artmadnesz

Downtown in the middle of the night. To make a deal well out of sight. For the junk and that flash of light. A dose of poison to put me right. I feed my head to continue to write. The streets are quite but so alive. With hookers, heroine and all that jive. A junkie’s medicine helps me revive. This wicked life where I thrive. Such a horrific way to survive. Hoping to get a little closer to God, And ignoring that my logics so flawed. On a wall, I'm propped like a tripod. I stick my veins with a lightning rod. Sliding to the ground I begin to nod. Suffer the needle loving the pen. Why do I keep coming back again? Just tripping not writi

He is just a boy of humble birth Peasant born to work the earth His arrival generated little mirth A life of hardship for what it's worth A new subject for his majesty the King Father loved the boys so much stronger The Lions of his loins but not the weaker Not this mousey child so much smaller For on his own he would never prosper Another needy present under the King He and his family farm the harsh land Reaping a harvest in what is mostly sand Surrendering taxes at the lord’s command No chance to resist or make a stand All for the benefit of an insatiable King Life in the town is desperate and crude Hungry people not wanting to int

Thousand poems down deep. In my head all wanting out. Now I Write and bleed.

Next she gave him the Gun!

The young girl flashes back to what father said. A story that would fill most others with dread. The Mayors daughter wants the magic to spread. She is longing for the thrilling adventure ahead. (The Lord of the Craft is a lady of leisure.) (A skillful woman and community leader.) (A dominant sorceress and skillful dresser.) (With amazing beauty beyond measure.) (Just standing in the Square as the sun goes down.) (She is greeted by smiles or a disapproving frown.) (For she knows everyone in this ancient little town.) (Even the Mayor views her as a lady of much renown.) (The Mayor approaches her with great care. ) (Somehow he can sense her i

Behind the altar she finds the nook. Opens the door unlatching the hook. With both hands the contents she took. She removes her most sacred book. A large leather bound compendium centuries old Many symbols hand tooled and layered with gold Filled with historic incantations some yet to be told Even for the Lord of the Craft it’s a beauty to behold. As she holds the book emotions are stirred. Anticipation the energy that can be transferred. From the proper speaking of each and every word. Tonight requires a spell that’s never been heard. Opening the book chases away the shadows. Turning to a blank page for her to compose, The pow

Breathing words. Fighting words. Writing words. Poetry pleads. No one follows. No one sees No on comments. So the poet bleeds. Creating situations. Character narrations. Staging scenes. The story proceeds. Creating a world. Images unfurled. Hero’s actions. Villain’s misdeeds. Hand to pen. Pen to ink. Ink to paper. Doubt Misleads. No one watches. No one reads. No one cares. As the poet bleeds. No audience to play for. No readers to write for. No reason to create more. The poet concedes. © 2016, ArtMadnesz Self publishing ArtMadnesz@gmail.com     All rights reserved.

Longing for a time without dread. Rusted knives cut though flesh. Seventeen men now dead. Daybreak brings me no rest. Furnace of emotions burn in me. Nine lives lived and then some. Benign face of my hated enemy. Homecoming lies make me numb. One notch carved in my suitcase. Freight car triggers my poker face. “Good Morning Solider” “Ready to Comply”

Good Morning Solider Longing for your past is daunting Rusted body and my mind maladjusted Seventeen memories just a smokescreen Daybreak brings daylight and heartache Furnace stoked to hide the disturbance Nine steep stair steps left to decline Benign smile will slowly undermine Homecoming is the start of something One can out maneuver the handgun Freight Car triggers the inner superstar Ready to Comply