to the disillusioned goddess––

your journey was that of a conqueror
creating an identity so vivid you lost yourself

creation in broken chains
destruction in broken bodies

see now your complacency, your hissed arrogance
all hail the goddess, crimson trailing in her wake

farewell, you disillusioned goddess,
i pray you start anew amongst the stars

I looked out over
the peninsula of ice
reaching out into the rippling lake,
unsettled as I.
Snow covered peaks on the horizon
like clouds,
dreams and ideals melted
in decades poured out
in earnest labor.

The tall gaunt preacher
stood stoop-shouldered
his black hat barely gripped
in his hand held against his left leg
his face sad, eyes cast down
as if to discern what had gone wrong.

The rusted out bike
tires flattened, lay on bricks discarded
from an old church
with a cast iron cross
aching and alienated.

A once sparkling life
may seem barely more than refuge
but a soul stirs
still beaming,
a lighthouse
on the sea
crashing against the rocky shoal.

What is it that I truly seek?
What happened to the beauty,
in all that I used to see?

Can someone explain what happened to me?

I used to have the buzz and the impetus, that you'd see in a bee.
But these days, I look like a stone tied to a tree.


Asking myself,
at which age did happiness decide to flee?

When I first crushed into this boy,
it was like walking in the breeze
a beam of sunshine on my desk
a hope of seeing something more
When I first crushed into this man,
There was no pain, but much of fear
I saw him wild and saw him tamed,
And thought I knew what was his core.
I didn't.

Much to his surprise,
I stood relentless by his side.
He pushed away, I didn't halt,
And now I'm broke,
And it's my fault.
When I first crushed into this man,
I had a thousand miles to go.
I'm walking still without a plan.
Above me cries ****** of crows.
It's killing me and I don't care,
I've promised not to turn away.
My soul's beginning to decay.
I'm scared as hell and it's not fair.
Right now, I write and realise.
It's not like walking in the breeze -
A storm that upside-downs my desk.
A pain, and fear that makes me freeze.
Right now, I write and realise -
Despite all this, I still don't care.
It's downright mad and it's unwise,
But to see you, I'll pay this fare.

Imagine with me if you will
Not being able to imagine at all.
Trying but unable to tell
Why it is you feel so small.
It's hard to feel anything anymore
Voices shouting censorship and paranoia tumble over the walls of their abode and still like a broken record, refuse to admit their own shortcomings.
To never think of death, of guilt, of pain
They run ashamed and break the bridges that have crossed the empty pit, their concrete blown away, and why?
The roads of healthy living are martyred
The smiles of love are blotted out for the dark recesses privy to the wretches in their holes hiding from insight.
Imagine with me if you will, but Don't pretend it's not actually happening.

longing for summer;
literally,metaphorically

i was left alone
in the epidemic
All humans inside
Dystopian
I'm outside, seeing these horrible things

And i remember that i can't remember.

that I've probably forgotten
Where are my parents?
Where is my home?

No humans on sight, i think they're all dead
oh no, they're all inside it turns out,
I'm the one who's considered dead

Perhaps i am dead
because feeling alive is so distant and far away

And i can't remember.

A weeping soul asleep in bed— a teenage boy in dreary lament,
Seeks solace in riches dreamt. To live overseas in superfluous luxury,
Is all the boy knows he must have as a have-not. His heart, bought by
Awry thoughts and prospects, yearns for golden years and silver days.

Yet he knows not the life of the rich man; a life of misery and pain,
The king, who sits on his throne, a lonely soul known by all men—
An irony of knowing all men but lonely nonetheless. A glut of gold
buys but bliss and love, for we miss and love what we have not.

Hence all men are hypocrites; wishing riches in their days of youth
And wishing youth in their golden years. The young ask the old why
They are not happy, and vise versa. Neither understand their reasons,
And men will always long for selves whom they are not. Satisfaction—
Or rather disillusionment; always there, yet never met.

Every year we fool ourselves through sayings such as
“We can't leave the house for the weather”
and
“The sun will rejuvenate us”.

When seasons transform it turns into
“We can't leave the house for the demons in our front garden”
and
“It burns, it burns, please make it stop burning”