I am numb as I walk these hollow streets
Wondering why nothing really lasts
Beneath my clean, cold bed sheets
Where I am haunted by a ghost of the past
I feel guilt. I feel nothing but pain and sorrow
In my dark, empty, echoing chest
And I'm planning never to see tomorrow
Because nothing ever really lasts
Except you, who lives in memories
Memories of an ancient past.
The sun set the moment I took my last breath
But don't worry, my love, it was a peaceful death.
Like the heat of the day
My warmth faded away
I am now merely a ghost
Held by the memories you hold close
But don't mourn over me for too long
Up in heaven I am once again strong
Even though I've said my last goodbye
You'll forever find my warmth in the sunsetting sky.
The hands that stretch, the feet that glide. The ability to see, the strength to withhold vision. I was stuck in shades of dark and filth. I was burning in the passion of the sun. I heard a truth that spoke life. I heard an angel say dive. I took a chance hoping I would fly. I jumped thinking I would bounce. The fall was humanity and life announced. I fell into an ocean of truce. I found creatures bad and good. It was a war, a fight for power. They were corrupt lifelings looking to be kings. They felt like gods eluded by the ring. The ring that controls all things. The orchestrators of lies that kill. Kill the freedom of the mind. The orchestrators of a world that enriches so-called kings. Blasphemy is the order of this world. Pain this world brings. A world of treacherous kings but all nothing without the power. What was the power? A spoken idea a woman a lump of gold? It was the fear! The fear instilled in souls so to inhibit freewill and limit conduct. The power that tarnishes the human soul. The power that bars the mind and hides the truth that one must face. The truth is his identity, the success of his identity is serving his purpose. The realisation of his purpose is dependant upon his surroundings. Surroundings are walls that limit his will and remind him that all he can be is nothing. The fallacy that man is the illusion and the kings are the truth. Scaling walls, browsing I saw that they were fighting. Protecting an order. Fighting for a world of lust, confusion and weakness. Where the kings are gods and the weak slaves. I spoke once and said that I am the vision and the truth I speak to the weak that need healing. I have body armour but no weapons. I have a reason to fight but no weapons. I have weapons but no army. I have an army but the soldiers have tainted minds, no feet and only one arm. An arm that remains stationary, erect and held together. It was the fist that represented the power to stand. The fist that represents immortality. I found hope, I found belief in the little weaponry that lay in my hands. The invisible truth I protect is the heart of my soul. Embracing I know I am what is real, Embracing I acknowledge the dangers of reel, Embracing the truth I know that I am the power and the power is me. I opened my eyes and saw the world as the waking of the day when the sun rises. I found relief in knowing that I am no longer hiding for this power is for fighting. Fighting for the will, fighting for man to be free. I leave the place that was confining, I leave the dust where souls burnt hide in, I scale these walls and glide, I use this power of liberation to display the truth that so many saints have protected. I allow the showers of the night to heal these wounds that leave me infected. I stand in refuge, I am a ghost, I am a soul, I am man, I am the power.
You say, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”
but I say surely something
must taste nicer than the burning acid
being forced back up your throat.
Why not hug people instead of
toilet bowls? At least they’ll hug back.
Except Mia is your only friend now.
And her cousin, Ana, of course.
And I understand that you never
wanted to die, but this is a thousand ton truck
hurtling towards the edge of a cliff and
Ana took the wheel a long time ago.
There is no strength in this: in you, in a
fear of calories. Even your bones creak
as your muscles sigh with exhaustion -
for this, is not a war you're winning.
This is a battle with only one contender
and I will not be the one to disarm you.
That's your job and it always has been. I know
you only wanted to be beautiful
like all those stars in the magazines
you saved under a file titled ‘thinspo’
but the only stars you ever saw were in
your eyes from the dizziness
and to tell you the truth, you are not pretty.
For there is nothing “pretty”
about the layer of fuzz your body grew
to protect itself from the big bad wolf
when really, the only growl was coming
from inside your stomach.
Or how your little sister is afraid to touch,
let alone hug you, in fear of snapping you in two.
For there is no glamour in having to
remove clumps of hair out of the plughole
at least six times whilst having a shower,
just to let the water run down.
Or that one time you "accidentally”
took too many laxatives. Messy.
There is nothing admirable about the way
you sat shivering on your bed
at night instead of kissing boys,
or dancing, or eating ice cream.
There is nothing to be marvelled at
This, is not a life to be lived.
God, this isn't even a life.
This is being a slave to your own body,
a walking zombie, a ghost stuck
between two sides.
You are not alive.
But it was all still worth it, right?
Slowly killing yourself from the inside out.
A small price to pay for perfection,
a bargain for a broken mirror;
for a half-written book
with 97 blank pages,
that only captures in black and white,
with frozen hands.
