it's 2am and you're remembering your brother that left us, connected in two very different ways. you hardly knew him, split up and forced to go different ways by your parents. twins seperated. you said he left a note "brother, look after her for me, I love her. I'm sorry" he left me a message "look after him for me, don't let him go down the way I did, he's stronger than me" I am baby I'm looking after him. yes we're connected by the one death, suicide, drowning. we knew him in different ways, but clinging together, we're both still alive.
This strange kind of numb has chased away the desolating pain
there seems nothing in the part where love grows
not in the heart or mind or soul
Is this what death feels like?
Every shred of decency you stole in that piss weak moment of betrayal
you shook the hand of the beast that gave the burden
the thief of my dignity
it was an inncent action between men who respect each other
you had had no right to placee all my shreds of respectably in his palms
to anialate me without provacation
to give me up to avoid confronting the truth
you let my pride die a silent death
the state of shock
and constant scraping up my self off the floor
it was because you found it easier to forgive, than fight for me
so I died A million painful deaths in that moment
like the love that swore it would die a thousand more
it vanished emphasising the nothing that I am
and you didn't even blink an eye.
Me lost in Does
Why is I, me?
At eternity's end
Anxiety eats Does
I sits stagnant
I absorbs courage
Does becomes Me
Now becomes eternities death
The passage is dark and deep
The passage is dark and deep
Forever going in the darkest dreams
The rooms all different
All bathed in the half light
As I'm dragged along
Twisting and contorting
To see it all before I'm gone
A room with knives
And on solitary chair
Where I would sit and loving stare
It leads to a room of headless snakes
A twirling kaleidoscope
Of red and green
Tinged in death
The room in which
I was locked
The door is stuck
I am weak
There is no
way to escape
of haunting halls
Leading down the hall again
Leads us to a room in which
Indian movies music played
The screen danced and flicked
while your body flicked along,
foam crawling out your mouth
eyes rolling back
In this boys dream
a mother screams
And I can do nothing,
Of youth and age and memories
Another door yet to open
of sickness repression
Of warmth and senses
Smell taste touch
The heat burns of this childish lust
The wolf froths and growls
Its teeth glisten
And I scream
A dream within a dream
We climb up the stairs
as they curve and crack
splinters of this dream
ever more it will seem
never real to me
of a room within a room
the tiniest doors for tiny hands and tiny dreams
I but ever small
The room has shrunken
and I will ever crawl
When next you see me travel
Do not ask if I will stay
I've not the time for talking
You'll not get the time of day
My time, my dear, is money
With such value, I'd nary trust her
My words, you'll heed, are golden
Your two cents, mere bronze, lack luster
Fit the bill, you do not
Of cases I will juggle
A blind man could see with both his eyes
How pettiness is your struggle
Complaints of yours, I'll not hear one
For requests, I lack forbearance
Ask a favor, do not you try
Charity's beyond my inherence
Those paws you clinch, you'll also wash
Dare you raise a fist to me
Your filth exudes, nay, it disgusts
Mealworms could out-shine thee
So step off, peasant, you've done enough
Of this wasting of my breath
Be gone now, be clear of sight
Lest thou wish for their own death
"Your majesty" I shall be addressed
No more else should such scum say
And when next you see me travel
Do not ask if I will stay
The smokey planetarium of the loner's thoughts
Spins round and round, as death, he lives
Drunken with his despair, he replaces all the stars
With gleaming clumps of barb-wire and broken wings.
They scratch at the planetarium's roof.
Itching the him toward the railing,
Whispering sweet nothings about the enticement
Of insomnia mixed with a little infinite slumber.
I. I thought you were her world;
Her paperback novel
She could ponder quotes in
And crack the spine of.
But you’ve now got police orders against you
And the pain of missing you
Seers the seams of her striped-sweater heart
And though you’re trying to get into Green and Ginsberg,
She can’t see what the big deal is.
You were the Holden Caulfield
To her Jane Gallagher
But Holden never took Phoebe
To the mattress so
I guess that makes the two of you
Sid and Nancy
II. I suppose she never believed you
When you told her that you were an alcoholic.
Because alcohol burns
And though you lit her fire,
You couldn’t keep it burning.
You told her that you didn’t read
And she should have
Backed away then.
But she didn't.
Because you played accordion
And dressed like Gatsby
And she adored that for a good while.
Until you told her that you despised the Rolling Stones
And may have committed a murder.
Even then she did not back away
Because you bought her cigarettes
And hit on other girls
While she waited for you
To give her the boot.
III. She liked your accent
But it was just a sweet, endearing cover up
For a mind as empty as a gypsy’s wallet
And a rich man’s soul.
IV. You liked to give her drags
Off your E-cigarette
Because it tasted like cherry Pez
And you wanted her to see
Or rather, taste,
Kissing you was like magic
You moved on to an older broad.
Her lips met yours
You tasted like heavy booze
And she was too desperate and twisted
To really give much of a damn.
So she accepted it
And moved on.
Because you called her pretty
And made out with her in the forest,
Denim scratching denim,
Hearts hurting hearts.
VI. She didn’t know you were homeless.
Maybe she did
But she didn’t accept it.
Like an elderly doesn’t accept death at first
And attempts to bargain.
You smelled horrible…
She believed it to be a natural thing.
But you were neglecting your hygiene and with that,
Her as well.
And the only thing you cared more for than sex
Was the Sex Pistols.
