dragon's angel

Like a dragon spit fire
I bleed for desire
And my angel sings higher
But his voice is on wire
His notes ring higher
Circulate my hearted pyre
And my decision is dire
Do I stay or do I turn flyer
Do I tell him my heart's on pyre
Or do I cry from this lovely supplier

Like a spaceship in orbit
I rotate and form it
The plan is amazingly forfeit
Giving up my heart for his torment
His hands forming my lively poor grips
Breaking my glass walls to find my true self I wore skits
With his wings open revealing his morbid
His deadly love, killing me softly but hardly like four slits
Initials carved in my heart eternally erasing memories of whore fits

I allow him to stay within
In my skin he belongs to my kin
Making my heart fat too full to be thin
Never again will it shrink from a cold bitch's skin
Fought out of the corner and I knocked you out I win
I won, I'm the sun and the moon brighten with each spin
He is my sun and moon and replaces my hate with a new sin
Man on man is hellacious to the good book but I don't give a fuck I grin
And I want him, so I sin and my sin is sliced within my heart of tin
I'm telling anyone who has a query about me being queer which was once hidden

I'm a dragon dragging on the ground my feet
He's my angel, dragging me up to heaven on beat
The bass of my heart pounds out my love on repeat
So I bring the heat
And he brings the Antarctic sleet
Cancellation of each other but complimentary like trick and treat
So I treat him right and he treats me respectfully with each greet
He is my angel bringing me up to happiness beyond a spaceship meet
And I remain his baby, born a new since we met, he is my inspirational elite


steven walsh (Rochester, NY, 1987)

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mon visage

On this stage of life, we are just actors
Interacting with other actors with differing factors
And each effect is caused by the improvisation of these reactors
And each reaction has an equal and opposite causational direction
So we read faces and scripts but the words on not written for affection
The sentences you need are in my eyes like pages from your library collection
When I feel sad you change facial expressions but why?
I have not told you what to say next but still you say the correct lie
Because isn’t that what any of us tells, fibs and fables to make other’s knee high
We want to make ourselves feel better, but our character prevents such
So we read our lines off the faces handed to us as we walk with no crutch
But still, to emotional lies and being happy with just one person we clutch
So in this Globe Theatre we are all portraying the same anthropomorphized
And we react to others reactions until our own expressions cannot be prophesized
I wish to no longer be falsified and I need my own face back after being disguised


steven walsh (Rochester, NY, 1987)

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middle finger march

You grab with an open palm
But your grab is a stab opposite calm
Frantically I panic as I bleed automatic
It flows as the beat slows until finally static
Words cannot express the knot you tied
When I open wide, each syllable seems to hide
Emotionally over you, so over us two and us too
So I'm looking for new, a new boo among so few
I'm not looking for hooking up with just anybody
But looking for hooking up with that special somebody
Lonely I've become and overcome with fear and anxiety
So overshadowed, not hallowed but still haloed tried to see
I want to be me, but me is the nice guy who finishes final
Why does my kind fall behind like a continuum of loves denial
It's happened repeatedly again and then when I think it's done
She comes along, it's been so long but now I've found the one
Or have I? Nope, I fall ass over face, what a waste it seemed
I guess friendship was on her mind, but I find that kind to be dreamed
So you see, you sleep but I keep on scheming and writing
Well, not so much scheming as teaming words in poor lighting
Damn this lamp is like you, bright, slight and slender but easily turned off
It's apparent that apparently I was not the correct guy to help you get off
So get off, get bent in the jail sense, it's going to hurt but rough it
A finger or two to linger a few while I sit on my tuffet eating Ms. Muffet
Was that muffled, apologies for my middle finger policies
I know that blow wasn't rough but hoe right it was slender mockeries
Well, I'm off, I mean, I'm high like loft, liftoff bitch
Peace out, I doubt you care what I write about you bitch


steven walsh (Rochester, NY, 1987)

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