© Apr. 23, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written on Jan. 18, 2015.
My beloved queen
By blood orange vessels.
My perpetual love
Away from shore.
My sweet desires
Drowning captive tyrants.
My steering between
Weeping willow trees.
Of undulating shifts
To my heartbeat,
Seeping inside
Are liquids that’ll repeat.
Stranded with you
Floats me to the bethels.
Loving with you
Is bigger than before.
Enamored with jealousy
Of pretense.
Wandering through
The chills of the seas.
© Apr. 23, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written on Jan. 17, 2015.
They call her Gnarly Girl.
She’s the warmths welcoming.
In class, she gets straight “A’s,”
But it seems no one cares.
It seems she’s a queen’s phase.
It seems she’s a days ring.
Her ways bring a dad’s twirl.
Yet, her trophies, she shares.
Her other name’s Mandy.
She flirts with her ideas.
Outside, she makes death.
She can handle blood-flow.
She admires Ashtoreth.
Red drips from corneas,
So, she kills carefully.
Just unlike her twin foe.
Swimming down glory floors,
Angie trudges by friends.
Swimming down Angie’s sight,
She glares at smirking groups.
One dead fluorescent light,
But she hides down the end.
Red rises. Angie ignores.
Her body’s gone. Blood loops.
© Apr. 23, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written on Jan. 16, 2015.
Execute the absolute
For dispute.
Schizophrenic, sadistic
Trick topic.
Exclude the rude attitudes’
Gratitude.
Verisimilitude’s feuds
Of the sick.
Self-discipline
To self-denial.
No remorse to self-control’s
Universe.
Fading away from
An eternal smile.
Believing falsehood as
A breathing curse.
Sexual imagery
Like Jesus.
Zigzag wounds of silhouettes
In the mind.
Delusional purpose for
Life’s focus.
Succumbing to pride
By killing mankind.
Deteriorating souls
Proposing sweat.
Cobwebs dwelling in the
Skulls burgundy.
War zones looming through
Mist for the winds threat.
Preparation for the dull world’s
Bully.
© Apr. 23, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written on Jan 20, 2015.
What’s morbid in the mud?
What’s burning in the ground,
Exiting outward a flood,
Before a rapture’s sound?
Ashlar steps buried deep.
Disaster to slate skies.
These cadavers won’t sleep.
This lava’s fate will rise.
Volcanic muck.
Twenty year luck.
What’s detestable near?
Scorching flames for the lost.
Burning life’s atmosphere,
As the hollow ones crossed.
Dehydration breathing,
As blood-pumping hearts race.
Rotting to believing.
Reducing any place.
© Apr. 23, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
This story was written on Mar. 7, 2015.
Hearken:
Unlike every cryptic thought and ominous scene, for every word used, are how many victims murdered. Peaceful strategies that were once about the writer, are no longer his route, for he sees a selfish, cruel world. Diabolical murders were pressured on him by society while practicing Satanism. All Satanists don’t kill people or influence to kill, but this one did indefinitely. From being a socially awkward loner, to the struggle of being forced to be a smooth talker, he manipulates his victims. It’s not about how many victims he kills, but what he represents, assembling ideas for an astounding purpose.
Aggravating, insurmountable labyrinths of predicaments bring dire consequences, and retrospective ideas bring familiar despair. … All is said that Gabriel is heartless and nobody can control him. He feels hollow on the verge of being notorious. It only seems that there is authoritative power over him, but that is what this mastermind wants you to think. Gabriel is terribly destructive and violent with a malevolent squint of the eyes. If he could change anything, he would change the amount of so-called innocent people that did not feel his wrath, but he flumps down abysmal flashbacks.
All of his aggressively vile and sanctimonious family members were in trouble with the law more than once. … All except for him. At the age of seven through ten, Gabriel’s father would show him video footage of victims being electrocuted. Sadly, his father was an executioner. He got fired, and showed him disturbing footage of a slaughterhouse. He misses not his father and often, he would mock the Bible, by pronouncing the letters of the books false. He would then read the verses backwards, make origami out of the pages, and burn the rest of the evidence. His Bible was replaced countless times, and he had no freedom due to his conservative family.
