beneath my facade
million untold stories
have metamorphized

a fire within
rages before erupting
volcanic lava

I pioneered
the stone age evolution
with my flint of fire

I bear the brunt of
memorials and relics
for posterity

from my nethers springs
the elixir that quenches
thirsty souls and soil

I am bewildered
by that idiotic phrase
"as dead as a stone"

Liquid thoughts darkens my soul.
A storm on the horizon of my heart.
Wicked muses entangles deeper than
my spirit. Brainworks burn my psyche.
The crimson flows deep and intense.
So painful, I can live no longer.

Poetry is the living soul of a writer
By Pixee

Migraines consume
every part of this hollow shell, that contains
my psyche.
home.

The potency of the brain ruch is astounding.
I cry scarlet tears. . .

Innocence ripped to shreds, 
belittled, left bleeding
Fucked over left for dead,
Pat the perpetrator on the back
Make them feel welcome 

Pluck hearts out
twist and burn.
Give them a tv and games console,
Make them feel cosy,

Government rewards the aggressor
protects his human rights.
Whilst the victim becomes the villain,
And goes through Hell.

In late hour beneath lamp light
with pen of clay I try to write
on a pure and empty page
in the style ignored in this late age.

For here in this free verse time
I mostly write my verse in rhyme
the form of Poe and Burns and Frost
which seems at times is almost lost.

In a life approaching its December
it's rhyming writes that I remember
from far back in my days of youth
the old ones who appear time proof.