And most importantly, for a peace of mind
you never received.
there was a long trailer filled
with film reels the size of automobile tires
sitting in racks
it was my job to drive the truck pulling the trailer
through a convenience store parking lot
that was vaguely recognized
I felt confident that I could handle the job
and spoke to some other ghosts
concerning the details
abruptly shifted to changing my cloths
in an acquaintance’s home
in a wide open shower area that had fixtures of wood
that hung like closet hangers
on the tiled wall of the shower
there were sayings and quotes
written by other people using sharpie pens
that were stuck to the walls
I was carrying on a conversation
with the ghosts in the adjoining bedroom
one older, recognizable, sitting on the bed
two others, children, accepting a cynical lecture
from the older ghost
I felt the strong desire to add a quote to the walls
that sense of wanting to be heard
very similar to my desires in a awakened state
I thought and thought hard on the wisdom words
I should leave and came up with
‘’All thinking is exaggeration’’ but the sharpie pen
I chose, would not work on the tiled wall and I gave up
to enter the bedroom and listen to the lecture
with the other ghosts
there was a swirling understanding and then I awoke
My mind always told me to
"leave and advance"
But my heart told me that I still have a chance
I listened to my heart and gave it a shot
It was a bad choice, now look at the misery and failure it brought.
I thought I'd have a chance, so I kept holding on.
But I know that the last ray of hope is gone.
Sadly, it was you, the boy I trusted the most.
Who left me feeling empty, just like a ghost.
Today, the little hope I had inside, you killed.
I don't know why you destroyed something you helped build.
I must have been crazy to even try.
Because all it did crush me inside and make me cry.
And I cry only if there's too much to hide.
Your soul fills the air,
With the energy of your being
Benevolence and purity and understatement
You, so perfect that my knees wobble
You cam straight from my dreams,
To my ever plain reality,
And livened up my world
A cataclysm could not take my eyes from you,
The earth could shake, and I would still
Reach out for your touch,
To taste of your grace, and body
Your perfume smells like lilacs,
Your eyes emit sunshine
I can't come to embrace that,
You walked into this life of mine
I'll hold you till the world stops turning,
When pigs fly, and fire falls from heaven
I'd climb a fissure with the promise
Of your open arms waiting at the top
I still can feel the ghost,
Of your lips on mine,
The flavor that I'll savor till the end of time
I feel somehow that they have mislabeled you
Perhaps just penned you in the wrong ink...
I'm not sure
It seems when I try to describe you, the idea goes sailing away and never anchors home
Slippery one might say...
As the man crawling beneath a rolled-over vehicle, slathered in blood and puke
Like the words that had beckoned to him "C'mon let's go for a ride..." now thoroughly lost
Nothing more then a few grueling moments in agony before it was just a memory and a phrase that didn't quite seem to fit...
Unreal. What did that word even mean?
It felt insulting.
As though the momentary terror that had consumed your reality was nothing more then a passing storm -- No more then a ghost or a Flying Dutchman...
But could the same not be said for it all?
Is any of this really what we came here for?
The choice alone is too much for me not to waste it and I fear if I leave it for too long that the choice will inevitably make itself...
Perhaps that in turn is the choice
The freedom to be or not...
she welcomes my energy inside and gives me tea
calms my busy light without a single word
smiles at my bright aura
a tabby ginger cat purrs on a gingham cloth
blue Delft plates in a row
this was a time with no fuzzy
dimming of all goodness
a woman’s head rolls on the fine sifting sand
dry and warm
a rapier juts forward, pierces the guts of an old man
who carries a child on his back
there’s a red blanket what flies on the line
soggy and now, it’s hard to tell whose blood drips so
an elongated horn is blown from a desert hill
nobody lives in the mountains of Miranda anymore
her ghost has found voice in the echo of the brambles
her secrets still buzz in heavy hives of long ago
discovered and ravaged by trusted traitors
now hanging in clusters, newly unfound
dried corpses also hang (unmolested) in bloodwood trees
where every trace of gall is let flow in kino
the blood of Miranda flows on
she of terminalis
lives on eternal
in brook and vale and bush
in veins of progeny bee
in the crickets of the field
Walking through the pages of an empty notebook,
the surprises are few and far between.
Listening to the honks on Market Street and
I remember when life was like back in 2009.
The room was spinning around and
liquor bottles hung from the ceiling.
The hideous growl of a thousand broken promises.
Chasing after a drunk ghost,
through a maze of street signs and snowflakes.
The night sky sends down shadow monsters,
destined to return your soul.
I refuse to accept that this is reality.
My creative spirit has fallen into discontent.
please save me from these bright lights.
I am going down 157.
Waiting for the clock to strike
any hour it pleases.
Listening to the broken trees whisper their anger.
Splintered from the weight of the crows,
This will not end well.
The problem with every story is that there is a beginning and
Forgive me Father for I have sinned,
my last confession was...
when the Crown Royal was still a peasant.
The victory seemed like a defeat and
the birds flew south for the winter.
Do not be afraid.
This story ends with structure, responsibility, and order.
The trees have regrown,
hiding my secrets.
My mind begins to wonder.
Everything begins to swerve.
Is this what happens
when good men do nothing?
Or when bad men fly?