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Forked RoadsLet yourself breathe the fumes
of the mis-cultured outside, forgotten
by the futility of our attempts
to build a transparent box of secrecy
around our souls
And in a effort to shut-out the truth
you forget to see that these,
self inflicted lies have sliced through
the connecting tissue of our palpatating hearts
and laid bare the mis-truthed monster
for which they beat.
ThreadsEvery occasionally wispered phrase, or
evanescent thought spiraling heavenward
Only the travesty of the truth of that
perilous human condition that we in
ironic brevity, sum up, as love.
We wake in the morning to the sound
of our struggle to forget the one thing,
that we cannot live without.
The connection, singularly suggested
by the never ending knot of a coiled heart
masked, and suppressed, but never lost.
AgeWe the young, the souls bleeding fear,
stood, stooped and silent at the door of destiny.
Hoping, dreaming, beyond reality,
that we can become who we are,
and remain the innocence we once were.
Stepping through that ethereal doorway.
picture frame of the future in fractured fear
of its power.
Of our power.
Of our failure.
And grasping hope of avoidance
of the wreckage of the crumbling tower of age's responsibility.
Existing in fear of remembering,
that somewhere along our convoluted road,
we forgot to live.
Rambling on LossI know not what drives me to define
In such a manner to see her again
Nor to find myself refined,
Different at next meeting, no longer a boy
No longer in pain
But I fear that this love chased is not to be
In the wake of which I linger and cry
May not be the path I see
Inked on parchment before my eyes
That I love her, I know, not as and idea
But as an individual, forgotten sometimes,
But always remembered in futuristic fears
And typcasted in remiss and broken rymes
In these words, here.
in the silent darkness
of the inner mind.
As the path wanders on
through the twisting branches
of the tree of life.
And so the intertwined wicker bows
percieve the meaning of each
Each pad of callused feet
like a drumbeat,
silent, and unheard.
Despite the shaking
of the branches, quivering
in aprehension, and sorrow.
DesperationThe abandoned, recanted, re-broken
Bleeds its intellectual lies into the tears
Of its shattered spirit
Slipping slimy fingernails of weathered, bottled
Sliding from the scream-hole, the dripping
Punctured throat of integrity
Scratching the forever blind, child-eyes
Rolling languidly away from
The forgotten truthThe solid-built fortes of social constraint,
morally crumbling under the weight
of it’s own academic constipation
Built on the backs of invisibly-chained
slave-minds, subject to the whims of the
two-tone breaker of old men.
Reeking of rubberized meals
and immaturity’s poison barb
sets in the stagnant air.
The wandering refugees of intelligence
only, can understand the watchfulness,
of illogical reason.
Shadows of the pastI rewind my blindness
to forget and to remember.
The past blunders
the forever blank
Nightly DemonsWhen I was little,
I used to run up the stairs,
To evade the demons that lurked in the darkness.
Afraid that they’d devour my limbs,
But they’ve since migrated into my head,
Some nights, I still lay in bed fearing for my life.
I see myself smirking in the mirror,
Holding a knife to my throat.
Others times, I’ve been thrown into holes
By Shadowy figures
Only to find
That I’ve been digging my own grave.
All aloneBeing surrounded by people
Frightens me deeply
I'd rather be alone
And away from everyone
Alone but not lonely
Here I am
On my own
The way it's supposed to be
The end (acrostic)Through this life we suffer
Heading towards the void
Enduring pain along the way
Ending life early is no solution but
Nothng can prevent death
Dealing with it is all we can do
Poor Wooden Puppymy poor wooden puppy
has a leash
nailed into his throat
has no say
in what the other end
gets wrapped around
or tied to
and when we
walk and run
we roll, tangled
both as likely
to go backward
the where and when
bumps of where
we've already been
(or have we?)
his wooden nose
truth is, puppy
this world really is
its motors and belts
within everyday life
bodies and buildings
behind us, because
only what we want
and no one truly
(Un)RestrainedYou weep like a bird caught in a cage
but your wings are not bound
and no bars corral you, it is time
you leapt free-- grasp to life
like a starving creature clutches
the first buds of springtime.
The world is all a-blossom;
it is calling out for you to fly
and you must, you must unfold
in a burst of glorious plumage
there are no more moments left
for wreathing yourself in loneliness,
like dawn mist envelops and smothers
the early stillness of morning.
Your chrysalis is complete,
peacock child, and your heart
beats with the wind. Listen,
listen: spread wide your arms
and embrace the cosmos inside you;
you were never a lonesome eagle,
but a phoenix awaiting
Useless effortI try to change the world
But I can't even change
My own life
And so I'm sentenced
huntthe rats are fat enough
to die happy
and this is where
I should be:
a dirty screen and light.
the weak, thin music
you hear in waiting rooms,
in bed, face up,
alone enough to find lust
this morning I bought
a loaf of bread-
and reflections of the lights
limped across the plastic.
I left, went home.
found twin peaks on tv
and watched strange people have
after an hour or so I
turned off the tv,
turned on the light
went upstairs, without
the sun was down
under a blanket
and I am the sun.
I lay face up
and plan out ways
to slay the night.
Shatter ChildrenBipolar turns you into a maelstrom. It brings you to your knees and makes you ache. You are naked and raw, your skin a patchwork of fused nerve-endings touched again and again; hot flames and burnt knives licking and lacerating your soul. It smashes you against oystered rock; mad ocean waves in a dead sea. You are no longer in chaos. You are chaos. You become the fuel to set yourself on fire and you can’t stop burning. You can’t put yourself out. You have to burn the flesh and wick and wax until there’s nothing left but fumes and the fire burns out to ash and cinder and black coal, and a toxic wasteland where smoke fills your lungs in soft grey and deadly plumes becomes your body’s home. And then, you re-light. You, your chemistry, a mysterious god, or the world strikes a match.
Schizophrenia makes you shatterglass. You splinter into shards which split and fracture and melt through your hands to vanish into ether. You are thin air treading the spaces between dim
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