This block that’s been haunting me
I finally know what it is
It’s not that my thoughts have ever ceased to exist
(no matter how hard I wish)
Has never been poetic.
My 4 shots of honesty
Are tucked under unclean bed-sheets
Because I haven’t found a soul
With good enough reason to trust
I work with formulated brushstrokes
My polished softer madness
Because I’ve been told that
This much eye contact makes you
I say things
that you didn't
want to (or know how)
Enough for you to swallow
So shove yours down my throat
with a gleam in your eye
like you actually think
you’ve solved my mystery
have covered up
every last shadow
every vicious glimmer
of your fingerprints
marring the fabric
of my skin
my natural form
is your sin
I shudder to think
That I’m waiting
For my censored text to be read
Waiting for repercussions
Of wounds that I’ve already bled
Is that I blurred through the boundaries
Between memories and lies
That I often can’t remember
What I made up and why
there was so much to
with false nostalgia
that there’s no logic behind that
no reason to
forget how to feel
to go three days
with my eyes glazed
until I can grasp on
to what's real
a patched up framework of sane
and I want to see blood
to feel purpose for pain
Every time my tremors
Shake in new directions
I want to cry because
That’s just one step further away
Was just imagination
until it was dysfunction
and I set fire to my lungs
Because no matter what
I was never good enough
I choke on my breath
And the burn of swallowed blood
out of place
like a breeze to the bone
Dripping past the place that
Your name once called home
I still visit
The grave of a legend
In my body
So heavy with the weight
Of lives I never lived
It was never like
The words I so hopefully drowned in
The promises that
my fears were unfounded
That no one could really
Not like this
Being left to remember your kiss
Nail marks in the palms of clenched fists
Not like fading in and out of dreams
Which reality is this?
Untangling from cold sweats
With the ringing in my ears
Reminding me ruthlessly
That god damnit I’m still here
And you’re gone
I hate that “I miss you”
Is mistaken for cliché
But it’s my truth
It’s my indescribable
My around every corner
Staring me right in the face
Over and over
Your absence impacts like a train
dripping in honey sweet
we were my first us
it's hard to find salvation
foundation gives up
Is sharp breaths
It tastes like
Vomit coming out my nose
Splashing against my skin
It burns a little like
Coming up my throat
And a whole lot less
Than the loneliness
That vacant isolation
That booms so stubborn
Trying to heal
Reminding me that
Summer by summer
I become something
That I wont
be willing to save.
At this point
I'm not sure what I crave.
it feels like thunder
on the horizon
of my intangible
you are so much more
than a metaphor
for how perspective
but my story
was never about you
birthed from ashes
your favourite taboo
Painted practice forgives the forward hand
Another man stands between the broken battalions
Caution slips underneath the tattered worn rug
And the apples and oranges rest naked and smug
The horizon stands poised neath a towering shrine
Wishing for salvation in an appetite of rhyme
And because there's no forgiveness for the weak or the rubbed
The one's left over have no need for the above
A cradle crosses the abstinent dream
Forgetting the difference between falseness and what's real
Pull apart your own fears, erupt sacred insecurities
Attack the dark with lighted candle and a roaring spark
Light across the window, cloud covers the moon
Reappeared faces make me strike another tune
Between the tide and the wave, sits a cap sized ship to heavy to move
The streets today are empty and how about you?
She moved like a serpent and spoke like a child
When the store owner's saw her, they all went wild
Two pair down wide and I've driven too many miles to cry
Why on this Earth is there rule you gotta' die -
Mountains peter past the fortunate blue
Of oceans to cross to peddle or bloom
Dead flowers rest on the graves of the dead
Birds lift their wings as they search for a bed
In a home where the mother grips every mention of moan
Parries a father to weak to address his crumbling tomb
See the spiraling trapeze spin and clap in tights
Even in dreams are we as forgetful as the vanishing night
True light from the world should be rewarded in marks,
Our marks tally our deals made with the sharks.
They prod a young girl to bring her marks to a pass,
She is passed by a boy whose love will not last.
What she cares about isn't what the voice requires,
An ensemble of hatred rains on her fires.
I won't break a daft child whose naivety is clear,
For his mind is like clay to be smashed to a mold.
The free do not know what to do with liberation,
The brilliant girl is too bright to fear the free world's damnation.
But the stupid boy prays to a hellish salvation.
The claims he makes to fix all his sins,
Let the lord take care of that while he scores his sick wins.
No allegiance she owns,
To the pulpit which drones,
That the boy can kill innocents,
Yet be as pure as the newborn child is so known.
Menorahs and Mangers
S~ e ~a~ r~ c~ h
Are my salvation.
that provoke memories past .
It is the wise words of friends who
bring comfort during this season.
Last night I dreamt for 20 years,
and life unraveled, picked into bare threads
before me. I'm still crying.
The beauty and love and trust
is so fragile, and betrayal
wins so easily. A small deed
or its absence will fester and kill.
Last night I dreamt for 20 years.
