Your Miniscule Option of Beauty

Today,
I wondered if beauty was possible in this ugly, deafening and hysterically ironic existence of mine,
Slipping of reptilian and enamel encrusted ties,
I seek forgiveness at the altar worshipping everything that stands and signifies hedonism of the human heart,
We seek to be as beautiful as the next impromptu hero of a generation obsessed with physical superiority,
We discard with greater good
Allowances to the next fallen but denial inspired Adonis,
Defines and refined, subliminally cynical of itself,
Ashen wings that are embroidered with a bygone beauty,
Delicate, yet not entirely mellow,
Bright yet not really fading.
Beauty fallen to ashes, yet not truly;
Gravely, I tear but attempt to mirth sincerely.

Every Worm Will Have Its Day

Today,
I watched as humanity struggled and wrestled with reason,
We justify the unjustifiable, we seek the unenlightened in an effort to feel superior,
Every once in a while society requires a messiah to direct us towards the next God,
God, notwithstanding definitions is actually a moral directive that presumes the regulatory role;
Naked and Bored;
Coiled and retired,
Asleep in the gratification of a weep
I'll make no sense and hope I actually don't
For every worm will have its day. 

Pursed Lips Cracked II

I hate what the world has made me;
This would be the gun of lunacy,
The time has come for the force of one
Eradicate this darkness in me;
Oh, God to be your son
The death of one is but the onslaught of more
Try me, vindicate thee,
The sharpness of pursed,cracked and bloodied lips
Judas was a tool or was he?
Fingernails struck out, cables in the sand
The wrath of one, the fall of me
I, have forgotten what it is to honour the son
Oh, to be the God of One.

Written by ONE

Pursed Lips Cracked

Today,
Is the day I will not be happy to die for, Or so I believe,
I know not you,
I care not for you,
I hate to believe that knowing you ever made me feel less angry at myself,
Windows painted over in black, glass shards wrapped in flesh,
The sugar tasting smell of blood, the memory fading strength of denial,
The force of one, the force of the few
The willingness of one to cry for a thousand,
The hesitance of a thousand for one,
Sympathy is for the faithless, flowers are for the loved ones dead or less than dead,
The whiteness of you is nostalgic to me,
I believe in sleep, do you if it isn't ever really for free;
The sanctity of a lucid mind is only overshadowed my the lunacy of my fallacy,
I carve you a crimson bed of gold, made of my finest bone
I purse my lips and try to crack my lips
I see you and wonder who I could have the heart to learn and recount my deceit
I remonstrate for the sleeping gods,
Cracked worn out teeth through glistenning lips I remember what it is to be you.