Like purposeful opposition
I flow against the grain
Against the currents and the masses
Swimming against tides of thick molasses
Throwing fists of fury
Cursing kings and gods alike
Pounding a chest full of anger
They will cower at the sight
Once called a tantrum
Now called a break down
These are the fists of the contemptuous clown
I'm building ladders to take me higher
To heaven's peaks I do aspire
On Yin's and Yang's battlefield
Lay the legends I have sired
To the greats that I admire
I dedicate this empire
Built upon the words and actions
Of those in unassuming attire
Like most of what I dream
We all must end in steam
Evaporated and cleansed
Like the puddle
On the corner of Queens Street
And the boulevard of Kings
A shallow little thing
Where children of pawns play
And unsavory knights stay
Where the bishops have claimed their day
To take what they want and convert who they may
And the castles stand empty
Except for ten percent full
Because the drawbridges have been drawn
By avarice's fool
And the front line advances
All during the meanwhile
And the children stay playing
Not knowing that their tile
Has great forces impending
Upon its position
I rush behind enemy lines
With rash imprecision
And make it in time
Miss the slaughter of the front line
And weep for my once friends
I have become that which I would have never been
The new temptation
So intoxicating when
It seeps under the skin
Forgetting what I meant to do
Forgetting who I am
There was something I was fighting for
Sometime before the fray began
A long time ago
Way back when
Something so utterly important
Colossally intense
The long lost origins
The warriors repent
I see steam curling up from the battlefield
And figures tilted to their sides
While the back lines sit contentedly by
Happy to watch us wage their wars
On the corner of Queens Street
And the Boulevard of Kings
I remembered what it all was for
I dart across the battlefield
Now with ease and grace and thunder
Much to their awe, disgust, regret, dismay, and wonder
They will say that I had lost my mind
Or somehow become unhinged
But what you've just witnessed
Is simply pawn's revenge
Journal
Insomniac's Journal
Words birthed in the internal
His subconscious' dunk-tank
These words remained unranked
Articulate the contemplations
Of these waking frustrations
Pen in hand
Sleep be damned
These are the greatest thoughts in the land
But why do they come at 4 in the morning
Must write them down
And heed the warning
His memory won't serve him as well when he wakes
If only he knew what was at stake
Words, Words, and more still left to come
Cannot stop till he sees the sun
Sunken eyes
Blood shot red
Sleep finally comes to the walking dead
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