Untitled # 4

The Martyr Poets - did not tell -
But wrought their Pang in syllable -
That when their mortal name be numb -
Their mortal fate - encourage Some -

The Martyr Painters - never spoke -
Bequeathing - rather - to their Work -
That when their conscious fingers cease -
Some seek in Art - the Art of Peace -

Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)

My Melancholy Tower

I just close my eyes
And will do as l like
Spend the time where dream lies
Its ever last whispers of unconsciousness.

Simply tearing up inside of me,
Craving to sleep below the waterline,
When reality is like a huge black hound creeping silently,
Always ready to eat me up alive.

Stroke this selfish masochistic inspiration,
As the pressure is on and the pleasure hasn’t gone.

Afraid to disappoint you, but don’t care if I do,
Because I let you in this melancholic haunted home

After all existence is only a game.

-E-