the dying crowi was vanished to hell as punishment for not feeding the snake that consumes and releases as the vines pierce my veins and soul and my skin cracks and leaks blood i pass out on the floor my mouth bleeds out and when i wake i hear the cry of a bird that sounds like my screams i find him under a rock it's alive but doesn't look like it it seems to be in the same condition i'm in it's wings bleed and it's bones stick out some of it's feathers were plucked out i poured a river of tears and he stared at me the crow responded by scratching my face and arms despite the anger i felt towards it i refused to attack it back i knew it's suffering, it's cries for help never answered, and it's want for revenge i feel it's despair and will to die i don't have much but i try to heal it and keep it alive it still screeches at me sometimes it still attacks me when his trauma attacks his brain like a hawk grabs a snake it refuses to look at those not in this hell but for some reason it got attached to me and refuses to leave me side now it has fully healed physically though the mental damage has yet to fully heal now it can fly and it's wings work again, albeit weak and frail it wants to fly but it doesn't want to leave me then my back started to ache feathers and bones sticking out blood leaking out of my scars new and old seems to be from the crow's love for me seems to be a gift for the fact i brought it's flight back as the bones and feathers increase they start forming wings like the crow, but way bigger we are learning how to fly we still can't escape the hole forced on us but one day we will fly together back home under the moonlightWoe To The Golden Calf (Vent Poetry)I pushed her away, or so I tried.Blocked out, pushed far, where she should hide.Yet everywhere I turn, she lies,Like an ever-present parasite, unconfined. This Golden Calf, they kowtow and pray,Her artwork and words are the truth, they blindly say.They lift her high, like a shining lie,And turn to me, with expectant eye. "Join us," their sheep gazes plead,"Worship our prophet, help sow her seed.""Bow down to our queen," they say, as I cringe,They're just her little puppets in her venomous fringe. What holy grace does she possess?Just a showoff artist, a high and mighty mess,Her art and words, apparently something grand,But I see the flaws, and no one understands. They rave about her hypocritical painted lines,Her "lovely" drawings, her "grand" designs.But I just see an insignificant hand,Deceitful paints and pencils from where I stand. She's not special, not even a bit good,Her annoying pictures just fill me with a bad mood.Just lines and colors, flaccid and thin,Baseless sculptures, a boring spin. I'm tired of her, in every way.I just wish that she would go away.Fall from prominence, like a wave's crash,Reduced to dust, like crumbled ash. Oh, what a joy that would impart!A freedom for this spiteful heart.I'd buy cake and ice cream, colors so bright,To celebrate her downfall through the night. A sweet feast, a joyous release,That thought alone will be my endless peace,A cruel thought, yes, I know it's true,But, everything about her, I am through.trophygifpersonpersonpersonperson