"Come home, come home!" You say

But I'm not coming,

I won't listen to all your endless calling;

"Come home, come home!" That voice beckons;

The court says to go, school says to go, everyone outside says to go

But I know you're just a siren, the sea itself, once more calling;

"Come home, come home!" You smile

What poison-filled words will come next when all is hidden?

For I know wherever you are must be the realm of demons;

"Come home, come home!" Anger wells up in me,

I know you're just a monster in human's clothing, like mother always said

But there it is again: "Come home, come home!" 

That's not home

not my home

So stop your siren-calling;

I'm not coming "home."

Pitter-pitter-pat,

Pitter-pitter-pat,

Pan over a dark office

Lit with the soft glow of technology;

Strait black hair

Pulled tight back,

Everything aches, when will it be over?

Scarlet spills, seeping over polished marble

Cold eyes filled with unwarranted disdain

Who's to name the true victor, when the other lies, now slain?

Cold.

Salty.

It stings...

Tomorrow will erase this incident from the world

By my eyes don't lie, this fragile soul can't take it

No will ever remember, much less even know;

When your windows crack and hollow out,

When the pages to your script, in the wind, go flying;

Lost, lost;

Lost and lying. 

Lost and lying and

Inside-out slowly dying,

Dying for a chance to see the world again.

A hand once reached up

Grasping for anything

In the cold black mist

But there was nothing

Sometimes in those

Sightless eyes it seemed 

There was just a glimmer

Of saving grace of light

But in that particular world

There was really nothing

At least nothing of the sort

Pay to live, pay to live

Pay to keep your house;

Pay to eat, pay to breathe,  

Every sip'll cost you, please;

Pay to work, pay to sleep,

Pay to stay afloat;

Pay to replace your human soul

With metal and computer chips;

Pay to live, pay to live 

It's only fair, isn't it?

So c'mon now, and don't forget:

You've got to pay to live.

~~~~~~~~~~

Yikes, this is one of those ones that sounds too cheerful for the topic. I was pondering about taxes and was imagining that kind of thing brought to its extreme, with a world where everyone has to pay for everything. Or maybe it's just like a kid's view on how taxes and other expenses work? I mean, it's sort of both, I guess.

A tortured artist

Who writes through 

Cuts and cracks and tear-worn stains;

Stays up with cup

After cup of ever-more coffee 

Hoping to stimulate a worn-down brain;

Through the flames

And explosions all around

In daily life, lives on even as water rages in

Always fighting for the next paycheck

Another tortured artist.

So much to say,

Nowhere to say it;

Will anyone even care what you have to say? 

Can't they form their own opinions

Without you getting in their way?

Do you talk too much,

Despite being a quieter person?

Do you head out to events

Only to when you're there, shrink away?

Do you worry, but pretend

You couldn't really care enough to bother? 

Do you truly fit in

anywhere? 

Do you ever feel

Like you need a new name?

That your face is just...

Too you, so you need a disguise?

Do you ever find yourself

Digging for info. to answer questions

That aren't your own 

And watching to see if anyone else also sees?

~~~~~~~~~

Not sure this is even poetry at this point? XD 

Why, sometimes, in the dead of night

When darkness is supposed to consume all

And wreak her oily black vengeance, 

Soothed only by the silvery song of the moon;

And please be honest when I ask,

Why is the sky pink?!

In the midst of winter, the cold unfeeling

When darkness wins her hard-fought battles 

And clambering horsemen drive invisible cattle

Soaring, shrieking through the night,

So why, what kind of joke is it,

Just why is the sky pink?! 

I lie still till dawn, thinking

Mind wandering, pondering,

Why the colour of a hippo's belly?

Could it be a shade of berry-jelly?

Or is the night herself blushing,

holding dreams of her own?

Fluff flown in from fluffy blankets

All over the colder parts of the globe? 

Lint left over from a primordial

wash-and-drying machine? 

Or perhaps just clouds catching

Dyed, street-filled city lights,

Blotting out those soon to be higher beings?

So why is the night sky sometimes pink?

The choir starts

Their haunting song

Butterflies erupt

From the depths

of your stomach,

Will it be long?

Soon you'll slide

past inky wings,

Just one of many

angels who enchantedly sings

A silky song that bleeds the night

And transfixes all with a honeyed gaze,

Ethereal-- right?