The debilitating effects of living makes him suicidal. Nobody cares about him like he would love. Life is a poison. Half of his family members were either in a mental institute or in a prison. He is an envied person for his success, escaping being caught for his nefarious crimes. His own mom was shot eleven times in the frontal lobe, seven times in the jugular, and fourteen times on the left shoulder. After he murdered his mother at the age of 17, he replaced her spinal cord with a frozen battery. He thought about using a kitchen pipe, but it was not in his favor. Once, he plucked out all of the feathers from his parrot and sewed rose petals on it. Glitter was placed on the parrots beak.
Present
Standing in a film studio, he hears students mumble about his lack of knowledge for what it takes to be a filmmaker. Words like “stupid,” “idiot,” “weird,” and “crazy” are used by the students. As the instructor tells the students to ask questions on the film set, he knows that the more experienced students will look at him odd. The only reason he wants to become a filmmaker is to make a documentary film about himself. A future in mainstream films working with celebrities is impossible, especially after hearing what other instructors told him. “If you got into the film industry to become rich and famous, pick another field. I have a cousin who was working on a documentary for thirteen years and still is today. If you’re not good at communicating, what do you want to be a filmmaker for,” one instructor specifically told him.
He leaves the studio rethinking his future. The only reason he is still in college is because he wants to get wealthy. What other goals exist without the risk of embarrassing himself? Just being independent would not harm his life. He wanted to be a professional wrestler, but he has scrawny arms and cannot memorize lines. He never had a relationship before and no woman will want to get with him, especially after his downfall. Frowning is his friend, but his friend is disliked.
In the slushy snow, Gabriel walks down a sidewalk, ashamed of himself. All he sees are women surrounding him. One partner with male characteristics repeats, “I love you so much.” The partner with female characteristics repeats, “I love you too!” It gets to the irritating point that he cries, but nobody can hear his lonely misery. From years of bullies talking about who they had sex with in high school, he grows in rage. “Why can’t a woman want me for me. I can come close to receiving a girlfriend I can physically touch, but it never happens. I’m twenty-five-years old. One day, I could be sixty-two, and I’ll still be lonely,” he thinks. The walk punishes his legs, and he limps up the steps to his porch.
Once he gets inside his house, he removes his dark, blue winter coat. The television is still on, so he turns it off with the remote. Silence makes his mood worse. Someone understanding to talk to never comes to his attention. Never, the big word that he was told to never use, he lives off of. He will never become wealthy, famous, and he is lucky his house did not get repossessed for not paying all of the mortgage. He has no job, and the only reason he has a house is because his father. His father, (a former explosives worker) helped him relocate to own the house, and his father helped him pay off some of the mortgage. His father paid for Gabriel’s current bills, but now his father is dead. There is a recent event where a bartender at a restaurant whacked his father with a beer bottle after an argument. What the argument was about, he will never know.
Gabriel sits at the kitchen table writing, “All harlots are qualified, depraved victims, uttering innuendoes. They aren’t worthy of consensual sex, for I am neglected and loveless. They have full permission to fade from this planet without my doings. If anyone kills their self, and are aware of me, they’re a coward. If the ominous, Jesus returned, I’d slit his puny throat, and use it as my kitchen faucet. I’d use his mouth for carnal desires. His eyes would be shoved under a carousel. Hell, I’d slit Buddha’s throat. I’d slit Allah’s throat. Any fictional character you name, I’d kill. If they’re as powerful as they’re claimed to be, it’s too late to stop my murders now. I’m no mediocre killer.”
“It’s an intricate thing for most people to like one person, so it would be more intricate to convince a racist of his or her wrong path. It does take one person to change the world, but help is a significant part of the function of the world. Since nobody hearkens to me, there will be no more of anybody. I plan to kill everybody, including those suffering from an adamant refusal to love. Humankind is doomed, and I am not a weak person. As long as slang exists, I will use metaphors. I can imagine newscast members laughing at murder statistics off camera. They’re actors with callous lives on the illusion of a durable ground. For their concealed lies, they’re buried under sewer grounds.”
