By: myTh the Poet

Arm The Arsenal

If my pen is mightier than the sword
Then I shall be a mighty creature in folklore.
Serving hoards from moors,
Disarming them without chain-metal and gore.


Chain Reaction

I tread in the vacant and remote.
I’ll descend through the depths of hell,
Patient yet betrothed.
Given a reason to compel.
Proverbial, I’m not the sacrificial
Lamb or goat.
Paddling in the moat, nervously peddling.
Hoping the creatures won’t swallow me whole.
Wallow and gloat, calm at the surface
But purposely churning steadily.
Like a Memphis duck, stuck in a shooting gallery
No rubber duds, when adversity wishes to scuffle it with me.
It is what it is, if the ends justify the means.
Then I’m ready with certainty.
I rather die trying, enduring incredibly.
Than retire, allowing what I desire –
Slip by, with regret
Embedded in memory.


The Mushroom Cloud
A featured presentation, the main event.
Essays on a philosophy, contradicting in nature.
You say you support me, but you wish for me to wait more.
Now the time has come: progress has finally come!
Your stake – go for it with a calculated equation
Be weary of your travels toward destination
That seems cowardly and evasive.
Persuasive, inherently my poetry can’t be invasive
Capturing mind, body and soul
Like this is a pipe dream and I should resort to packing skoal.
It’s no illusion or delusion
Prose flows through me, like it’s a transfusion.


The Aftermath

Live by the gun
Die by the bullet
Which figure’s ring finger rests on the trigger, eager to pull it.
Living by the scimitar’s blade
Dangling overhead, over the neck
Flipping spades like it’s a charade,
Russian Roulette.
I scrape the razor’s edge
Shave the narrow ledge.
Digging as a far as any drill can dredge.
Tip-toe the serrated haemorrhage
The frontier you fear
Trembling to be the pioneer.
The biggest figure is the one who can outlast.
Circumstances’ contingency plans.
It’s not a gauntlet or a massacre.
You can’t flaunt it like macabre.
A man unleashes his vaunted monster
To thwart phobia from stepping off the pier.
Peering from inward toward out,
A man versus himself, the ultimate profound bout.
Entrenched in the ground, with a posture stout.
Tremors and fright, will not be the surrender and plight
If I perish, may it be I challenged these harriers tonight!


The Fallout

Poetry flows free like water from a faucet,
You cannot order nor force it.
If so, these tenants erode caustic.
The ability comes naturally
No predetermined prerequisite required
Harness your heart, soul, energy and effort perspired.


Published by

Wells Street Journal

The Wells Street Journal is a publication by the students of the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Westminster. It is a diverse collection of writing with London as our inspiration.