We Decadent Slaves, James M MacDonald [hot novels to read .TXT] 📗

mood?
Could I have somehow driven a stake through her injured heart?
Or am I attempting to justify so there is no tarnish on her part

Do I seek to absolve her? Is that something I do?
Despite the suffering she has put me through
Was it false and hopeless? If it was what does that say
About the man I am and the price that I pay
Could everything be nothing and nothing everything?
Is love a void of torment and that is all it will ever bring?
Why even now to think of her gentle smiling face
Brings an image of an angel confounded by her grace
Yet still to perfect for this unworthy fallen son
Am I alone a shattered army made of one?

Will it be as they claim a simple passing phase?
Could peace be found somewhere else in another’s gaze?
Could other arms satisfy and make the entire world seem right
Or would it be as it seems just a blacker shade of night
A question left unanswered, just what is wrong with me?
Is there a chance to understand, a hope I might see
The fatal flaw present in all my failed attempt
Or will I simply wallow in this sea of self contempt

I raise my glass in grim salute, all has come undone
There is nothing left but ashes my fall has begun
Don’t touch me I might shatter, my delicate façade
Of courage, strength and fortitude, the truth would be too odd
I know there is no place for me and no calm and comfort here
Only weakness, loss and loneliness only fear
So I must face my hell alone without support, without a snowball’s chance
I’ll never know peace again they’ll be no final dance
My blood I feel it boil and I think I might be free
Then I am reduced to tears and I wish to flee
Yet there is no escape no place but ruin for me to go
I’ve lost the possibility of redemption this I know
There is no right only wrong
I will be good but not for long
There is nothing for me to offer but a small piece of advice
Despite the colors the fires not so nice

A Painter with Broken Hands

I wish that I could paint her
Recreate for all to see
To put upon a canvas
The marvel that is she
To illustrate with careful hand
Her beauty and her grace
I wonder if she would see
Would she recognize her face?
Would she be able to understand?
The truth of what I see
Would she too get lost in her own haunted eyes?
Would it some how set her free
This Angel that has fallen
And cannot recollect
How she was before she fell
I wonder, could she accept?
I hate these simple clumsy hands
That do not bare the gift
To portray her luminous glory
If only I could shift
The feeling from my rotting heart
Before it fades from my view
And give this world a treasure
That would be something grand to do
But my hands are a wasteland
Useless cold and dry
I can not offer anything
All I can do is cry

The Hated Sound

I hate the sound of laughter mine most of all
Because it sounds so hollow like a long empty hall
I hear in it the world’s deceit it’s make up for the soul
A mirthless sound it is to me, not one that holds real joy
Just a device used by us all a miserable weightless ploy
To hide what lies in our hearts the contempt that we all share
Oh I hate to hear that sound, it’s a difficult weight to bare
If I could find a way, I’d steal the very sound
So no one could abuse it, perhaps my peace then be found
I never want to laugh again, though all will want to try
Make me sound just like them and take part in there awful lie
But I will grow stronger with everyday until even my smile is erased
Then never again shall I be shamed to take part in this disgrace

A Rusted Man of Steel

My strength is sapped, my courage in short supply
My mind snaps and pops like downed power line
My thoughts move slowly like the pouring of molasses
I have always prided myself on strength that is no longer mine
I am a rusted man of steel.

Optimistic Cynic

Who of us knows what tomorrow will bring?
If we could greet it as eagerly as the birds that sing
Perhaps we could all find more reasons to smile
To sit and enjoy our lives for a while
Most if not all can find if we look
Some good around us if some time were just took
To invest ourselves into the interest of hope
We might find it an easier task to cope
There will still be perils and struggles we cannot deny
There are better ways to deal if we try
So that each of us can find a purpose to live
And find a way to balance what we get and what we give.

