03 November, 2014

Oh, Torturous Creator

Oh, Torturous Creator

When did her shell become so hollow as this?
I wouldn't know her then; was barely thought. 
I know her so well this day, albeit to wish not. 
Taught me to wish not, seeds me to want not. 
Gave not so I should not expect e'er receive. 
She'd have me to be grateful of her sacrifice. 
Gave her first born to a void, and avoidance. 
Taught oh so well.  What I expect, not a thing. 

She was blinded, as only sad mother can be. 
Blinded of how she made me pay her debts. 
Cruelty of her love knew endless boundaries,
As I knew nothing of her crimes upon herself. 
To hate herself, clearly; more than hating me. 
I wonder how I'd take so long to see it there. 
She only found too late she did not want this,
She knew always she'd never love of herself. 

What should my heart respond to more I beg?
Tell me how to pity this hanging fool, as I die!
She was all I'd have, as she'd have it, so was. 
She made sure I'd not accept any face value
If it would not bare of her face, or her pardon. 
Pardon me, my need to vegetate weights me. 
How do I cast out memory when its all gone?
Nor cast her off, trail of blood runs too deeply. 

How does one learn need when it should be?
She, an admirable teacher, I her able student. 
She built me to bare her scars forever, amen. 
She taught me to hurt the ones I love so well.
I would to have been my own, yet fear not so. 
I see her, just behind my eyes, our juxtapose. 
All is fair in love and war, her debts to be paid
And my own could pass to mine own instead. 

I need her to be inside her shell when I come. 
She is not, cannot, has not been able to sing. 
I would trade it all, would give it back, take on
The torment instead if I could draw her forth. 
I've died for her a hundred fold; so one more?
Is but a drop of blood, and it would be easier. 
My maker, my creator, builder of my machine,
And destroyer of my worlds and all my heart. 

I could hate her easily, or thought I could but
I love her still, as I hate myself; as she taught. 
My love is sick, as my heart becomes sicker,
But I feel she knew what I was from my start. 
The difference is barely slighter, but it is there. 
Hers was done unto her, as mine unto myself. 
She would be the victim of her circumstance. 
I should be my subject of death and rebirth.

This is only the beginning of my torment, now.
Is barely a beginning of her agonised defeat. 
As she is so defeated, I fear the depths I find. 
What is to be darker than this ebony current?
What should be more savage and spiteful as
She tips into the cradling abyss; take me too.  
She should not have left a mark upon the soil. 
Much too late for me; this machine is closed. 


02 November, 2014

No Seconds

No Seconds

It is pitiful, and she is to be pitied if anything. 
Meant for all things handled in second hand. 
Second class in nature; a second class heart. 
Seconds ticking away and leave no seconds. 

It was always like this, only the sets change. 
Always an afterthought, always all thats left. 
Always second to inherit the scraps of a life. 
Never room enough, always to wait her turn. 

Spin on, wither in the abstract, fade in focus. 
Frayed into obscurity, doubles the exposure. 
And it becomes a photo negative, a reversal. 
Twists her further inward, adds another fold. 

Can only wind so tightly before critical mass. 
It must implode before a new heaven is born. 
Every tear to coalesce into embers for a star. 
Every cell, every molecule, of colliding worlds. 

Reimagining constellations, reanimating mass
And all matters of seconds drifts out of focus. 
The edges of a photograph, its event horizon, 
Hungrily, to devour what was, now to what is. 

And still what should not pity her destruction?
Gifts this second hand cosmos to love alone. 
Eternal witness of seconds, second chances, 
No longer wills to bare false witness; is stone.  


30 October, 2014

Learns to Love a Silence

Learns to Love a Silence

Just doesn't get it, or can't, won't, wanting
But not wanting, its safer, but always empty. 
Not empty enough it seems, as you are here. 
I'm not in here though. Fell asleep long ago. 
It's what I tell myself to make the days go by. 
If not dead then too awake, too much to feel. 
Want it but cannot allow, for their sakes, all or
Mine?  What's mine in these twining strands?
It is not for me to have, to want, nothing of it. 
Nothing of them exists when all's not in view. 
It becomes illusion, illusory and aye, I know it. 
I know it is the demon inside to block a sun. 
There are all those devils in the ether too, still. 
Thoughts become of flesh and blood simply, 
Not enough fight left inside to fight them out. 
Empty threats of myself to self, another devil
Yet another forked tongue; the sharpest one. 
It shouldn't have to hurt so much to feel this. 
Divining my own bones, waiting to see that
Which stays within this circle, and what falls. 
Steel of skin and the softer flesh beneath me,
It is compressed, a singularity, starved of air. 
And of what tender lies beyond these faces?
Wishes for the stone; doesn't believe it's real.
If not a farce, you'd not be sentenced to this. 
None before, please for none hereafter, a plea
Or promise, I mean to mean, so can't be sure. 
One high, three low; I cannot see you or raise. 
The lottery, always rigged before, always was,
Frame different? No; and show me your work. 
But, I keep tapping, tries to wrap my thought. 
It is to my maddening futility I mean to swing. 
Look here my dear, it will brew all my deaths. 
It could spell a miracle of a melancholy limbo. 
I still know though, this delicate plane I tread. 
It could be worth my love of silence; shadow. 
There is no safety in numbers when it's in me. 
My tears could attest my own starving relief. 
I have to choose between its truth, or my lies. 
What is it, to let the silence bring me solace?
Another face, another skin to keep me whole. 


