acts of pure evil or pot calling the kettle black…

i’ve come to believe
that envy’s behind evil
blind desires for fame
destruction of true heroes
to steal another’s glory


die trying…

the circle
gold leaf figurines
sit atop
decaying flesh
corroded by time
an unreleased episode
of the twilight zone
there is
no way out
way to see
beyond the lines
in the inner circle
for just one
gray day
the circle
the tears
of those inside
create rainbows
multicolored illusions
of happiness
drawing those
like moths
to a light
with wings
frantically pounding
against transparent lines
of class privilege
and when
reason rises
like a new day
those outside
can be found
the street light
of their desire

clinical considerations…

copyright cwmaritn 2011

one man rises
easter morning
the envy of all
he had made the call
of his own rise and fall
those left behind
have been wondering
if it was just
some kind of magic trick
such human thoughts
place their own deaths
in a void
the proverbial
between a rock
and a hard spot
a what’s next syndrome
that paralyzes
the masses
from action
when they already
what should be done
but one can never
be too careful
so rather than act
they react
while collecting
as many coins
as they can
just in case
the whole damn thing
was staged
and taking out
multiple memberships
since one
never knows
which version of god
will be calling
that is
if the line
isn’t already

perspective of a portrait…

 A Classic Art ChallengeHere we are at the second round of another poetry challenge between my good friend  Jade and myself. This time, the writing will be prompted by five paintings, ranging from classical to modernist. We hope you will enjoy this as much as we do!

Today’s painting is: Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I by Gustav Klimt completed in 1907

Portrait of Adele Bloch Bauer by Gustave Klimt

over the years
i have seen
so many faces
staring into my eyes
and have felt
so many envious hands
touching me
i have seen those i’ve loved
carried off to gas chambers
while i was taken prisoner
uncertain of my future
i wandered around
travelling even to america
i asked to go home
even writing it down
but no one would listen
as if my voice
could not be heard
from my grave
i stare out now
at a whole new world
i am now a slave
an object to be ogled
by every passing person
envied for my constant beauty
but no one can see
the sadness i have inside
nor do they care
i think some times
that the oldest profession
is not prostitution
but betrayal
recall what happened
in the garden of eden