yes you feel it it stings doesnt it? its called pride my friend
Category: Writing and Poetry

Empty

How can one man be so confused...so perplexed? How can one soul be totally encumbered in indecisiveness, as if someone or something has staged this merciless test to see what theatrics shall partake. I'm the main character and I stand center stage. Just as I prepare to say anything of meaning the spotlights glare meets my eyes and diverts the vain attempt to conclude my dilemma; thus making any prior attempt of resolution seem impudent.

Is it that my heart is spent? I know a wise man once said be nor a borrower or a lender. Me... I have both lent out my heart and borrowed countless others in an attempt to barter my seemingly endless emptiness for anything of substance. So is this my sentence for refusing to pay the tariffs...for skipping out on loves endless tollbooths? You know the ones that have been placed so meticulously throughout this unbeaten path of life. I could have sworn that every one of these booths was a premeditated attempt to rob me of the only thing that has ever made me a man… my pride. Little did I know that's exactly what makes me not?

See pride is a cunning beast, and it stings. When it stings it leaves its stinger in, and that stinger buries itself deep in ones psyche, and slowly injects its poison inoculating ones entire existence against anything but uncalculated emotion. So I stagger through life with a tainted perception. As if reality was a 3-dimensional movie but the glasses I "sport" so gleefully are missing one lens. Leading to every one of my experiences being distorted…like the sight of a pretty girl. Not just any pretty girl for this one had something special.

She stood there in her overly priced attire her horribly caustic perfume. Everything about her from her toenails to her trend savvy sunglasses screamed debauchery. It was like a costume fitted with flesh that had been bedraggled and beaten through life's glit and plastic. She was an elixir concocted to do exactly as she did. A black widow…and the same crimson that graced her lips stained a bloody-red hourglass on her spineless back. I stared in awe as the neon sign, which hung crooked around her neck, flashed no vacancy and dispersed a murky hot pink light.

We sat and sipped some of that recklessly addictive caffeine that had many moons before helped me pass the time. I sat and stared into emptiness. Amazed at how everything she touched turned into stone, and at a second glance collapsed into a pile of ash. I have never seen such a beautifully damaged specimen. Then I heard her speak and each word paralyzes my ability to retort. So I just sit and manufacture the only movement my body would allow. The lifting and turning up of my coffee cup, and an impatient swallow. Each word that stumbles upon my ear is devoured eagerly, and my brain immediately digests and emulsifies every morsel in hopes to satisfy its hunger.

Then her eyes meet mine, and my body burns deep in suspense. As I move closer she glances down in what I can only hope is anticipation. Her teeth graze her lip, which makes the pistons explode, and drive me further forward. Then it arrives, the moment that seizes time…the moment that seizes your ability to think, or doubt, where all you're preemptive assumptions disperse wildly in a puff of unhindered bliss. For this moment can grant entry to one of two realities, either splendor or oblivion. One can only hope for splendor.

I blink, and the inside of my eyelids serve as a canvas to which a projection of her beauty is stained in various hues of white and gray. My eyes bat open in what seems to be an eternity. As they open they are greeted with a figure, which now sits differently then the silhouette that once graced the interior of my eyelid. Her face is now tilted slighted downward and her eyes are wide open and shooting a murderous gaze up at me. My body shivers in suspense and I force my eyes to close.

Then I feel the touch of her lips against mine…but as they unite I can't help but feel the cold touch of her skin. Yet this was an unnatural cold, which stabbed my mind with an intense sense of unsurity. I quickly pull away her eyes open slowly as she realizes that my kiss was not to return. I shot a perplexed expression at her, which was answered with an abrupt departure. That's when it became apparent. The damage that she put forth was a defensive mechanism. For the beauty encased in her skin was of such an unimaginable worth that she had prefabricated this armor in a vain attempt for damage control.

This beauty to which I had only caught a tickler of once stood tall, but was now beaten hollow and continually broken. Its allure was its bane and it now sat in shallow grounds, its roots barely clutching whatever it could grab hold of. Although some buds still managed to push themselves through the scar tissue from time past, they no longer blossomed. For the armor which she wore served not only as a safeguard but also as a barrier which deterred anyone's sunshine from breaking the horizon to nurture her.

