Massacre.

A massacre pardoned
conjures up genocides. 
I am cursed by this
forgiving nature; 
it corrodes me. 
Had you shot me 
with silver bullets,
I would still kiss
your smoking gun.
Violence, like yours,
should not be forgot.
But somehow, my head
always turns to ignore it.
As though, looking away
negates its existence. 
I could be between
your sharp teeth,
and convince myself
you did not mean it.
To say I am naive 
is an understatement.
Not even a fool
could be so dense.
Like a masochist,
I return for a second helping
of your appetizing abuse,
then still come to your defense.
I swallow every bite,
savouring the taste as I chew.
No excuse too contrived
when I sacrifice myself
for your illness.
Now I burn at the stake
for crimes I did not commit.
My only regret remains
in believing you were innocent.

Aura.

Searching through the same old subterfuge,
bits of shrapnel cut into my day old skin.
Defiantly determined to dodge the deluge,
I refuse to drown despite being unable to swim.

A pair of possessed peepers watch my dance,
branches bristle then crunch under unseen feet.
I am on auto-pilot. Failure's left me in a trance,
as I am hollow as the corpses of rotten trees.

I grab a handful of gangrene covered leaves—
squeeze every tear out of my stony heart.
Avert your gaze while this lifelong widow grieves,
with heaving chest, I fall apart.

This enchanted forest is haunted by my remorse,
unable to escape its curse unless I learn;
the end will come once I bury my dead, beaten horse,
until then, the world will not stop burning.

Rust.

All we can do is dream,
keep chasing after silver streams—
dollar signs flash as we speed by.
The only certainty is that we die.

Distorted reality blurs meaning,
tragedies occur without reason.
Hope waivers, careening,
The truth is rarely appeasing.

Tempered glass shatters;
the shards on the floor look like diamonds.
Survival is all that matters,
when my head hides wailing sirens.

One day, my sun refused to rise,
broken down from shining over lies.
Nightfall never left my side,
no visibility in a charcoal sky.

Though I braved storms
earthquakes, and landslides,
suddenly the feather wind
even bruised my pride.

What do you tell two tired feet,
or hands wrinkled from wringing?
Not even paradise itself could
stop my shuttered eyes from stinging.

When faith runs out,
carrying on seems pointless.
Sometimes success even
prefers avoidance.

That is when I start to sink.
I melt like wax on the parquet flooring.
Scrutinize every crack then
accost myself for ignoring it.

I become a magnet for suffering,
repelled by my own self-detriment.
Copper, as I blush then rust.
Seizing up, I crumble to dust.