Author: SB

Spiritual Warfare

Almost,
I’m used to it,
But almost doesn’t count,
Proof being when the thoughts,
Come flooding back,
With their malevolent attack.

Sneaking in,
Through the backdoor of my brain,
Causing my head to hear crazy,
I see why some of the weaker ones,
Go insane.

I get it,
How that one became deranged,
Why he chose his own day to die,
Uncaring he would cause,
Us to cry.

It’s making sense now,
Why some do things,
That make the rest of us speechless,
Except for maybe,
A “what the fuck” or a “wow”.

Things are crystal clear now,
How some people,
Seem to suddenly go dumb,
Throwing tantrums,
Like one who still,
Sucks upon his thumb.

It’s just hit me,
Like a ton of bricks,
How it is that demons,
Managed to take over,
The way his mind ticks.

It’s becoming understandable,
Why they say their head is, like……….,
But can’t find the words,
After all,
Heads are not expandable,
So inevitably all of this commotion,
Will one day lead to an explosion.

Presently it’s plain as day,
The reason one day he’s normal,
The next he’s doing shit unfathomable,
Going quickly,
From angel to infernal.

Currently,
I myself feel it,
And it’s in no way pleasant,
I want to rave and rant,
But must remain silent,
For to project this everywhere,
Laying it all bare,
What would be the point?
When without a doubt,
No one even cares.

The who and what and when and where and why,
They don’t even matter,
It’s impossible to think,
The way the thoughts are stirred together,
Like a gone-wrong batter.

Almost,
I’m used to it,
But almost doesn’t count,
Proof being when the feelings,
Won’t go away,
No matter how much we pray.

Tel Mah

So much fun,
And isn’t the attachment rare?
Even so,
I don’t care,
That was yesterday,
But as for today……….I hate you.

Will it change?
I guess that depends,
On how you play your game,
All the innings should be,
Just like the beginning,
Once you stop sowing,
You quit reaping,
As then you’re not worth keeping.

If you turn to slime,
I stop wasting time,
Better halt the acting like,
I’m some gruesome daily grind,
Rather than a relaxing relief,
For your fucked-up mind.

Everyone wants to have their cake,
And eat it too,
And here’s that chance,
Pretty much offered to you,
On a silver platter,
Better figure out,
What’s the matter,
Before it dries up,
Like a dead tree stump.

Whether the near future brings,
A sickening sting,
Or a sunny song to sing,
I guess we shall see,
Which you’ll make be.

Is staying miserable,
All you can handle?
Or can you shut that door,
And move on to what’s in store?
The unknown isn’t really,
All that scary,
I speak from experience,
And P.S.,
This thing isn’t just coincidence.

Are And Dee

Like an angry wind,
He stirs things up,
Makes people’s minds bend,
Like a tree bowed over double,
Amid a storm’s leftover rubble.

She follows him,
Like a loyal dog,
Pleasing his every whim,
For her card’s pulled,
From the same deck,
And it’s not that hard.

What a life they lead,
Nosy, nosy, nosy,
Laughing ’til their cheeks are rosy,
Happiest when meddling,
Putting on,
A Christian facade,
Thinking they’re not sinning.

Pretty is,
As pretty does,
These are two,
Downright ugly slimy slugs.

Oh it sickens those,
Who’ve been bruised,
By their ruse,
But what can we do?
Other than pray they stray,
From their wicked ways.

Inconceivable Saint

Exhausted and worn out and spent,
An angel of the highest Lord was sent,
One more miracle,
Left to perform,
So his halo,
Could continue to glow.

He slowly walked along,
Dragging ass,
While his mind sung a song,
Paying no attention really,
By the way,
His name was Beautiful,
And so he was……….really.

Inside and out,
A deliverer sent from above,
To bring faith and hope and love,
Was what he was truly about.

God spelled backwards,
He was man’s best friend,
That’s why he was just perfect,
For his master’s latest project.

The Messiah’s expectations,
Were seven wondrous happenings per day,
Fixing frustrations,
And making generous donations,
When they were done,
He would make meticulous notations.

It happened that today,
This angel was looking to perform his last sensation,
In order to stay worthy,
Of his current station,
Under the Holy Master.

So with that his mind was occupied,
But even so,
Soon he smelled some greasy goodness,
And saw a sign,
Saying that to eat something fried,
One only had to walk on inside.

This may not seem,
Like a likely way,
To find something,
That needs a miracle,
But he did,
He found the someone,
He was intended to,
And they looked downright pitiful.