She carried this armor knowing full well its purpose. For one too many times when she had granted entry to the "sunshine" the realization was made all too late that the "sunshine" wasn't radiant at all yet dark. This dark was so black and desolate that even her most vibrant of blossoms flitted and withered away. So now she walks through life never failing to jaunt around her armor of ironclad.

I jumped up assertively and scurried to catch her, not knowing I was embarking on a self-fulfilling voyage. For the beauty, which I had only caught a faint glimpse of held the propensity too materialize into something great. And although others had previously posed an understanding they never realized the potential…but then again potential is almost as bittersweet as love yet less fleeting. It's in the coupling of the two that makes my mind concuss. But still the potential allowed for any mere inkling of anything negative to quickly be expunged. This possibility allowed me to blackball the negatives without a second-thought, because of the possibility of that tantalizing sweet that after all may or may not follow the bitter. But this ignorance is blissful. Then again I stumble down this path knowing both possible outcomes, so is it truly ignorance at all?

For now her light, which only flickers still attracts me with no recourse. Others opinions are quickly drowned out by the boisterous clanking that beckons off of her armor as the iron plates brush against one another. I crack a smile as I exit the barrage of belittlements unscathed. For not one of the meager offerings filled my ears, but the dead silence, which was to follow, filled me with an overpowering sense of discomfort. Even this discomfort negates to draw my attention from her. Then she comes to a sudden stop, which too made me uneasy.

For the only instance in which she had stopped in the past was to crash. But this time no crash was manufactured; she only slouched, with her head veering downward. I stepped forward and for the first time I stood next to her. For all prior attempts to do so were foiled by her quickening pace. Quickening it to such a degree that I had spent much time contemplating how her body sustained such an exhausting velocity. As I stood next to her I was greeted with the soft smell of jasmine coupled with the soft scent of her skin. This forged an aroma so distinct that I could almost taste her sweet skin.

The scent drew my attention just long enough to mislead my query, as to what caused such preoccupation. I glanced at her briefly so that my eyes may emulate hers. As I imitated her posture I came to realize that her attention was fixated on a smoldering pile of logs that lied adjacent to the trail we sauntered. As I looked at her puzzled, she inched her arm outward, extended her index finger and said, "You can't see it?" I snap my head back to what remained of the logs and reply, "Its just burnt logs and ash." She turned looked at me with a troubling glare and said, "Don't look at what it is look at what it could be."

I returned my attention to the logs concentrating on the remains. My eyes trailing the red-orange line of embers that clung eagerly to whatever carbon it could still devour. Suddenly a spark greeted my iris, followed repeatedly by another and another until it sparked a flame. I stood immobilized by disbelief as the flame crept from the tip of the log to the bottom of my shoe. I felt her hand touch mine then our fingers interlocked. The flame then crawled up my legs and thighs. I had not a thought but bewilderment as to why the flame did not burn. Instead of burning it filled my limbs with an acute feeling of ecstasy.

The flame readily continued its journey, and she said, "Im afraid no more," and her hand graced my face willing it towards her own. The fired moved readily and engulfed what was left of my neck and face. As her lips met mine, the flame branched out leaving me with an ending visual of a flame, which instantaneously captured her leaving a fiery silhouette. Then all that was left was black. A black with absolutely no depth or apparent end, for the totality in which it encumbered you in seemed infinite.

In this calm I realized that I too bore armor. Armor entirely forged of past scar and regrets. This armor hung so dense with bent emotion that it crippled my stride. A gimp that I had entertained so long that it simply incorporated itself into my existence. But now the flame lifted the heavy burden acquitting me of my dreadful past. Without warning a light breaks the black. This light was so incandescent and able-bodied that even while squinting it still burnt my retina. Even though it comforted and coddled me its intensity required I close my eyes.
As my eyes open I find myself lying adjacent to her, both of our bodies bearing not a single piece of clothing. She opened her eyes and they met mine, and not one word is exchanged. We just stare deep into one another. As twilight dies and daylight breaks her beauty once again blossoms.....

