the words.

Quiet. Quietly I stay

Here in this world of night and day.

The sun is harsh, the heat it burns,

But darkness, though it scares me, turns

The hum and bustle of waking hours

Into something that empowers.

I can do this if I just believe,

Tune out the noise, don’t panic,

Breathe.


NaPoWriMo: April 3 – Poetry is Hard

Can you spot the literary technique? Hey, hey, can you? Probably not, but that’s not important. NaPoWriMo #3 is all about the truth of trying to write poetry. In all it’s glory, this is Poetry is Hard.

People don’t understand the difficulty.

Over and over I try to piece the language together.

Every time it gets harder

To state profoundly a message to the world.

Really, I don’t know what I’m doing.

Yet I keep trying.

I fail often,

Scrap more often still. Paper baseballs in the bin.

How can we continue to create in this world of language mutation?

Anyone would think we’d forgotten how.

Rarely do I now find myself interweaving hidden messages in imagery.

Don’t underestimate the craft: poetry is hard.