[x]

AstrologicalI have lost myself to
Venus & Mars,
tangled in their mismatched limbs.

Just dream dust & shattered prayers
begging for a new set of skin
(she can't remember where she orbits).

Pluck these fractured wings;
the Sun & Moon no longer ache
to see me fly in their luster.

lies, she wrotei. just a mimicry, really;
uncompromisingly
desperate to shine.

ii. counterfeit & clockwise,
tasting words on her
unworthy tongue.

iii. with a dysfunctional mind
& apocryphal dictionary,
she cannot clone it all.

iv. "say anything," the pen
whispers as she trembles
among ink-scented fraudulence.

v. but she just laughs & plays the part,
forgetting what the pages told her:
"truth is stranger than fiction."

The Pen, The SwordJust lovely
I was happy to fall asleep
in the welcoming arms of your words and
you were unaware that you held me
so close, and so carefully
from the moment I didn't hear you speak
to the taste of every sentence you spoke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been seeking all along
Just barely
I was loathe to fall so deep
in the sharpened edges of your words and
you were too aware that you had me
so close, and so carelessly
from the second I heard you break
to the taste of every sentence you broke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been avoiding all along

Death of the PoetDear poetry,
This is your challenge,
my eternal chore,
to restate the truth
like never before-
but I’m imperfect
at my very core
and hypocrisy
is what I abhor
so you may expect
my work to be poor
enough for me to
be crushed into gore
with failed attempts
to take wing and soar
when all I wanted
was something much more
than emptiness and
inherited war
and pointless details
of imagined lore
which most of us tend
to simply ignore
at the piercing sound
of a lion’s roar
or the convenience
of a nearby store…
what am I truly
writing these words for?
Let’s merely pretend
that this isn’t me
but the voice of God
or L. Ron Hubbard
or whoever you
wish for it to be
since facts remain facts
no matter the source,
no matter the cause,
since the trustworthy
are also humans
prone to failure;
so prone to a fault
that we hold dearly-
the sum of our faith
measured in dollars-
rewarded by credit
and paper money…
for some odd reason
I find this funny!
So I conclude

False EternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.
Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!
Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for the moon
then sought the horizon, again and again warned my father that doom
would befall him if he didn't seek a better way to live and be
I wasn't willing to follow the dark and deadly rules,
trying to bring some light into the lives of these fools.
Guilds of anti-gods were formed, wars rose higher, nothing to atone!
They all represen

ArrheniusThe birds are
keeping to themselves
this evening
as the earth shifts
slightly-
ever so calmly
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have
to move).

Here and there, I
witness these
beautiful strangers
with perfect bodies
and long hair
walking down the road
in tightly knitted packs.
They are animals
like we are animals-
like we are
animals without
claws and fur,
with scratches on our
skin that yields to
fragile and
familiar hands.

The winds respond
as quiet birds rush
from telephone wires
in panic and
in beauty; she
tries to brush the hair
dancing circles in her eyes
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have to move).

False ProphetsPoems and love songs breed dead dreams,
strangled by weeds, face down in the ground
with no roses to mourn them.

Singers are poets that croon
(if you happen to lose your little heart to their tune)
and poets are false prophets -
true love will last forever
if they care to write it,
but not if you swallow the lines...

yet, they always do.

We all have a place
set for us in the shade
in our own private garden of weeds.

False eternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant of the fact that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.

Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!

Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for

Psychotic ramblingsI, in the eternal void rest,
Am the unwanted thirteenth guest,
Insane, deranged and psychotic,
There are people who even call me sick.

Isn't it joyful and greedy to demand
A sacrifice of strangulation at the reach of the hand?
Cure the poisoned in a prison built of mental sand.

Murder is the solution brought by the resolution.
Is this the final, one and only conclusion?
Better think again, there will be no retribution.

Death is not the liberation, just the beginning.
Is there eternal peace? The solution is sinning.
Unacceptable lies become the truth, the chaos keeps spinning.

VoicesDo you hear the moan of morning rhymes
By the people in their endless time
As the morning dew breaks the day
Back to where the city-lights once laid

The lamp-posts are filled with black starlight
As the children run in their flight
With cries of sorrow, cries of pain
The old houses creaking with disdain

Acidic puddles of blood-wet tears
Remain on the street through all these years
As the cracks have hid the crumbled dust
Within these roads of bone and rust

The melody of the birds is lost
To the screeches and screaming loss
There are people cowering in the dark
Murmuring, whispering their tortured remarks

Flames ignite the world in fire

WakefulI remain awake with dreams on my mind
and stories that wait to be knit into books.
To never find comfort until my pillows are
stuffed with thoughts instead of feathers
To never let go until I made sure that
the moon smiled back at me
Until the trees, the grass, and every night creature
has whispered good night...
And yet I'm still as wakeful as an owl
afraid that sleep would somehow
grab my neck and drag me to my grave.