please do not refrain from commenting thanks...salutations

11:15 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

im sick of writing the same fucking thing about the same fucking girl
Category: Writing and Poetry

why is it that the only thing in my life that truly makes me feel...the only thing that im sure of...the only thing that i can say is real. feels so unreal in fact that my mind searches endlessly for any mere inkling of a false sentiment. anything no matter how miniscule to tarnish the blinding beauty. but only continually finding perfection in all aspects. but still i ponder...is it that my perspective is crippled with infactuation, and so riddled with bliss that it causes me to paint such a caustically beautiful portrait of a girl. a girl that even when in the full face of the sun expells no shadow. and this picture is worth more then a thousand words, for my heart screams a thousand whispers each encumbered in jubilation. a heart that once bore endless scars. a heart that once beat scarcely, and spewed crimson out of any of the multitudes of spiralling burrows that the heartworms had dug. a heart which now beats so vigorously it stabs my mind with a once forgotten feeling of totality. i lay my head on her chest and listen attentively with a child like ambition, curious as to whether her heart beat as mine...i run my fingers through her hair and as each strand parts they send a different scene of hope streaming through an ailing and malnutritioned mind. each strand that gives way to my nimble fingers gives a new meaning to existance. i stand stern but as her eyes meet mine i crumble. yet only on the inside...i crumble

she is so beautifully damage that i love even the notion of pain this all can cause....

Currently listening : The F Word By Cannibal Ox Release date: 18 September, 2001

9:45 AM - 12 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

brimstone and heartworms...not for the faint of heart....my favorite peice of work
Category: Writing and Poetry

Am I love sick? A hopeless romantic that god has cursed to walk this path alone...this path that has been unbeaten. If I dont keep pace the brimstone follows, and exhales fiery red liquidthe same red liquid that encumbers your lips. When they touch mine they ignite a fire, which triggers a domino effect.

As they tumble in their rectangular brilliance, the light that hits their edges reflects back in staggering yet predisposed patterns. Is it that they are so beaten so worn from past regrets? So worn from falling deep into the depths of my ticker. Never failing to miss that final destination...the pacemaker. That upon contact makes my heart skip. Its only ironic that the skipping has done everything but halt. My heart will never stop skipping through that thin partition that the heartworms had tunneled.

This parasitic presence wasnt granted by choice yet principal. My conscious insisted it wasnt optional. Now that my heart skips to your beat, these parasites paint my fate. Paint it with a treasure trove of uncoagulated red paint. Go ahead read and find yourself lost in translation. This broken English is the personification of morality...the same morality that night after night has stood outside of my window.

But tonight he stands in a bright yellow rain slicker in a storm of heavy volcanic ash. I try to coerce him towards shelter but he has no face. The rain slicker is overflowing with only an endless black matter to which no response is manufactured. He only pivots his arm as to suggest I should join him. I chuckle their isnt an inkling in my body that could create such a reaction.

So I close my shutters, and once again bask in your resilience. I find myself lost in your endless barrage of affection. Wrong has never gone down so easily. It must have been the spoonful of sugar...or the spoonfuls you provided which accompanied the moral pestilence. As the sugar rush subsides I sit and glower in glee. Ill face the storm some other day. Maybe if I indulge in you long enough the storm will self-weather.

But the thunder grows, grows so loud it makes me shiver. Giving rise not only to goose bumps but overbearing apprehension. The shutters swing open, and give way to a blistering cold. As the frigid breeze reaches my hide it gives life to my flesh. Life that makes my skin crawl, yet coaxes me with no recourse towards the door. I reach out hand in the pose that has been pre-fitted to the handle.

I grip the handle tight. Maybe if I grip it tight enough it will dissipate. If only my luck could fabricate such a thing. With each degree my wrist twist it brings me closer...closer to that definitive click that will grant entry to the storm. The thunder grows, but its followed by a deafening silence, which encumbered me with an overwhelming uneasy. It became so quiet I could hear my breath break against the ridge of my lip.

Without warning the stillness breaks, and a gut wrenching sound cuts through the air with an awkward beauty. A beauty that causes such preoccupation that I negate to notice the door open. As I turn a distinct bright yellow silhouette greets my iris. I blink to bring my eyes into focus, and I notice that the slicker is terribly over fitted. I peer into the shadow that the hood has cast, and make out an all to familiar face.
She stands with a fetal kink in her posture, and stares through her saturated hair. Her eyes that appeared empty suddenly fill with tears that reach their tipping point, and spill over. I watch amazed as her eyes bleed clear black droplets. Her mouth begins to move mechanically, but I cant hear her whisper. There is only enough sound to leave my ears starved for more. I gasp to illustrate my frustration. Then her head contorts upward and she screams...one word...Why?

