The Sonnet that Spake Heartbreak.

On this lush crag once stood,

Oak of heaven, born of Jove.

Its roots, before this mood,

Grew hope no gale could move.

Then sudden oak death came,

As a wench after man’s ill.

She swooned and made it lame,

It buckled, could not still.

It did come down with a shrill.

“Father lord!”, it did wail.

But she came with much thrill

“My Holy Mary!”, he would hail.

And the spell she left was broken.

And her spell of love had spoken.

Protecting me…

Don’t look…


That’s right, keep walking.

And avoid the awkward glances,

Be awkward and keep moving.

Don’t worry…

Don’t you dare feel SORRY!

Don’t feel sorry you’re lonely while I am protecting….

I AM protecting- I am saving you.

From what you ask??


Yes, from them, from knowing them.

They’re Savages. They’re Judges.

They’re hangmen on crutches!!!

They aren’t good for you.

They will murder you! They will torture you!

They will just rape you!!!

And you… you’ll just write another sorry poem

For the pain in your heart.

You will stand waiting for the tear at the isle

You will usher her to her meet her maker

To have and to hold her, that fragile heart you love….

Whenever you’re hit with harsh words on the sly

That they’re normal and you’re;


You’ll curl up and bawl on print

Whine in abstract and with hints

For attention and a couple more hits

I’m saving you

I’m saving you from all of that again…

So keep walking

Keep walking Son.



Sinner’s Ranting

Life’s greatest mystery, to me,
is how we live happy with illusions as means.
Values are bloated with pomp that seem free,
carefree, our lives mask the angst of being free.
Freedom is a myth,
a Minotaur dancing through a cell of revolving doors,
knowing his path to hope
but trapped in it’s endless spin.
We see Hell on our plate, we can’t stare at its heat,
so blindfolding our minds is the fad saving us from our sins.
We pray to our faith to do something about Fate,
then flirt with Fate to test good ole faith, just like humans should do.
We’ll support the misguidance
as long as we can call her mysticism.
It’s a beautiful thing,
just purge all our choices and guide our ways in a line.
Oh God, save us.
Save us or just save me.



A spectre with love

A Spectre came, 

rousing the person lodging in my nogging.

He beckoned my tenant,

who sighed to berate his tyrant.

But then he marveled,

wanting nothing more than to reach out

and leave his room of logic,

to seek madness from his shell, for magic.

His latent desire,

an escapade with a spirit not right,

stumbled in with sensations to rekindle  

the romance his pragmatics lack.

So he skips out, my savvy.

Hand in hand with his new-found cherie

to tumble bareback  and far from all distraction

never to return, lost in the wind of passion.

Then he returns,

crawling back to me every night.

seeking refuge where it’s right

his winded shrieks give me fright

Battered by the cold

searching for a whole.

 Begging for the shell he damned

yet hoping his feeling comes around.

I wait in the night

wait for the spectre to come for his right

for the tenant to run from his true light

for love to come calling for the night.

Lebrecht|Hitlebb 2016

My own private torture…

Still not sure how I stare back at this lack
while held by chains of my own private torture.
Walls so wicked they’re leering back
at my helpless wails and tasty tears.

I made the choice to be this way
In blinding light that makes me sick
but why leave that Which helps me stick
the ways that keep me safe and let you stay

I once brought down Jericho with you!
Hammered down the walls holding me back
leaving debris of your indirect conquest
As a testament to your masses and dark religion.

I was impressed by what you did
So I sponged from you before my journey home

Watching your maturity date age in simple magnificence with awe

I begun wanting to make my ways in your image.

Forgetting my old haven needs its own beams and foundation

I built stairways measured in your grand heights going higher

and never considered they’d topple over.

Now my little dreams are there with My Lady called Future.

They’re in danger because My Mind Palace seemed sturdy and I was so eager.

Either I didn’t master or you’re just youthful banter

it doesn’t matter now, they’re gone and I’m a loser.

All I have for me is faith and a journey on the path to atonement

the place I’ll visit while bound by my fallen

their chains will make me stronger

and I’ll drag them while I punish my self to show you the effects of your way

from the sound of my pain
From my own private torture.

Hitlebb|Lebrecht © 2016


He wants to,
wants to whisper them away.
All those problems of would be play,
nauseating but worth their red and decay.
On his tongue they taste like hay,
a fungus that will never grey or hear his say,
because he holds back,
he holds back the rhymes and welcomes those condescending lines,
they dictate his time with what should be fine for the most high and them.
For a child like him the line was pain and strife,
but he touched that line and came back looking fine.
And after,
those who glorified the most high and the star as true convinced him.
Convinced him to leave the line of the lyre to lounge in the ways of their wine.
And in that moment,
his less than weary journey
with aide but no merry
that left no scars as memory
lost purpose as he missed his line of fire because he leaves.
He leaves behind the arsonist that should  be craving a fire that will never be.
And thus,
Thus I become big brother, the version born of the flux ignorable while he turned Winston.
Hiding in dark corners to shield himself from masters who will slay him.
After I leave for my bright new sky,
it pours and pours to kill his fire.
It puts out his fire,
which is my fire.
I left the man who was the fire.
I left the sky in all it’s splendor,
and died because we are that fire.
They killed the man who could have been fire.
They killed us,
we could have been fire.