29 October, 2014

Science of Sleeping

Science of Sleeping

The windows aren't closed but its murky here. 
They were shut earlier, but wasn't peaceable. 
It's the buzzing in hallways that is at impasse
And no matter how I shake the bubble; won't. 
Can't.  It can't. I can't. Severs all the nerves. 
Staring from the window into the hollow deep. 
Transfixed by darkness there, its consumption 
Of all faulty matters of my circumstance; free. 

Lie still; breathe shallow, it keeps spinning off
In search but never catching of the scent of it. 
Dead weight, barely animated body, nor mind
If keenly clutched within blanketed oblivions.
It is free-fall; and the fall is how to climb back. 
If not the bottom, how can you see a horizon?
It is listlessness, leads not into lead but follow
Until the last to first must strangle idle hands. 

The windows are still open, I cannot breach
But I cannot shut, cannot touch the pains yet
But I'm trying, can't your see me, hear, please
I can't get out; have to keep diving, gasping...
But if I could find it, dawn, please something,
Anything to spare, sometimes its just a rope. 
Or let me sleep, don't make it dream, I can't, 
I mustn't or I would miss the exit stage right. 

It is the weight, and waiting indecisions, too. 
In fields of land mines and l desire survival,
It keeps me locked and loaded, runs in place. 
It still moves, even when spinning backwards. 
Without a backslide I cannot see what I've hit.
Not to see its girth, how then circumnavigate? 
How these tremours want to extinguish light. 
Crossed signals, lost in translation of the soul. 

If I'm to gather mine and stand, to fight for all,
I must first learn of my surrender unto a void. 
Let the nerves writhe if turned inward, burns. 
Stop me when I can feel you twist the knife. 
Crawling back from the centre to the window. 
Tumbling headlong from space, in heat, light. 
Slowly, steadfast wins these second chances. 
Know where I am, where I was, but is awake. 


27 October, 2014

Losing Faces

Losing Faces

There are more faces in here than I can count. 
One for each one of them; also for my sanity. 
Speaking of putting aside of childish things, I
Cannot surrender these that make me whole. 
It becomes harder as the years pass though. 
The personas wither and peel away, exposing
Raw flesh, raw mind, raw face, raw heart, and
I can't do this for much longer, too priceless. 

In a crowded room where I can barely breathe
There is none in this picture frame but myself. 
Grows tired, tired of the face, tired of a name. 
To bleed out in tears, words, none love them. 
Letters are born, fall short, shatter, dissipate. 
Each takes a sliver of what is mine, of my soul
And soon, the sands will run dry, nothing left. 
Would seem for sooner rather than later, here. 

I can hear the ticking, measuring the seconds
And I know its too long until this will be done. 
I wasn't built to stand against these trials, too. 
It is all too heavy, and I can't turn a blind eye. 
All I hold, or try at least, slips like falling sand. 
Makes for difficult footing in the quick of it all. 
I can't stand to stand by as it all fades away. 
I have few choices for it, they've made sure.

What of mine then, when it boils down to it?
It is silly to want when none would deliver it. 
Too many strings, too many holes to identify. 
Too much to wade into to find what I needed. 
It all loses value because I have none to give. 
All I try to give; takes back from me in threes. 
They wouldn't see to care to begin with, and I
Become a fool over and over when I even try. 


Arousing Curiosity

Arousing Curiosity

The curves and angles of her face delight me. 
Tiny doppelgänger, embodies my fascination. 
Those illuminating eyes could fill the universe. 
I would long to peer into her mind, to see her. 
I wish to know this child who hides in the fold. 
I want to see her world from her point of view,
In her own words, just a brief glimpse will do. 
So I may hear and sense what hers all means. 

This creature is so wondrous, but so troubled. 
She becomes so easily confused, she panics. 
She retreats as quickly as her comfort allows. 
I step back, to take snapshot of her breadth. 
We have come so far, you have climbed a hill. 
The mountains, love, are still far ahead of you, 
I fear, and loathe the darknesses I do foresee. 
You sell your life short though, looking too far. 

The chemical standard, your active conscious
It betrays you splendors of the here and now. 
How I torment with your flaws, mine or yours. 
I'll see you history lessons I'd wish not teach. 
Seeing in you those even I can't change, mine
Is already beaten to submit by these demons,
I'd hoped for more, but gave different layers
To this easily battered spirit, and discourage. 

To lament even as she walks the miles keenly. 
She shall stumble for hundreds more smiling. 
I want to find her a steadier path to bore her. 
None awaits but my hands would build it if...
But I must bide her time to trial and to error. 
I cannot walk beyond the membrane splitting. 
To trust to fate the lessons she'd not listen to. 
To have faith that fate will smile on her there.  