6:24 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

what lies in a whisper?...yes a new blog....
Category: Writing and Poetry

What lies in a whisper? A twisted secret contorted and forced through the vile crevices of clinched teeth. Every word premanufactured...premeditated so as to convey the perfect unauspicious point. Always drawing the jealous scowls of passerby's. Passerby's who gaze enviously who wish whole heartedly that they could grasp but only a morsel of the delectable idiom. For only bliss could cause the need for such subterfuge. A whisper... everything but that impertinent small-talk. For with a whisper every flutter of your tongue formulates sadistic suddleties that roll mercifully off the crest of your lips. Delivering that fruitful blow of mischief to a feeble and ever-yearning frontal lobe. A frontal lobe that is starved for anything of substance. So as the words arrive they illuminate the light bulb that until now hung morbidly above ones head. But now it hangs in such a fashion that it attracts others to its ferocity like butterfly to flame. And before you know it you are fully consumed in the surreptitious flame. Your body fully encumbered in a squall of false opulence? Yes false opulence...suddenly the flames are doused and you find yourself back in that ever perpetual circle of nothingness. Knowing that in your ignorance if the opportunity re-arose you will do everything in your power to ascertain the false beauty. For the few moments of elation that it provides far outweighs the momentum of mediocrity that is felt in the latter of the whole sufferance. Proving that man when oversimplified is both sadist and masochist....or maybe im just cynical

8:55 AM - 6 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

THE EXHALATION...(OF...ASHLEY)
Category: Writing and Poetry

THE EXHALATION

please provide Mr. Hyde dr jeckyl

with my poetic suicide and the necessary speckle

to freckle her entire bodily spectrum

so I can take the dots and use my scalpel to connect um

then shreik as horror screams from the resulting visual

breaking out of her seams is the ugly inner individual

i fell in a lovely lust which caused rationality to bust

and puddle into an abnormality of misplaced emotions and lack of trust

lack of IQ

lack of character

lack of drive to

so i put her on my back and carried her

her baggage was so heavy i developed a crooked posture

along with a lack of self esteem so complacency i fostered

i walked the path you laid so cunningly

and when i strayed you strung that vaginal carrot out in front of me

so anything contradictory was erased

from my thoughts and i quickly quickened pace

to keep myself from falling a victim to a misplaced fate

in a still black  empty space

with only one window

which lets in only a distorted amount of light

that cripples any visual

perception of what might

result in your absence

so any faint glimmer of hope sank

so my emotions became stagnant

and decayed as I try to resurrect a saint

but found a sailor

brainwashed by societies direct mailer

tailored to set in motion

my destruction because of my blind devotion

but now I have your heart in my hand

It keeps palpitating

So I dropped it and ran

And laughed as your pulse starts fading

It was forged in flame

and ended in ash

Now you will never forget my name

or your mind frame will collapse

and now I can breathe and let time pass.....but then you saw me I saw you I smiled you waved...and I felt my heart die and my mind go astray...then the phone rings...i answer you cry and pluck the strings...and remind me of why I have suppressed the sting....you want me back want to set things right...but I refused to let my emotions be maimed tonight

then you clear your throat...

And ask where I have been?

I have been embalming your body with a paper and pen

And when I found your skeleton bare I will remend your skin

12:45 PM - 17 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

broken glass and twisted metal (part two)
Category: Writing and Poetry

BROKEN GLASS AND TWISTED METAL (PART TWO)

The clouds hung heavy with rain as he looked off into the distance and saw static, which he knew meant rainfall. He hadnt had the time to notice his thirst. A thirst that had become so overwhelmingly apparent that he could not help but begin the trek to the perdition the rainfall had to offer. He plants his hands, and scoots himself over the edge. As he slides down the embankment the friction drives sand into his shoes. As his feet touch the ground he uses his momentum to push himself up onto his feet. His body wobbles. He stepped back to brace himself, knowing that he would fall if his feet remained square. He pauses, and waits for his equilibrium to become centered. He could finally take his eyes off of his feet.