Lovers and assassinsNight
walk

bad nightmy mistakes are on my head,
and the cigarettes taste like metal;
on the street curb of a suburban block,
the lights jaundiced and flickering
like drunken fireflies, your reflection
that emanates from me covers every face.

HumanDear Hypocrite,

What do you do?
Throwing insults when you're insulted.

Dear Coward,

Where went you?
To your "peaceful" sanctuary you have bolted.

Dear Liar,

What say you?
Your poison corrupts innocent ears.

Dear Human,

What are you?
A sinner trapped in endless tears.

Watercolor PainWhen you smile,
I turn colorblind.

It turns into a somersault
whenever I gain contact
with your skin,
bare back touching
bare back.

But I'm not hungry
for bedposts.

I just want to
savor each moment your arms
lock into mine,
the romanticism of
the moons in my eyes
and the skies in your words.

There's smoke
behind all those hues
of hazel and your fingers
are porcelain,
but I still love you.

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More from ~Khrishna

to my father

boy you loved
would golden grin
at you.
boy you loved
would laugh
when your whiskers
scratched his chin.
boy you loved
in the morning
watched the dust dance on the light
and squeezed your thumb at night
until his fingers were white
as ghosts bones.

(but the boy you loved
grew up...
a little.)

He still can't see far enough to see tomorrow,
not even on the clearest Sunday.
but he finally took the revolver from his temple
and put this bullet into words.
finally stitched himself into zeros
finally is:
subterfuge
liar lust
idealist dreamer
tangarine
(god will hate your love you always told
the boy you...picked(loved)

anthemi want to care
but most days all i see is this:

file not found.
program deleted.
please hang up and try again.

[it's an anthem]

file not found.
program deleted.
please hang up and try again.

[in their eyes]

file not found.
program deleted.
please hang up and try again.

[the new number one single]

file not found.
program deleted.
please hang up and try again.

[it's very natural]

file not found.
program deleted.
please hang up and try again.

but who?
could these
platinum dyed
daze eyed
straight
lined
titty swilling
ditty dancers
possibly think they are?

file not found.
program deleted.
please hang up and try aga

Black Water blues

lavender this blue
moon-
day
and trip
his sunday
tophat soon.

red the sparrow
into rain
and cover
hands
in stone gray songs.

the ashtray's black
and plays at bone
and i am blue
this "true"'s gone ill
like water running up.
a hill.

your eyes still raom
while mine
just
...still.

you are my road
unmeaning
raveled

hope
unhinged.

stop
dropping
tears
between my knees.

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[x]

Blot Mistro.

by ~Khrishna, Aug 18, 2005, 12:02:02 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

sitting in the waining evening
the thick black ink
eased onto my open skin
blotting out the blood and bruises.
Staring at it there staining my hand
i thought i might disolve into a line or two
of words. Something deep like an ocean
something rivaling emotion.
the ink spread like a black hill
rising on my skin.

I wish i could dissolve into a word. In words
love is real
hate can kill
people can push and pull and pinch
and we need never move.
In a poem you and i can exist.
while outside it is the rain
wipes my footprints from outside your door.

Blot Mistro.by ~Khrishna

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

©2005-2013 ~Khrishna

my pen exploded.

~xpetalsfallenx May 17, 2006

I probably haven't given this poem the time that it deserves, but I must say that I certainly enjoy the lines "...Something deep like an ocean/ something rivaling emotion." Yes indeed...

Reply

~Khrishna May 24, 2006

that's good enough for me.

you're comment.

Reply

~Mary--jane Oct 13, 2005

the ending
made me feel like theres a storm outside
when theres a bright sun shining down on people walking in the street..
probably sweating to death.

good ending.
good writing.

Reply

!undead85 Sep 16, 2005

you know
this is
very very very good

i hate myself for not having read it before
but now i did
and now i can tell
how much i like it

you blow me away
-my poet friend-

Reply

~Khrishna Sep 18, 2005

poets are people who have to write in order to experience something.
they never live in the moment.
reserecting everything with words.

so i'm sort of like a necromancer, yes.

Reply

~Ihrie Aug 22, 2005

sweet sweet little martyr... you out do yourself again...

Reply

~phreakie-loser Aug 22, 2005 Writer

wow wow wow wow wow wow

WOOOOOOOOOOO!

[are you back?]

[i miss you]

WOOOOOOOT!!

anyways i love this poem

its pretty [just like you]

Reply

~Khrishna Aug 22, 2005

why thank you my darling.

im glad my writing could produce a written orgasm so.

Reply

~phreakie-loser Aug 23, 2005 Writer

what can i say, you are amazing

WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? [loud voice]

i miss you

Reply

~mycheaptrick Aug 19, 2005

Mmmmmmmmmmmgod.

Reply

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