He grins as if though he woke up from a concussion. Dust falls from the deteriorating ceiling onto his notebook. The rage on his face strengthens in passion, and he positions his face to his chest. Maybe he could get wealthy by killing prostitutes, he thinks. Murder is his plan because being homeless is a terrifying occurrence he is not prepared for. He was homeless at the age of six with his father until he was nine. Now, he is in no mood to relive a struggling memory of dependence.
He writes with a pen producing black ink, “What if I made a movie about an engaged couple. The female can be supportive over the males rap career as she records it. On one night, while he raps in front of the camera in an intoxicated state, behind him, there is an unfortunate event of a burning house. They post the video on many social websites and receive many views, and they’re interviewed by countless journalists, reporters, and newscast members. His rap career skyrockets as he gets signed to a recognized record label, but it is thought that their intelligence could be linked to the burning of the house. As a woman is screaming in her upstairs bedroom, their disguised homeboys and homegirls burned down the house and ran the opposite way of the camera.”
Gabriel rips the sheet of paper and punches the wall. A dent shows on the plaster wall. What if he just went crazy, he thinks. He has no future. He stares out a window behind him, watching cars speed down a road. He walks outside with heavy breaths from the cold wind. A flashback of when he still lived in his mother’s tummy appears. His mother was walking from another horny male’s house, and she slipped on the icy pavement. Perhaps the flashback is a benefit to his tortured mind. It is because of this accident, at the age of sixteen, he shot up the homeless shelter where he lived in the past. Thirteen victims died; ten were male and three were female. In front of the icy road, he stands motionless. He is so motionless that his breaths cannot be detected and a blue car crashes into him.
Hospital
Gabriel wakes up with a knowledge of how to speak Spanish instead of English. … But he is in the hospital with no broken bones. He is injured on his right shoulder. Nobody is in the room, and he hears drops of water dripping from a sink in another room. He receives vivid flashbacks of people he killed in his past lives on Earth. He was a serial killer in thirty-two lives of different races. The rapid scenes leaves him terrified, but he has a tendency to think about killing.
© Apr. 23, 2020.
This poem was written on Mar. 22, 2015.
Agony diffused to
Bright rage,
Exposed in daylight for
Night’s stage.
Therefore, dilating
The pupils,
Shading a glow past
Light symbols.
Distracting lightbulbs
In you,
I’m electrical
Voltages.
I’m chemical outlets
Askew.
I’m intensity in
Darkness.
Saturated sceneries
Live.
As vibrant actors
Strive to thrive.
Hues on cues
Illuminates few,
Forming a heated,
See-through crew.
© Apr. 23, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written on July 21, 2015.
All on one accord.
Not. I’m ignored,
Just to be explored.
Fuck the Lord,
For His word is wicked,
With stories written by a kid.
I can’t afford to obey,
Commandments from a cardboard box.
Religion’s no freedom.
Fuck Eve and fuck Adam,
With the Delta Force in their sternum.
No remorse from the intercourse,
For I force the horseplay.
Replay the sins to enforce,
Causing the pause astray.
Switch the promise to bliss,
With thrills for squeals,
Laughin’ with the abyss.
Chills runnin’, but not the bills.
Peek through creeks from bleak streets,
Searchin’ for hot spots.
Aimin’ at em like polkadots,
Restin’ on their bed sheets.
I’m skeptical. God’s supernatural.
God’s evil. My murders are diabolical,
Burnin’ His hair follicles.
I buried Jesus in the soil,
And decapitated angels.
Handcuffin’ Jesus-freaks,
To stalk the talk for weeks.
Praise the phase of bluffs.
They’re tough to hate.
They discriminate.
Stuff resonate.
Hesitate with last puffs,
Restin’ on the Last Supper.
God’s a stupid motherfucker.
Christians startin’ on a clean slate,
Claimin’ we can’t masturbate.
Hypocrites throwin’ fits,
Buggin’ my years with shits.