He looks up and sees movement in the distance, but his eyes were to blurred to make anything definitive out. So he takes the first of his steps. He quickly finds that each was paired with an awkward pain that only dulled as he continued forward. Slowly his eyes make out what looks like a weathervane. It hung on a crooked base that was twisted obliquely to the left, and spun violently unhindered by the weather patterns. He continued forward, and the vane came to abrupt stop pointing southwest.

The direction was overlooked, and all of his attention lied on the character that encompassed the vane. A character that relentlessly tormented his childhood, a mare personified in the most unlikely figurea clown. He had always found their unwavering jubilation frightening. The clown sat atop a cannon, pointing with his finger in the opposite direction then where the cannon was going to fire. The entire vane was tarnished and browned with rust. All except the clowns nose, which maintained its bright bloody red. Suddenly a breeze picked up and coaxed him in the direction of the clowns pointing finger. Although he was conflicted as to whether or not this was the direction he wanted to head, his body was to fatigued to act dissimilar.

The sand in his shoes created such friction that it wears the flesh in between his toes away. He could feel his sock grow heavy with blood. Blood that eventually attempted to harden creating an odd mixture of partially coagulated gooey blood and crust. The warm substance created a disgustingly comfortable buffer between his shoe and the ground. His mouth became so parched that it felt as if his tongue and lips were slowly being glued together. Eventually his mouth became so dry that when he did open his mouth the skin in between his lips slowly started to peel away until ripping apart from each other.

