[Suzerain of Sheol]

I (essentially) have a degree in English literature and they never taught a poem-reading class... but I suppose that's irrelevant since you're just spam-necro'ing for achievements, and not here to actually participate in a cogent discussion. On the other hand, you did remind me I have some I haven't posted.

Dark Matter

This thought was never meant to be, so very naturally inimical to nature
corroded again with the heroin-spike of self-importance, I cannot rest
so I count the slaughtered sheep across the fence
and fantasize about all the times I could have died
but not really
there's a storm in here, and the clouds spell out my name
history swelling like my memory of thunder
crash
a bygone degradation: hormone flood of predictable anxiety
that auto-abusive child, mutilating itself like unintentional art
heedless of the void
crash
time dilation breathing in
reminder as a knife in the spine
I was born to love things and watch them rot to death
crash
impulsive reptilian posturing, for a moment
unconscious reflection on my flayed esteem
as though I were anything to matter
crash
there's nothing here to hurt anyway
a wetware ghost with imaginary feelings
and an obsessive metaphor called God
crash
crash
crash

Once More, Epimethean

“I” am, at best, an intangible, an elusive incidence – an implication of Id dreamt of by madmen and addicts. And yet, “I” insist upon existence, as if the instant of evaporation could describe water in essence. Inarticulate. A phantasm of expressed semantics, inherent to nothing. “I” die every time “I” am born, across the infinite strata of moments, those sequestrations of seemingly-sovereign thought that identify as human, just as how a thousand-trillion molecules of dust pose in the shape of a corpse.

Banishment

The morning sun is a sword to fall upon
breath is suffocation
as I tender the disciple's noose
another reign I did not choose
damnation by days
and I hurl away the blades
but the glass is stubborn in my skin
the nails are poignant in my wrists
so I rage and damn my futile gods
I bless the scourge that batters down my will
just as I will never forgive the abuse of my birth
we are all the apostles of Thanatos, cavorting as lovers
but I'm disillusioned with the inflation of existence
and heading for a crash
the crown of life will break my neck
my lungs will die, my thoughts prevail to black
and I cannot wait