26 October, 2014

Burdens of Silence

Burdens of Silence

Its a much heavier burden, that of a silence. 
A weight of a hollow in the miscreant heart.
Not so much of ether, has shape and name. 
How does this warmth turn so cold in here?
Mustn't be for the likes of trespasser flesh. 
Not for the darkness, for it would be eaten. 
Yet still lives here, this perfect extremophile. 
It feeds of the light seeping in, leaves a void. 

A laden juxtapose, a perfect balance but not. 
Occupies in space, and time to consume all. 
Lovely excruciating treachery, is so a spade. 
Excising this demon is fruitless, so it seems.
Time again attempts to expose it to the light,
There's no reception, no certain reciprocation. 
It stagnates as it refuses to be seen or heard
And to know its truth; to wither away, vanish.

Perhaps a key, but if so, unwittingly. Lament. 
Upside down and inside out and for nothing. 
You shouldn't be here, and nor should I ever. 
To long for yesterday and tomorrow at once. 
Knowing of one a farce and of another done. 
It's the linger, the presence, its perseverance,
And its mocking calm that drifts from cracks.
It is a glass door, but still a door nonetheless. 

Oh torture at the fruitlessness of this journey. 
Only it becomes harder to sacrifice of my self. 
How can they look her in the face and not be
Disgusted by the creature that stands before?
Selfish, fickle, the flustering madman that is, 
Assumed as so deserving; not even scraps. 
Toiling and tilting, the buoy barely afloat now. 
All ends in sight; means extinguished before. 

Must be content to let it fester and boil; both. 
The pointlessness of stepping beyond a wall.  
Feeling something may be more than nothing;
wake of waves to be neither seen, nor heard. 
To say its better; I know not of such fantasies
As pressures build and would grind into dust. 
To stay this course back to recessive corners,
To watch, to wish and to mourn this from afar. 


23 October, 2014

Writing the Wrongs

Writing the Wrongs

There is no muse for this music to play for. 
The coffers lain barren longer than dreams. 
Achingly etching the notes in monosyllabic
Tempos losing the value; means of melody. 
Citing a disease's fortune owning my soul. 
Its pocks to bare relevance but only blandly. 
Contentedly misguided by my feverishness
All I am to sing writ upon a wall none pass. 

It hungers for any eye to trace this tapestry. 
Such wintry reception repeats into the void.
It becomes swallows of dark temptation to
Lead the weary jester further from the flock. 
Transfixed by the fixture of these sentiments
Even as they bury into cacophonies of woes. 
It becomes a bloodletting, piercing a mind to
Make known all splendors; so too the horrors. 

Frightful still, those who would search it out,
To taste the wretched waters that flow there. 
To swallow pieces of the melody, to see into
A chasm where a heart shrivels to die awake. 
To join in solace at the price of feigned sanity. 
How can a peaceful soul step by this place?
It is the truth of nature that one becomes to
None, and the absolution of the math is key. 

It breeds an idle stupour, fresh downpours to
Breathe life into a husk, a tree behind my wall. 
And another word is born into the blankness
To bare me fruit that smells sweetly poisoned.
Never enough to kill me, only meant to maim.  
Mother may I sleep away what days are left?
Always to the same. Turn a page, turn a leaf. 
There is no rest, wicked, only another melody. 


22 October, 2014

All My Falling

All My Falling

It would be so easy, but so far from painless. 
Engulfed in myriad frustrations, protestations. 
To what victor goes my spoils of war at arms?
At arms length, always and forever, and never. 
Statued tearful ironies, won battles, lost war. 
To become sour on the mind but taste sweet. 

To want so little, and encompassing oblivions. 
I so need and have no room to want of need. 
Nor for any, ne'er do well, in this well of pitch. 
All for lacking, wanders too far off thin edges. 
It becomes a shame and a shameful heathen. 
Grows weary of all she has let a rain wash in. 

A whitewash pane, fogging pains of glass and
All to stare at here; the grim imaginary favour. 
Sunlight dance on bare metal, but rust eaten. 
Twirling, swirling, fevered madness, not mine. 
To sleep through one image, to waken others. 
No words, no voice, no concession thereafter. 

Exists askew a world, to walk a void between. 
To hear, see, to know it still, be still my hands. 
In terror I pierce through; its terror freezes me.  
Its so cruel; my need to want, and daring drift. 
To push through and I find the daylight coldly. 
To fall away even in pain of all that of nothing. 

What forces wish to meddle in my make up?
Where one hands favour, one breeds my toil. 
Where steady made this mine, pain casts off. 
Where have they placed my leave, I want this. 
I steel my bungling, and recede to steal away. 
Both make light of a leadenly, jagged retreat.

And its all sand dunes to begin with, all of it. 
Were I to fall further, I should sink beneath it. 
No hope therein, none so more in thereafter. 
Its varied mirage is nothing more, not for any. 
Empty handed, holds my heart of all my dark.
I know it must be.  I hear you tell of my woes. 

I must stand back, regarding them so coldly. 
Its much more than any might stand a weight. 
I'm none but splinters to the likes of them all. 
And those in the circle where I danced, blind. 
Memory serves to sever through my trusting. 
Empty handed again? Empty handed always.