9:51 AM - 10 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

HERETIC MANDIBLE...
Category: Writing and Poetry

8:46 PM - 18 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

Lack Luster Mechanics...
Category: Writing and Poetry

10:17 PM - 7 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

The Skirmish
Category: Writing and Poetry

4:53 PM - 12 Comments - 11 Kudos - Add Comment

inkling....psuedo poetry
Category: Writing and Poetry

4:26 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

BROKEN GLASS AND TWISTED METAL...PART ONE
Category: Writing and Poetry

Broken Glass & Twisted Metal

He stares at the clock as midnight buckles. Father time has once again thrust him into another day without warning, or regard for his lack of melatonin. The idea of sleep has become a commodity that he hardly indulges in anymore. The night makes his eyes ease together. The brief calm is greeted with the irrevocable scene of broken glass and twisted metal. His eyes open with urgency and he cant stop himself from breathing heavy. Why did I take that route yesterday? If only the traffic would have given way I wouldnt have made that left turn, he thought it would be a shortcut in all of its blasphemy.
He neanders into the bathroom and his nostrils are met with an all to familiar damp yet dusty fragrance. He flicks the light on. The room momentarily fills with light, and then the bulb begins to flicker. How many more times do I have to call these idiots to get this damn light fixed? He stands and waits for the light to solidifysuddenly the room is filled with a fluorescent white. He stares at the mirror and waits for his eyes to clear of the black blotches that amicably jump around in his reflection.
He turns the sink on and watches discerned as the steam clouds the mirror. The fog seems to duplicate his new perception of the world. He cups his hands and splashes his face with hot water. The water only momentarily washes away that cold clammy sweat that constantly couples his skin. He takes a deep breath, and lets it out with an eight count. At the crest of each breath a different scene plays in his mind, each scene short but full of a lifetime of agony. He still hears the screams, they echo in his mind with no recourse.
He begins to pace the hallways. The touch of the cold tile to his feet brings a welcomed realistic sensation to his body. The pacing seems to momentarily dull his ability to feel. Suddenly his legs get heavy, his breathing turns long and peaceful. As his eyes glaze, He looks at his watch12:33. Thirty-nine minutes and perdition is finally arriving. He stares at the luminescent orange bottle of prescription pills, and smiles. As luck would have it freedom can be encapsulated. His stomach further eats away the walls of the pills, and the chemicals reach his bloodstream. He greets them with open arms, and giggles with a child like charisma.
He jaunts to his room. When he comes to his bed he lies back mechanically. It was a relief that he had not forgotten this motion that over time had surpassed being habitual. His head fits perfectly into the pillow that had been beaten to form. Rest had not only been put out of the question but also accompanied by a daunting mare. So he knew this was a privilege that his conscious would not grant voluntarily. He interlocks his fingers across his chest, a mannerism that had brought much comfort since childhood. His body becomes so heavy it feels as if hes melting into the mattress.
His eyes meet the glare of his lamp with resistance. If only I could reach the light switch, his body lies paralyzed but not his mind. His mind is alive, alive and frightened with his bodys inability to respond. He blinks. As his eyes make their short journey back up they pause. He tries to will them open but they fall. His eyelids are drawn together as if each contained a thousand magnets facing their bi poles. He screams HELP, but not a word escapes his lips. Any faint glimmer of the outside world fades away as his eyes are clamped shut.
Then nothingnot a thought nor a sound, the silence becomes so deafening that his ears begin to ring. His drums pulsate as the ringing grows, then slowly dulls away. He hears the most minute of sounds, but this one he knows. His mind searches through a treasure trove of memories looking for the one of relativity. Suddenly he finds himself on a beach. The same beach that his grandfather used to take him after church right outside of the flats. He sat right were the tide had just receded, and used his fingers to try to dig up the clams that were spitting up the last of their air bubbles.
He glanced back. His grandfather was far in the dunes digging as well. He turned to face the sea as the breeze picked up, and speckled his face with a salt rich dew. The moisture on his face caught the first of the sunrays that had made their way through the overcast. He stared up towards the sun with his eyes squinted, but his attention was drawn to his grandfathers calls. Sonnycome over here Sonny boy. I have something to show you. He jumped up eager to find out what surprise his grandpa had in store.
When he got within proximity his grandfather pulls his hand from behind his back, and gleefully held a large blue crested shell. It was the same type of shell that ornamentally decorated his grandfathers entire house. He stared at his grandpa as to demand an explanation. Sonny now look, close your eyes, he could feel the warmth of his grandfathers hand coming towards his cheek. Whenever you get scared all you have to do is hold this shell to your ear. What do you hear? he concentrates on the sound and says, the sea. His grandpa chuckles and says, Thats right. Now all of your fear will be washed away and carried out to the sea inside of this shell. This shell more then served its purpose in his childhood, but now it sat only as a centerpiece on his coffee table.
There was no question that this was the sound that his ears so faintly picked up. As the memory fades his body becomes entirely immersed in this sound. It becomes so overwhelming its no longer comforting, but unsettling. His eyes loosen and peel open, and are instantly flooded with water. As the salt burns his retina, he looks around hysterically, making out nothing but a cold blue. The air in his lungs takes him nowhere. Confused with his buoyancy he swims without the slightest idea of direction. As his lungs spasm he has not a thought but oxygen, a thought that had turned to desperation. A frantic flailing of his arms and legs is the only movement his body could fashion.
An incapacitating pain now periodically shot from his lungs to his spine. He feels the urge to gasp, but his mind knows the end result. So he clinches his jaws together with such force his muscles cramp. The urge becomes so egregiously overbearing that his body jerks, in a motion as to coax air inward. The blasphemous thought of allowing his lungs to inflate becomes sinfully appealing. Instinct pries his mouth apart, and a cold bitter water moistens his pallet and begins its short journey to his lungs. His body immediately becomes limp. Random flashes of color overtake his visual spectrum before he comes to that definitive black.
The pain had receded, and all that was felt was a comforting heat. The heat rose to a persistent burn. The surging of nerves once again illuminates his vision, making random shapes and forms on the inside of his eyelids. He was completely oblivious to thought having not the slightest idea as to what he was experiencing. His left ear popped. He could feel a lukewarm fluid drain out, relieving him of the immense pressure that weighted his head. His heart began to beat impatiently in his ear. The rhythm beat his eardrum and sent an acute pain through his ear canal. Pain had never felt so pleasing. It was an insinuation of life so no complaint was mustered only an awareness of his crippled consciousness.
As the beating in his ear subsided the sound of the sea once again taunted all that was placid. Urgency sprung his eyes and lungs open. He coughs up salt water and bloody flem, as he looks around terrified expecting to find himself once again submersed. He finds nothing more then endless plains of sand. He attempts an initial inbound breath, but the water that logged his lungs is still attempting escape forcing out a cough. The sound of waves crashing and dispersing onto the beach had become an overpowering annoyance, and played like melodramatic background music.
He was now able to breath on cue, and he could feel his motor reflexes slowly returning to his limbs. His eyes burned like open wounds dressed with gasoline, and any skin that was openly exposed was colored a bright red hue. He brought his hand to his forehead. He could feel the heat radiating off of his burnt flesh, but his whole body shivered capriciously. The internal cold that consorted his organs was extremely unsettling. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He rocked himself back and forth, a movement that throughout his life had eased his most traumatic experiences. The joining of his body elevated his temperature. The shivering dissipated soon after, along with the tingling sensation that numbed his face. He found this gave rise to a higher level of consciousness, and he became aware of his surroundings.
He decides to crawl towards the sea, and after a few oblique movements he finds himself peering over the edge of a sandbar. He gazed puzzled at the seapuzzled as to how the tide carried him onto the bank. He slowly pivots so that he could sit upright. His legs hung like dead weight over the edge of the bank, and swung with no intention as the wind hit them. He looks up and traces the storm clouds that form a crescent around the setting sun. The clouds send lightening bolts streaming across the sky. As the sun falls beyond the horizon, it stains the clouds a dark reddish gray.(PART ONE)...TO BE CONTINUED

