Update

On March 29th my poem “Paper” will be featured on Spillwords.com. I will post the link when it goes up so please visit. In other news I got an internship as a Journalist for Propl which starts May 1st.

Stigmata

I fell from the heights of ill-repute

To the obscurity of dusk

Where poverty found

Even my infamy lacking

For she stripped me cleanly of everything

My money, my inspiration, my pride

All found themselves upon her alter

Sacrificed unwittingly

For a few scraps of comfort

I found myself inconsolable

In my crimes

Drinking away the hours

In idleness

=

I spoke

Of the days of my greatness

As all men do

With an air of narcissism

That savors the memory

Of only key aspirations

Though I felt plainly my faults

I bore them poorly

Because nothing hurts worse

Than being called a god

And finding yourself to be no more

Than a pitiful excuse for a man

Who cannot inspire love

Or create anything of novelty

=

Once I had a voice

That stung with cynicism

A voice that threw open the doors

Of all that was dark and vulgar in man

I lay out every crime

In the masculine air of violence

With its beautiful blood-stained projections

And I, like a psychic,

Reviled in the future

=

I saw my fate in the destruction

Of man and the destitution of the weak

The fate of all things living, I saw death

The blackened head of my savior,

Whose ferryman told me

Of the bitter nights

When he lay a solider in the barracks

Watching with revulsion

The face of man

As the wounds of his messiah

Spilled over the earth

=

The future impregnated

With the seeds of those slain

An uneasy peace rose from the ashes

With all the markings of insanity,

The unholy screams

Of a thousand souls rotting

Under the guise of religion

Ripped from the fiery depths of greed

And each man found his hands unclean

Stained with sins

For which no amount of penance

Could ever purify

And for which no amount of gain

Could ever truly justify

=

To what heights

The men found themselves

Elevated to the level of sainthood

They fell as I once did

And found themselves left repeating

With less and less conviction

That which they killed for

That which they died for

But no one suffered a crueler fate

Than those spared

For they had seen man

At his most contemptible

And they found the face of God

Suddenly appalling

For it did not bare salvation

Or the trappings of peace

But devastation and deceit

=

This poem is probably 10 plus years. I think it illustrates my earlier literary influences as the writing style is a little different from my usual style. This poem is about religious war and greed. This poem is anti-corruption not anti-religion I mean no offense whatsoever to any religious school of thought. This is fictional the I in the story is a writer/reporter, the scandalous sort.