#1

With words I wove my wandering thoughts
into intricate patterns and threads of plot,
allotted times and spaces for my full creation.
Intoxicated by elation of the power I discovered I had
over images and characters, I bent their paths,
the last roads their non-existent feet were taking;
their ticking hearts, of my own making,
were bleeding in my hands –
I took them to their very ends,
outsmarted life in its own game
and won.
One by one I killed them in turn,
I burned the bridges they stood upon,
wrenched their necks and left them hung,
borrowed last breathes from their gasping lungs
to water my ideals in light of metaphors,
to let them bear the burdens I had no use for anymore,
so that I could even the score, world – zero, me – four.
And all it took
was murder.



This is not a pipe
#2
Intoxicated could be a different, more suitable word.
One by one I killed them in turn, is not needed.

I would expect a killer poet to be more creative than this. Well, more elaborate/exotic. The methods were rather predictable.

borrowed last breathes from their gasping lungs
to water my ideals in light of metaphors,

This is clever.

That is all.
Promises meant a lot back then.
#3
Carmel, Carmel, Carmel. The creation/elation thing - I know you're better than that piece of flow.

I like this and I don't. It's intentional and misleading. You are a killer poet, but that is not the direction here.

Or.

I've had a thought.

This IS a thought. This is what we toss about, this is our swagger - remember that? no one on the corner got swagger like us! - this is the obvious, the love we abandon for those few moments of sitting on the handrail, taking in the scene - this is what reins in true thought, and it what's ahead. The rhymes are jokes. The flow is asking riddles of evolution, and you and I both know that she doesn't have the answers on hand. They are always eventual.

Or, I'm wrong. And no one wants someone telling them what they think it is, especially when it isn't. So I will cease and desist, and go play with some rhymes.