Poetry Blog by Daniel Reuben King

When we put our vulnerability in the hands of another it is misunderstood and spoiled by that misunderstanding.

Words words words just soil filling a grave.

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My imaginary friends comfort my loneliness. To say they are imaginary isn't quite right but I have no labels that fit.

They sit with me and watch my dreams as I sleep. 

Nothing can truly satisfy my desires. So I try to rest in the place that they are born from. 

 I feel so weary with life. The possibility of being incarcerated or persecuted a constant shadow. If I gave up drugs and alcoho...

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All the animals I love and have forgotten have starved to death. I open the door to their room and it feels like punch of sadness in the gut.

When I slash myself to ribbons with a scalpel I don't take myself seriously. I'm just the punchline of a sick joke. 

The pitch dark of depression oozes from my pores. 

Kindness is priceless. 

Innocence a creation of the wicked...

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God has become statufied in his inhumanity. What's a boy to do when his lover has gone away. They throw bleeding poppies on my feet. The tribal infants of some backwards epoch worship me. I am so white and grey with deficiencies of romance. Time is meaningless in it's infinite extension to fading disappearance. 

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Where is poetry sleeping and how can I rouse her to come and frolic and play with me as children and lovers do.

Deletion eats and is always empty. And creation creates until something is made worthy to stand as long as mountains. 

Creation leaves it marks and some remain like stars and others pass like comets. But the sky is always greatful for her beautiful and glittering gown. 

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The philosophers will burn themselves into fresh air the perfume of truth. 

What is truth without a universe of tangible objects? 

Is the perceivable reality just an allusion to what is formless? A sign post to the beyond for those no longer satisfied with a physical life?

The unconscious and sex seem to be purely motivated by a fear of death. Without that fear how would people and sexual...

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This is the knife this is the flower this is my relief pass it on. 

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Who's killing who. Am I the slayer or the slain. 

Truth:

All that thinks is evil. 

Long live the preachers of the purely hyporcritical. 

Speak misdirection. 

Death pollutes everything. 

Fear exists at every level. 

I am God and I am terrified.

I fall in love to save my life. 

I arouse and molest to exist. 

I am the hunter and the prey. 

I owe forgetfulness a memory...

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Like love drunk upon the blood of a still beating heart, I come as one into the lions lair to eat the flesh of carnivores. 

Her voice is like a gift I wish would never die. I am born anew each time I hear her. 

In doubt I am doubted. In love I am far reaching beyond every star. In fire I burn all that burns. In death I am stillness awaiting the call of memories, a sleep that the living pass ...

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