The feeling I can never explain something just ingrained within you.
I can't explain what I never could understand.
We are the dreamers and suffer those who are awake.
Tragic are those who lack vision, misfortune is yours please spare mine.
The blade is now a pen my blood now Ink .
For whom it is lost is more found I.
The rejects of night are but misfits of my day.
As the poison seeps in as my creativity flows unto a void created in chaos none of which
was of my choosing.
Were all dreamers caught within a nightmare's grasp, losers of a game we chose not to play.
But we damn sure tried in spite of it all.
The blank page remains a suicide note to the forgotten chapter in a dust collected manuscript.
Secrets are best left buried like shipwrecks on the ocean floor.
Why be the judge when none are innocent or ever so guilty as I.
Damn the nights for bringing the memories upon me ,
and curse my thoughts for remaining after all these drinks.
Haunted are the souls of the living simply empty vessels that fill the streets.
Many years have passed.
Yet these thoughts never age .
Goddamn the nights and winters empty chill!
The fire now only seems to smolder a dragons bluff to wolves such as I.
I hear the others howl I simply choose to ignore the sound.
Taking refuge in my thoughts and torment in scars past.
Empty are these thoughts that I unearthed tonight.
I hear the howls outside my door.
They are my burden and none else to understand.
In witching hours of lost hopes and broken dreams I find my solace.
I've ran with demons and slept with many angels, to burn only in the cold of ice.
Tomorrow is always a dream as from this nightmare maybe I'll wake.
Treasure the silence in it we find our true selves.
I hear the howls I simply choose to no longer answer.
Mongst the salacious ferns of
Artemis requested in the land
of the handsome labyris women
wealing and weaving Vulcans
shrewd hearts of jasper and
chalcendony, governess Hulda
cleaves Muspellsheims yew bones
fletching mandrakes philtre whetting
hie Cupids perfuse herb of grace
intercessorial unto volcanic pious
virtues haranguing loves cataract
dashing herewith demotic enditements
distempered of ludic ordination;
forging a year and a day halest
cledonomancies volley of truths
bequeathing privity of Heavens
ELEETE J MUIR.
Why do we often see ourselves as cracked mirrored monsters
and soul-less entities that are worth less than the next ?
How does this ring true to the infinite beauty that you know lies within your self.
In the form of cells and dna...in the form of your ethereal creation...in the hug you give some one...
It is not the mistrust of yourself that seeps into your pores but it is the mistrust of a world in which 'an honest lie' is called advertising and a commended joy.
We have no morals , no code of conduct , we are free to chose yet condemned to no choice unless we ourselves decide that it is so.
For nothing is , until we deem it.
The sun is not a sun until i say so , at least not to me.
I am a universe unto myself and a god unto my own being,
i am creation's destruction.
Even if we don't always feel it , we always are it.
There is, a colder side to the summer but only so we know what cold is and what hot can be.
We are no more nor less than the ant, than the bumble bee.
When I was young once my pastor taught
The tale Genesis, how God with care
Unto hard clay breathed conscious thought.
As the wind would blow I’d say a prayer
And feel His breath, the hot gust of air
The trees that swayed were His great chest
The leaves that fell were kissed and blessed.
I spread my arms towards the sky
And knew He could make me fly.
I closed my eyes, and on tip-toe
Soared high to heavens, earth below.
Far above the pale green pastures
And winding roads, filled with rapture
I saw where the path would end,
What the course of life would lend.
Unchained and free, I knew at last
What shores we'd reach, when we are passed.
Our clumsy bodies tie us down,
But souls are free, and never bound.
And as the day faded to night
I had to end my sacred flight
Fall back to earth, where reason rules
Where those who soar
Are simple fools.
"Forward Unto Dawn,
The Coming Of The New Age
Suddenly, without expectation.
There he was.
Friendly, jolly little fella that many called Santa.
Standing within the room with various presents.
Next to him was two little elves.
Two little people barely shorter than him.
One a female.
One a male.
Helping out the jolly little fella.
They didn't see me pretending to sleep.
Seeing the sight of Santa has always been a dream of a child.
Just to imagine him took over my imagination.
All the stories told to different in opinions.
But many was exactly like I remember.
Except, one of the person looked like Mom or Dad.
I never heard of them in any Santa stories
So, I dose off to sleep after my dream came true.
I have seen Santa like I never knew.
He was joyful.
He was kind.
And magical too.
Cause I imagine in my sleep that he rose through the Chimney unto the roof.
So when people question, if he's real?
I'm living proof.
That all kids parents, are Santa too.
Some just refuses to tell you.
Think of me not as some maritime devotion,
born upon the salt, suspended in the air,
our friendship but a spit of land, a temporal
bank set upon its tidal death through erosion.
Tarry not on your scattered desk of grey matter.
The folded notes and pencil shavings you hoard,
in the sorry hope they’ll fall to a collage of memoirs
and make sense of all this, their endless chatter.
They talk in circles, double-dealing confidants,
so free of tongue, yet so confined in spirit.
In haste they claim unto you their longing
for the fame, the glamour of the on-screen debutants.
Still stubbornly, you cling to those memories anew.
A memory of a memory, a doctored past is
a game of whispers, to colour in the grey,
to fill beauty in the present, to set ourselves askew.
So you rest with sad grace, thinking on what’s gone.
You make a bed and twist in the sheets of old deceptions,
your pillow case of cigarette ash, wasted petals;
instead, old friend, here are my words to lay upon.
So think of me not as some wasted emotion,
born upon the haze, a clinch of jutting bones,
our friendship but a stretch of truth, a temporal
face set to fade, in all of life’s commotion.
So musical notes fall upon my heart like raindrops
I can only breath again when the music finally stops.
It moves my very being like a sunset on a summer night
but yet it leaves me frozen at a sudden dreamlike sight.
I feel each note as it patters gently on my heart
I hardly notice when it stops and when it will start.
It rips a scar across my weary soul but heals as it goes,
the energy I gather from the notes is easy to show.
I can climb a frightening mountain in the rain,
as long as I have the warming music to ease my pain.
We should all have notes that fall unto us in time
like words that always fall into sweet and dazzling rhyme.
In many ways we are so close
yet always out of reach
Defenses we both put in place
that neither one could breach
Though put in place to keep us safe
from pain and fear and doubt
They have the added side effect
of keeping others out
When finally I crossed your path
and wished to set you free
The gates were locked so long ago
you could not find the key
And so this space between you and I
remains unto this day
I sit and wait while you decide
if there’s another way
In the depths of my mind,
Everything was figured out
And I was sure of how we would be:
A typical couple infused with happiness,
With lives that were worry free…
Is this how it is meant to be?
That when one finds true happiness,
The struggles begin to run deep?
That the little things begin to grow in power,
Causing everything I imagined to simply be devoured?
Can it be true, that I was wrong,
That love does more than set your heart free?
Well…as I lay here and
Await for the answer to strike from above,
I will continue the path I've chosen,
And refuse to believe in the dark side of love.
Look at the current state of affairs
and ask yourself this:
"Would it be at all outlandish
that they're creating enemies deliberately
in order to justify their existence?"
They piss off those they wrongfully oppress
until they can justify violent, martial law like suppression.
Either through the self-fulfilling prophecy of psychology
or through some projection or perhaps manifestation
it does seem that the New World Order thrives on demagoguery;
deliberate deception and misdirection of the masses
and then riding that artificial current
to their own sick, annihlistic ends.
If it is true and I am eventually kidnapped for this type of speech,
I won't back down for a second; I will defend my voice unto my very last word:
"All I've done is speak my mind, thank you for vindicating my words."