When he eyed the bar,
We can all relate,
To what that unlikely messenger saw,
Hunched over a plate.

Tattered and torn,
And the tears in the eyes,
Made the person appear forlorn,
So the dog ran up,
And got between the person,
And their cup.

Sitting on the chair,
Beside the one going through,
A living nightmare,
He woofed and wagged,
Until their shoulders,
No longer sagged.

Soon they started to talk,
Pouring out their woes,
And though this was an angel,
Who could not speak,
It healed their heart,
So they could forge a new start.

Before leaving,
He was offered for reward,
A mouthwatering meal,
And when he finally cleared out,
From God he got,
The day’s final seal.

Mission accomplished!
Thought he with satisfaction,
Now he’d corrected a deep sorrow,
And would be permitted,
To work miracles on Earth again tomorrow.

Solo Confidence

The little boat,
Drifts along,
In its heart,
Beats a psycho song,
Full of anger,
Full of angst,
Mad then sad,
It goes far beyond bad.

The song appears,
To come and go,
Caused by whatever weather,
Has determined,
The river’s flow,
But from the banks,
We never know,
To what extent,
It’s taken its toll.

Look it over closely,
Before taking the little boat,
Out for a drive,
Look every day,
In case a storm showed up,
And riled its waters,
While you were elsewhere,
And it needs a repair.

You can’t know for sure,
At only a glance,
So why take the chance?
From where you’re at,
There’s no telling,
If winds were blowing,
Making holes that aren’t showing,
But will be made known,
After you’ve taken it,
Away from its home.

You must remember,
The storm has no friends,
It tosses every boat,
In its path,
And some are made,
To resist its wrath,
But some just can’t withstand,
A strong storm’s demands.

Though it’s controversial,
Technically,
Boats are optional,
And it’s more than acceptable,
To let that boat,
Be for someone else to float.

Though the river is mandatory,
How one navigates it,
Is their own little story,
A boat is escapable,
If you’re capable.

All Cut Up

Intensely felt,
Gashed down deep,
But unable to bleed,
Caused by a thing,
It feels like from which,
There’s no being freed.

It’s immense,
Needing stitches,
Though it won’t be sewn shut,
The best of soothing salves,
Can’t begin to mend the halves.

Weighted down,
By something not seen just felt,
Nearing now to the bottom,
Not quite but almost drowned.

Invisible,
But so powerful,
Easy to forget it isn’t obvious,
Since it’s gathered you such an audience.

Uncomfortable,
As a broken bone,
It assures,
You never feel at home,
Though you know it’s just in your mind,
And indeed,
You’re in reality just fine.

It seems fake,
Compared with headaches or toothaches,
You’ll be told to suck it up,
And made to feel like a fuck-up.

All too common,
Because society is rotten,
Sick in the head,
Is what will be said,
An insult,
That will make you see red.

Never talking of emotions,
Always leads up to explosion,
Tragic though,
That you must choose between,
Being wrecked,
Or causing some bullshit commotion.

What A Terrible, Terrible Man!

Maurice Michaels,
Is he cursed,
Or is it patterns and cycles?

Maurice Michaels,
Any lady,
Who’s tried that man,
Has turned tail and ran.

Maurice Michaels,
King of all psychos,
Calls cute sweethearts,
Little hoes.

Maurice Michaels,
Denies the King of Kings,
Meanwhile,
He’s got absolutely nothing.

Maurice Michaels,
Likes to stare,
At the pretty lady,
Who for him,
Will never care.

Maurice Michaels,
Sickeningly shady,
And with a personality,
Straight from hell.

Maurice Michaels,
Lacks self esteem,
What he wants,
Will never make it,
Past a dream.

Maurice Michaels,
Without willpower,
Picks on others,
Can’t do shit for himself,
So studies habits,
And makes fun of another’s.

Maurice Michaels,
A big round belly,
The rest of him well balanced,
He looks so silly.

Maurice Michaels,
Never was one more rude,
And just so happens,
He’s also a prude.

Maurice Michaels,
Has a heart of stone,
All he does,
Is piss and moan.

Maurice Michaels,
Always willing,
To lend an ear,
To someone wanting,
To laugh and sneer.

Maurice Michaels,
Sends out bad vibes,
They mirror,
Where his heart resides.

Maurice Michaels,
Is one fucked up guy,
Never has one,
Told more lies.

Maurice Michaels,
Doesn’t know how to have fun,
He may as well be done.

Maurice Michaels,
Is spiritually blind,
To the devil,
His soul has been signed.

Maurice Michaels,
A first class jerk,
Not worth the work.