VII. You asked her to take off her glasses one day
And with one look of her freckled,
Pimple-shell ridden face,
You told her she looked like Ramona Flowers
And upon googling who that was,
She nearly crapped herself in glee.
She should have taken it as a sign
When you began to find
And tiny reason to touch her in as playful a way you could.
Through tiny nudges
She should have seen the possibility of romance blossoming.
But you were 29
And she, 17.
Twelve years, practically
Between the two of you.
But your undivided ideals
Brought you only closer together.
You were an English education major,
With a III mark after your name
And Megaman on your walls.
She took one look
At the astounding possibilities,
Drew a breath and fell in love with
Every little thing about you.
Unnoticeable thing about you,
From the scar
Stretching down your spine
To the scruff on your chin…
Deeper in love with you
Than she ever had before.
And she saw a dream,
That came in on a hot summer day
With Taco Bell
I am an artist.
I can make myself into something new
Imagine the possibilities you could
Just let me know what you want.
Here, flip through this magazine for some
And tell me what you like best!
It’s all about pleasing your audience
It doesn't matter what I want,
Nobody cares about that.
They just want to see something pretty.
I sculpt and paint imagery out of tools
To end up with a fake canvas.
Day to day I suppress myself with the lies.
I chip and chisel,
Dissect and carve,
Bits and pieces,
Until I’m left trembling,
Just to be tossed away in the end.
Splashes of red,
And strokes of black ignite your appeal,
And this is what you label as real?
Hunger strikes itself through the bones
Revealing its power through the limbs
Of the body, eye sockets, sinking down,
Death could possibly be the resemblance.
What a terrible piece, a shame it is.
Maybe just a few more tweaks,
And it will at least look halfway decent.
Trim down the sides,
Thin out any extras,
Fill in what is needed.
Even just a tad more color,
Then we have something.
Time strolls by,
A year soon passes,
And one day I just happen to actually
And look at my masterpiece,
But only for a moment.
In the mirror,
A reflection stares back at a wretched,
Beads of liquid build up into my pallid
Unable to contain the weight of their
reasons any longer,
Tears begin to burst,
They trickle down my rose stained
Fueled by the absence of perfection,
And I feel nothing.
Needs more work.
Is it you--
are you the rain
that my children
Are you the
harvester of long
grains and seeds
that the lone bird
To know you
is to know for an
It is you,
the hand of death,
the whisperer of
who knows of both
the grandest scope
and of who I am
in my smallest ways.
Best known for writing such words it scrawled in many languages inked out of hearts of
Poet’s politician’s clergy investment of mind and soul glided over parchment it would open
Doors of wood hinges were heard to creak when wise words were spoken and angry kings could
No longer hold freedom back after words of truth shined forth with wisdom and would not
Be denied by personnel greed and cruelty the very breath of man was infused in such
Documents that had veracity that was uncommon in nature the heights were noted the
Indignity and stupidity and rigidness that would in slave people was forever snapped no bonds
Could hold after the quill responded to such ignorance pleasantries were subscribed to by
Mortal hand that reached beyond uncertainty and touched divine sensibility it wrote on
Personnel levels in the case of widowhood when the dark curtains of loss were drawn and no
Light shined into the soul of the bereaved in the darkness a sister friend’s face slowly emerged
From the murky dark waters that sorrows flood brought in her embrace and understanding the
Quill wrote of a slow growing power a bridge was constructed over the river of nerve and
Exhausting pangs longing for the beloved that was departed but through this single individual
The stitching of healing began its most needed work through another the sharing of faith and
Trust would create a heart that no longer was held in gloom but pierced the heavenly blue
Where the fair one stood in garments of gleaming white of mist and tranquil portions no longer
Was fate alone in play but joyous music the flute the horn the violin drew a picture of a country
Lane there love was once again completed harmony over arched death itself and it was all
Viewed under the greatest banner men ever knew and it is friendship the telling and knowing of
Tears and a shoulder to cry on it gives way to building blocks that create a different life
Widowhood made agreeable while the wound still remains it is a course changer the injured
Now arises a heroine of quiet silent grace a source of strength a viable counter weight to grief’s
Unbearable character the quill surmounts the littleness in people stories are in abundance that
Show both sides of the issue the abyss that selfishness brings but what heights can be reached
By serving others instead of self weights the quill lifts effortlessly weighty matters the line we
Have come through many slings and arrows fits twists and turns the quill runs before as a lion
Tamer it cracks a whip trouble is quickly vanquished there is writing everywhere the quill will
Guide to so many existing ideas that create formidable answers but with this in play the
Intangible restless pull of something beyond reason that must be recognized and dealt with all
Success and pleasure will melt away as the pull of importance that will not give way most of us
Know the undeniable truth that over all that is said above a greater quill writes in perfect
Accord without error not of fleshly hand but spirit that moved on men to state His wishes and
Commands without this writing no one can know true happiness or fulfillment outside of this
Most extraordinary compelling truth but what record there is of such sadness because of failure
To listen to a love story of tremendous drama all pertaining to the highest highs and the lowest
Lows and of one by love just won’t give up on the ones He holds so dear it comes down to this
Reality it still stands true there is a Hell to shun and a heaven to win through all the swirling
Down through time this great weight rests on us all what we decide will be flames or bliss abide
With him who hates you completely or the one who loved you to the point of dying in agony
You are the only one who can complete the story the quill writes love and mercy sadly so many
Show it has little effect the quill writes on sin is death those who practice it will surely die this is
The second death the lake of fire