Believe me, hold your loved ones
with every hug you can spare,
and never forget the kindnesses
each day bestows. For tomorrow
breeds doubt and amnesia, and
believe me, karma will bite you
in the ass. Maybe not in this life,
but you will taste the bitterness.
And, oh, how its acrid decay
burns holes in the tongue.
Last night I dreamt for 20 years.
Even if you deny yourself
salvation, at least spare
the Others you (once) love(d).
Do this, and protect the
Dreamers, like me, from our
raining bleeding hearts.
when these summer squalls have subsided and the rains of trials past
are naught but steam and clammy vapor, I will reap the kernels of my discontent.
bushel by bushel, I will harvest my wistful fields until they are barren of want, and
come fall, I will take my troubles to the mill.
lined-up and counted and turned and turned and turned, I will bake them in the sun, and
when they are dry, I will grind them with a stone salvation.
under a December sky, I will bleach them with a mild amnesia until
they are as white and soft as springtime snow.
then baker befriended, these kneaded woes will rise--
and this time, I will feast on the bread of my shortcomings.
the leaves fell and they mean nothing
like the shells he kept on his room- they mean nothing
those days numb with the familiar
hands clenched without regrets, or so he said
those are but tombs without names
skeletons waiting for a crow visit
candles swaying with the wind for salvation
the ghost of yesterday still aching, hopeful for a better tomorrow
the dagger that made a home on his heart
the tears, smiles, and the memories stuck in between
they're nothing, like the leaves
lifeless and crumpled beneath his feet-
all for nothing, he said, she said.
This generation is going to hell in a hand-basket.
And its something that cannot be denied.
Its not because of the sins.
People have always sinned,
We're sinners at heart.
Its not because of the gays,
They cant change your views,
And the world isn't growing up gay.
This generation is going to hell because we are lost.
Somehow morals were not enforced,
Only taught and then forgotten.
We have a chance of being saved,
But we wont accept it.
There are a few,
Within our generation,
That have hope.
It is them,
And our parents,
That hold the key to our salvation.
We will be forever lost,
And on a one way street,
It's starting again.
I can feel the emptiness nestling in my joints.
With each drop in temperature, the
evils begin spiraling inside
of my mind as I fall
to the hounds.
I don't care. I don't blink.
It has no effect on me
In my mind, I am smoking away
the tears and choking fears. Wispy tendrils of
heather gray caress my thin, chapped
lips with love. I am wearing
leather and black and there are
gracing my lily white skin, marred
only by my bloody, bitten nails and
your ink. I am
the demons, letting them drive
me away on chrome plated chariots, just
to get away, to run faster than God
itself, to the end -
the finish line -
they can't catch me;
they won't catch me yet,
In reality, I am buried
by layers of fat and years of secrets. I am
nothing but easily forgotten, and I
breathe in the esse of other lives, as if
they can save me or take hold, can grab
me tight, can pull my head high above suffocating
midnight waves. I am an
actor only by the smiles that convince me of a performance
well done. I am a liar, a
damn good one.
I'm not even excited for Christmas.
The tree, the lights, the frosty
air does nothing to arouse a festive
spirit or a hopeful mood. This is my only tell.
I have never lost
this one hope, this sole
light. Never have I lost
all - just you, though that has
always felt like a loss
larger than life.
"Fuck it all," I whisper.
Because no one cares, and we
are a selfish race. We are self-
absorbed, drowning in our own sorrows, and
clinging to desperate attempts of connecting.
It's starting again, and this time, I can
taste it on my tongue. Bitter, copper, heavy and
foul. Perhaps, if I believed in salvation, I
hope. For now, though, hope is an
empty bottle of water in the Sahara, and it is
foreign and massive and dark and looming.
Eating me alive.
the air is thick with madness
blown in the wind like smoke
in time we all begin to choke
stagnation static clinging
wringing me of passion
rob me of compassion
like a black hole, devour
my heart and soul
now, in our darkest hour
I cry out, "save me!"
the silence is deafening
so loud my ears are ringing
I wander lost, alone and confused
a stranger in a strange, cold world
seeking peace and solace
finding nothing, I recoil
violently, like the raging storm
and the sizzling crackle
of lightning splits the sky
hear the sound of my fury
in the booming of thunder
the rage against complacency
the roar of my inner fire
I know there is more to life than this
it started off slow and subtle
in time the hunger began to spread
it began to divide and consume
the light and all that lies before it
at first no one noticed
now we turn a blind eye
overlooking our true nature
we are agents of destruction
devouring all in our path
discarding that which serves us no longer
and moving on to the next thing
it doesn't have to be this way...
we look to the sky for our salvation
but no one is coming to save us
from the nightmare we created ourselves
and continue to maintain each day
with the folly of our egotism
nothing but an illusion,
a ghost of the truth, that is
we are ugly deep down under
the polished masks we wear
and for what? What does it matter?!
cast off the persona weighing you down
become the light you were meant to be
we can be our own saviors
of, pertaining to, or characterized by a manner of writing in which a character's thoughts or perceptions are presented as occurring in random form, without regard for logical sequences, syntactic structure, distinctions between various levels of reality, or the like