7:26 PM - 10 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

COME HITHER....
Category: Writing and Poetry

Come hither...slither onto a frozen lake...and wither snake...because your forbidden fruit fell furthest from the tree and delivered sake...and the seed that fathered greed...grew to shadow my symphony...but the jibber jabber spawned the epiphany...that conflicted me...so is it to much to ask...for you to put another grain of sand inside the hourglass...thats tatooed on your back in bloody red....and admit that the encasement has a crack and your emotions are dead..and the void you know I fill it...but i wont sit and wait to collect your spillage...but soon ill fade away and watch you fall victim to the pilgrimage....because I cant stop what I know is wrong...so fuck your blood stained octagon...because it feels right...and I long...for you to be in my arms at night...I just might...snip the fine thin line and tumble on both sides...let the devil and god shake hands and compromise...because ive seen god push lucifer on a swing...and ive seen satan sacrifice jesus as homage to the king...and ive seen jehovah curse the devil because of his ruptured spleen...and i pointed and laughed at it all what a merry fuckin scene...and our white lies hide the biggest of sins...im supposed to cut the head off the snake before it all begins...and now my veins are cold and im shedding my own skin...behold...a heart that beats bloody cold...causing your conscious to fold and buckle...the mare to smile and chuckle...and if you think lifes a one way street...how do you explain me being born with two left feet...(just alot of emotional baggage or garbage my bane....a pretty girl blah)

6:54 PM - 4 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment

AN ODE TO FATHER TIME....
Category: Writing and Poetry

broaden your pace so the fallen angel stumbles on her path... Which lies directly adjacent to faceless laughing gas... Now watch her flap lungs gasp... as she searches for resistance without self esteem... but I snipped the strings... and the ship wont stay afloat without the wind beneath her wings... so now she reclines beneath my canopy... can it be that her sanity... is the result of the idealism of humanity... lll scream blasphemy for thought... and wish the ticking mechanism would stop... were all pagans worshipping this elitist clock... all hail my grievance... all hail my allegiance... bow my credence... to this box of studded gears which appears blind... so I damn father time... and beg for forgiveness but he wont sign on the dotted line... so im emerged in thoughts of alchemy call it obsessive... but the chemical compositions development has been arrested... so ill study the defective part of the equation... but i fear miss-temperament due to gods miscalculations... not to mention the matter staggers from the intoxication... from static and an iconoclastic massive magnet... that spawned murder death famish and havoc... as luck would have it... the orphans sailed first... the wind cuaght their sails and carried them off the end of this earth... and they fell into perdition and took it for all its worth... holding a candle to lost wick until .. they find anything they can feel... but the wick came up short because men fire at "will".... so will power cowers... as inhibitions flower... petals wither away... but tomorrows another day...   ( i was up late last night so this was manufactured...i like it its rough around the edges...salutations)

