Poetry of the Wolf-Ishtare Style

[Zarn Ishtare]

I write in razorblades
My skin is the paper
And suddenly I awake from the dream
Love is madness, joy becomes sadness
Who we are is not what we seem

The blood was an illusion
Alluding to a contusion
To heartfelt melodies

It was just a twisted path
A trap hid within the wrath
For blind men wanting to see

I’ve got problems
What to do at rock bottom
And how to make these few things last
I try to help
Embracing my brother
Now gone, like moonlight, so fast.

He left me blind
And Blind I’ll remain
Till the end of this fallacy
I’ll use it
Blood faith and hard-rockin music
To escape this reality


Poetry, courtesy of Moi.

I should point out that this was written in a good mood, just working out some stuff that needed to be on paper for my sanity...

[Zarn Ishtare]

I suppose I should be clear: When I speak of things like suicide and murder in my poems, I am never speaking in defense of them: I loathe suicide in all its forms, from the coward drinking himself into death to the angsty teenager who thinks to teach his family a "lesson". This pain is no less real to me, however, then if it were physcial cuts on my arms, wrists, or body. It is just of the sort that men's eyes do not normally percieve.


This ruins some of the mystique of the poem, perhaps...but oh well.

[Anna Mae]

No, that was good to say. It is fitting that we feel others' pain as if it were our own.

[creed4]

I see your point