if men are divided
as either
sheep or wolves,
then i already know
what is to become of me.

when my time comes,
when the slaughter is nigh,
i will stick out my neck
and tell them,
do it properly.

i am too tired
to do otherwise.
i find it preferable
to end this farce;
life will go on,
with or without sheep;
with or without wolves.

Cries of a wolf—howling in the
burns of a shadowy night. Preying eyes,
seeking, pouncing to hunt you out my dear.
Chasing love, or rather being chased by love
behind a trail of youthful winds. At the time
we still could count the scars on our knees.

Seems we've barely got skins holding solid
on our bones. Time is a she-wolf feasting on
once was youth. Her sharp tooth digs into my
eyes—gnawing my ability of sight.

I'm haunted by the long nights; seeming longer
if you're unsure you'd wake in the morning.
Death is a mistress of non screaming echoes,
but a peaceful whisper of her calling. She knocks
at the door of my cold feet; a deathbed unlike
no other rest to your eyes. (It's subtle goodbye)

But a longest night, makes expectancy of the day
brighter than it's tomorrow. But a few extra hours
is never what we'll borrow—still the hours of
wisdom we left behind is hoped to follow.
To let new things grow in the rises of one's
written experience, as the story of a Morn' flower.

wolf ,
         can you land meat ?
            or are busy being needlessly cruel to 'lesser' peers ?
could you even take a basic stalk about the woods ?
            or would you be blistered
               breaking in those brand new pricy walking boots ?
a full moon ?
   maybe you'd drink to excess on those nights ?
   maybe pick a fight or beat on your loved ones
                                   but whimper the next day ?

that smart suit ?
ridiculous over your fur
heard you're on a trendy fad diet
you fidget at your desk
you fidget on your screen
work is obscenely wasteful
distractions are just plain obscene
you are a coward to your soul
soiled by domestic inactivity

You shake and tremble inside,
As howling pierces through the stain glass.
For you have ran from the devil’s ride,
His born demon growling after your ***…

As you have made it through the chapel door,
You pray the lock keeps you safe and warm.
Your soul shakes and rattles to the core,
Around you your love is torn.

What is left of candlelight,
Forces you to fret among the pews.
For no one can save your soul tonight,
Bleeding outside your lover’s heart he chews…

Thunder strikes the cross to fall and crack down,
You choke and pray your dear rosary.
Your screams beg to awaken the town,
Asleep they are, Wolfberry.

So sweet the taste a wolf wants,
And sweet the taste the wolf will get too.
Scratching and clawing the wood it haunts,
Just a couple more seconds to get through.

Tackled down the door revealing the moon,
The death of darkness has fixed red eyes.
Your blood to the beast is not immune,
He latches on your demise…

I pray to my Lord; as the prey in this crazy
world, dressed in sheep's clothing of all
those wolves.
All lurking around with no good.

Shepherd guide me; I don't always know
where to go. Staff of mercy; disciplines hurt
of the rod, but keeps me on my track to God.

Teeth marks; and ****** holes in my leg,
went chasing on greener pastures. But instead;
I was caught down on my defence.
Wolves only see red; as they have their prey out as
a spread.

The prey prays not to be prey; by the longest
prayer of all the sheep's prayers.

My wolf
You bit me
Under a full moon
And I didn't turn
I stayed human
Scars in my arms
Blood dripping from my wrists
I fell to the forest floor
And cried

today I’m gonna make it

getting done with the stuff I left for days or a week, reading a book once again that I excitedly flipped every page, losing a grip on a string of a blue balloon, today I’m gonna spend all of my pennies to my unrequited wish, similarly to a black hole that keeps gnawing my heart; this is what it cost.

Today I’m gonna find out why they are calling us “black swans”. I will make their blood drain, we will dance at them until their eyes glow green. Today I’m gonna make it, but not the girl who cried wolf at night.

Thrums the bee waggle-dance in a haunt of Indian horsepaths,
Or the shaking leaf one second past the strike of galloping rain
/ Parsimonious lightning, thrifty in its jagged stalks
Against this night of heavy-hearted oaks /
Then the hay-fringed bale of sleep, rolled into a valley of slowed breathing,
Through parting cloud-diabolique, poison-peers the wet toadback of Autumn,
Glowing moon-gristle in the bosky wolf’s beard with its wireframe of teeth.

Oil and vinegar,
Sugar and spice,
Lust is ****** up,
and love is nice.
Lust can fool you,
to thinking you love,
or she/he loves you,
But be careful of the wolf
that will attack you.
Oil and vinegar,
Sugar and spice,
love is ****** up,
but also nice.
Keep that in mind, when you sing this song.
That love is not the game yet for the lust we play.
How it tricks us into being the fool of a lusters game.