9:18 AM - 1 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

sarandipity....serendipity?
Category: Writing and Poetry

I CANT WRITE RIGHT I CANT IGNITE OR LITE A FLAME...THAT BURNS DEEPER THEN THE ONE YOU FUEL BUT WHO AM I TO BLAME...IM HARDLY SANE...THATS WHY I ENTERTAIN THE THOUGHT THAT LEAVES ME CAUGHT IN YOUR AFFECTION UNVEIL THE RED CARPET AND MAKE WAY FOR THE SUCCESSION...THAT'LL LEAVE ME SECOND GUESSING PROTECTION....BUT ITS NOT PROTECTION AT ALL...ITS THE FEAR OF LIFE MY DEAR AND IM UTTERLY ENTHRALLED...AN UMBRELLA IN THIS STORM WONT SHEILD ME FROM MY DOWN FALL....IM THE ONE AND ONLY MR. LONELY SIT AND WITNESS MY HEART STALL...AND AS THIS WORLD TURNS I CRASH AND BURN AND LOOK AND LAUGH...AND LET GO OF ANY AND ALL SELF CONTROL I COULD GRASP...SHOULD I PASS OPPORTUNITY TO THE LEFT...OR ONCE AGAIN FALL VICTIM TO MY MOSES SPLIT SEA COMPLEX...I GUESS...I SHOULD'VE KEPT IT ALL IN CONTEXT...BUT NOW MY PALM SWEATS AS THE CALM THREATENS BLISS....I SLOWLY DRIFT AWAY IN YOUR LIPS...AN ALL TO FAMILIAR SOBSTORY CONCLUDED BY A KISS...AND TONIGHT IN THE STARLIGHT THE STAR BRIGHTLY BURNS OUT...THE RESULT OF A PRETTY GIRL AS IT TURNS OUT...SHE PLUCKED THE STRINGS THAT MADE MY CARDIOVASCULAR SING...BUT TODAY I ENCOUNTERED A SILENCE THAT WAS SO DEAFENING...IT WAS EVERYTHING AND EXACTLY WHAT MAKES A HEART SEIZE...BUT WHAT WOULD ONE EXPECT WHEN I WEAR IT ON  MY SLEEVE...WANNA SEE IT PALPITATE THAT'LL MAKE THE DOUBTERS BELIEVE...AND IM NOT WILLING TO PLAY THE LEAD SO I WILL BLEEDS FIRST...AND OVERANALYZE BECAUSE THATS MY FAVORITE CURSE...AFTERALL SHES THE RINGMASTER AND THIS IS THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH...SO STEP THIS WAY TOWARDS THE NEXT BIG ATTRACTION....LOOK AT MY FACE OF AWKWARD ANGST AND BEAR NO REACTION...IM LOST IN CONFUSION DIDNT YOU READ THE CAPTION....MY HEART SPUTTERS MUTTERED PAIN AND DROWNS IT OUT WITH PASSION...SO THAT STORMCLOUD DARK GRAY...ACCOMPANIES ME AGAIN TODAY...AND "REIGNS" REBELLIOUS AS SHE ONCE AGAIN FADES AWAY......

8:55 AM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

THE TIMID
Category: Writing and Poetry

The old man steps timidly yet finicky his hand shakes

Little did you know its primal aftershocks from earthquakes

He emancipates your mind with thoughts he conjugates and eerie visuals

And your critical hour has turned sour

Now you glower as the lacksi-daisies flower at their catechism

And ive fell in love with the melancholy mechanism

Which manually rips a hole in your ambition

With an eclipse of a faint glimmer of contention

Because hes ambiguous and hes my cranial scientist

And hes convinced that the bubonic banging is ironic

Another skeleton banging in the closet begging to get out

But the keys lost in the rheumatic flem I constantly spit out

And he wont grant me silence and the banging wont stop

Because the doppelganger stole every single key to the lock

So I teeter on the ridge of whats taught

Sought by the bridge bearers whose foundation is infested with wood rot

Now I frown because I cant cope

With the fact that one-day serenity and chaos will elope

Along with fear self image and hope

Polygamist sentiment braids the rope

As youre hung in the village square begging for the mercy of the common folk

Ill charge admission and reap the benefits and shoot a smile just as your neck broke

10:29 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment