by Desmond E., 14

The notion that my muse inspired 
must be
an elegance of the pen
lest its wielder in viscous drool be mired
and never see the light again
to articulate the human condition
by point of mind through drop of ink
only channeled is misery, and only melancholie sends
and only in these superstitions
can we all lay here, in this place where only atrocity lends
only here can we be heard my darling
and all is beautiful here, I think.

War is a thing that penetrates
faces stuck between the bars
‘neath the rusted sewer grates
even though all who go 
have ever travelled far.

All’s in every action pre-arranged
and already through demented lycanthropy
I feel a man confined to his vessel, so utterly changed
and in everything is anything you wish
outcast from life’s beginning, a figure in the woods estranged
what is the world when when unobserved
what is water without fish
what is life except to be internally a method to tease
from your core the pleasure
eternally of by scorn a slow-release
and nothing is clear
all is opaque
no matter perception, or personal take
but from the beginning
it has always been obvious
that peace in thought can only be attained
by finding in one’s self a memory still conceded
while in followers all but sympathy may remain
so hold the high notes in refrain
and let your mistakes be repeated.

San Leandro, California