Christian bodies deflate,
With dicks that penetrate,
Through the pearly gates.
It’s an illusion of fate,
Where they lived in hate,
Controllin’ the crime rate.
I tried. To them, I can’t communicate,
So, churches, I desecrate,
To the fullest extent.
They want me straight a hundred percent,
I operate on them with weights.
Jesus made me feel great.
Revive, and faint for God sakes,
Mistakin’ coffee breaks for earthquakes.
Their self-esteem is a scheme.
They want to wreck dreams.
No entertainment, but one book.
I could, but I can’t scream.
A fraud ain’t on my team.
With traits from crooks,
To myths overlooked,
Forced on sperm shook.
Nappin’ durin’ sermons.
Shrines of clothespins and other antiques.
Unique reasons to stand up to demons,
For faith saves slaves who speak.
Flinch from the stench of bullshit.
Confessions are snitchin’.
Common spells they use to commit,
For spells are control, but they’re bitchin’,
Yappin’ about conspiracy,
But all I see hypocrisy.
Rewritin’ the apocalypse,
As if their grips hold the eclipse.
Feel the martial law,
Decapitatin’ and electrocutin’.
Leavin’ awes down jaws.
Cause the claws of hell to spin.
Even they don’t know what they saw.
© Apr. 23, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written on Jan. 16, 2015.
A pool where I drown,
I frown in anger.
I can’t swim. I’m wet.
My brother saves me.
Mexico’s stranger.
I’d rather not see.
We grow up. I’m sad.
He reminds me fast.
He runs, and I chase.
I fall on my back.
The snow didn’t past.
A car fades to black.
© Apr. 23, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written on Jan. 15, 2015.
There’s a seizure in the clouds,
A fever turning foggy,
And my wings keeping me down.
Without you is without me.
Once again, I feel lonely.
Drop me down the waterfall.
You don’t want me after all.
Marry the joy for a crown.
When someone else comes around,
I’m killing myself unfound.
How could you be insecure?
How could you leave me empty?
Empty inside.
Empty inside.
Empty inside.
Blind the sight of rejection.
Beside an evergreen tree.
Natural pollution lives.
Without you turns me empty.
However, love’s so snoozy.
If I see you on a cloud,
The lost vapor can be wild.
Cloudy fears cry and forgives,
But death’s too tiring.
Last breaths are inspiring.
You sober four leaf clover.
You lover of another.
Another side.
Another side.
Another side.
Rain drops for incest out eyes.
What God makes drips in fiction.
I’m invisible within.
I substitute prediction.
I execute with a gun.
I’m a root killing from lassos,
Eyeing halos on rainbows.
Dying from herbs in my skin.
Lying to myself shyly.
Yet, dreaming how else to see.
I’m wondering how else to die.
Memories lie, so I live.
Bleeding inside.
Bleeding inside.
Bleeding inside.
My lonesome saddens the dirt,
Volcanoes can’t feel my way.
I’m a virgin myth lost,
Paralyzed in ashes stay.
I’m a jealous soul in day,
Sinking down a wormhole’s fall.
Dragonflies, I recall,
Sleeping before their wings crossed.
Stars glow as I mourn for me.
I’m already lost freely.
© Apr. 23, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written Jan. 7, 2015.
On my birth, abortion, I traded.
Reminiscence how she’s degraded.
She’s married to her uptight cousin,
And my heart’s deformed to a goblin.
Dad got brain cancer in the shower.
Life’s no sense like crying for power.
Oh, why’s my jugular inside-out?
My bones crack by every breath I doubt.
When I shout for hunger, I’m younger.
I’m in the slums of a dumpster,
Shorter in a lifespan of hoarders.
I’m blind, being worth less than quarters.
I’m sipping liquor from milk cartons.
Mom’s a harlot for old drug reasons.
Soul-dead, breastfed in asylums,
I become as faceless as atoms.
She gave sermons, choking my demons.
Baptized convicts married for treasons.
She drives my crib to a grave-sight,
As the moon haunts the day without light.
Isaiah Lawrence 