To Release

I am nothing, I have no soul
I am but a mirror I have one role
To reflect back on to you the greatness innate
Remind you of your destiny, to lead you to your fate
All that you thought you saw in me
All that you believed me to be
Where your qualities, you’re inner good
All the things you had inside, what you hadn’t done but would
You needed that at times, a reminder of your heart
You are meant for better things, you have an important part
Now our time is ending you don’t need me anymore
You’ve out grown my usefulness yours standing at the door
I cannot follow, I no longer belong
To try to stop you would simply be wrong
My only good is knowing that I am bad
So please don’t cry don’t be sad
I will remember even as you forget
All though I will miss you I don’t regret
You are beautiful, a gift to the light
I am a demon, a soldier of night

A Quest for Peace

To find my peace was my quest, perhaps my obsession to put it best
It was difficult; I wasn’t sure where I should go
So many answers that I didn’t know
In your laughter I have found strength
To preserve this hope I’d go to any length
You are the example to emulate
You are the answer to my internal debate
A proof of virtue, kindness and love
So doesn’t matter what’s below or above
Heaven I’ve found in your embrace
True beauty on your warm smiling face
There is hope in your words thought and belief
You are my personal relief
No longer a question but a gleaming white fact
There is good in this world it remains in tact
Now we must choose the right way to go
How we will deal with the highs and the lows

A Fresh Page

A fresh page, full of aspirations
Perhaps there is greatness in this blank lined page
Perhaps the drippings of my leaking toilet
Or the purring of the feline on my lap will serve as inspiration
Another sip of coffee or two or three
Greatness will flow from this write bros grip pen
Any second now and I will join the ranks
Of literary greats, a poet for this convoluted age
Like Kerouac or Burroughs like Blake and Robert Frost
Any moment now…

The Cat looks annoyed at my fidgeting
The dripping is getting on my nerves
I’d need to phone a plumber
I already feel as though my pocket has been picked
I am a writer. I should not be troubled by my toilet
I am on the verge of greatness at the end of obscurity
And it is all being foiled by my toilet

This page has let me down!
It had so much promise so much potential
Now it’s just full of ramblings
Regarding problems that I can’t seem to handle
Just another in a long line of missteps
I’m so disappointed by what this page has brought
I know how my father must have felt.

A Noble way to Die

There is nothing left, no cause of substance.
There is no death left full of pride
No honor for fallen soldiers, Brave
No strategies and codes of honor by which to abide
Oh but to be a soldier long ago
To march forward with iron purpose
Now days they are nothing more
Then bonehead volunteers
To be or not to be is of no consequence
Because so few of us have ever really lived
And where for art the purpose?
Of our rambling bloated lives
No more the strength of will
But the unbearable shriek of weakness
We complain and nothing more
Die you pretentious, useless fools
Would it be so hard to live amongst men of substance?
Men who may just have some weight of soul
Soul, HA! What a word, false and broken
Like all on this plain have become
What I would not give for pride of purpose
And a noble way to die

Jim’s Search
Nothing ever pleases, but yet the effort increases
All the more reason to turn tale and run
After all why are we here if not to die?
To live, to experience and to fall down
Enjoy your pain it proves your real
Don’t hide it is a waste of time
You have so much to do
I’m not a killer on the road
But a warrior on a path
To excess or enlightenment
Or is there a difference
So much for that old theory. Which one?
You know the one about life being simple.
It’s not so much bad as hard
Not so much good as entertaining
No more No less, it’s a 6 pack or satisfaction
Full stomach or fabulous clothing
I was not blessed with all these things
But blessings are only for virgins and serial killers

Prayer

Folded hands and Sunday best
Bow your head, smooth your dress
Presents your wants in humble verse
Then be nice and don’t you curse

Lessons taught, a purpose real
Pride it lives inside this Seal
Bless him lord on his quest
To kill em all and be the best

Forgive them lord, that’s what you do
These men of yours these holy few
Who hid their shame behind the cloth
But could not resist like flame and moth

A King’s War

Through this fog I try to find
A purpose for this wasted time
A thousand lives lost along the way
A thousand more to win the day

My Army marches across brutal land
Charged with a holy cause and each man must understand
If they fall along the way, they have found their place
To become part of its future as they fertilize this space

Sometimes at night it’s difficult to recall
Why I began this war at all
My rage it grew up in my brain
My blood boiled and I felt insane

So I rallied my troops to my side
With out a purpose I was forced to lie
To attack all men who block my path
To extend the reach of my holy wrath

But as I sit here in the dust
It seems my rage was a fleeting lust
I think of home and warm soft bed
My quest for war has left my head

So I appoint a man at arms
To lead these mean