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13 Jul 2014
"And then some,
Food for thought that wouldn’t think,
Working the wrought unto the brink….
Where slaves define a generational plight
A martyr is born out of infamy and blithe.”

——

Rotting, still, in a cancerous shell that knows no health, nor godliness
Ever convincing the pompous mind of the frailty of determination.
A ghost of the day lurking in the shade,
With no deeds worth doing and nothing to bate the erosion of taste.
The asylum of words spurred to life, tongues turned black with hate,
Cheers of death and laughter that bled followed suit.
Lethargy arose with a grimace and swiftly overcame perseverance.
Metaphors broke at the sight of trepidation, A byproduct that shouldn’t have had side effects.
Incompetence was not gained, but found in the core.
At the center of immaturity, locked in the doldrums of nothing important
A million excuses were made not to write this.
Posted on March 25, 2014
13 Jul 2014
i want to give up writing. inspiration doesn’t flow from me anymore.
there is too much pain to vent and not enough words. with my limited vocabulary and terrible concentration how will i ever express my truest feelings? even voicing my own thoughts seems hard these days. when i sit to read all my past work, i feel alien to myself. i can’t recognize the person who wrote this.
i realize this because i don’t know who i am.  i have questions but no answers. i have means but no will. i have goals but no hope. all i desire, leaves me. all i cherish, dies and all i keep, decays. i did this to myself. my crooked arm of evil twisted the levers and swung the fulcrum. savoring the regret. i have a million. one for every scar, stab, spit and more. they will pile on until i’m crushed under the weight of my anguish.
everything this world has to offer is wonderful. i don’t care about any of it now. all wonders are paltry. all laughter is forced. only pain feels like home. married to despair with emptiness on its way. as of now, the chaos of thoughts will only entertain the conscious mind. soon thoughts will freeze. words will halt. i will go mute. incapable of even speaking with people. walls will be built. prisons of self hate and apathy. this will become my habitat.
nobody will bother to remember my name. incognito, i will chase the flame in my dark maze of tears and drool.
Posted on March 1, 2014
13 Jul 2014
A quarter to one at 3 in the night
could ideally be fun, not without warning.
Sitting alone in a room full of one
waiting for clues that glue the hour,
Fluidly spacy in the psychedelic lull
of drifting silence just half past none.
One and three quarters align
magically, weeks have just gone by.
Poetry is depressing to some.
Cheer up now, the waning comes.
Posted on January 18, 2014
13 Jul 2014
My fingers have ribs
directed inward, the squiggly lines
that make up the prints
on the walls with eyes
face to face with the mindful trees
nature listens to my shriveled cry
as morning breaks into an evening sky.

Christmas is done with
the new year is gone
boredom sings its sadistic song
frozen beneath the empire’s lies
the truth is fading in the mire
smoothly set in place
set pieces are falling away.

If this won’t sustain
I can find my way back again
I won’t be blinded by illusions,
indifferent to the calendar’s milestones
and get away from this confusion
for once, I’d like mourning to feel
not like another gloomy dusk.
Posted on January 14, 2014
13 Jul 2014
Another lucrative year of waste
Sordid hours of tasteless taste
Quiet evening in stupor lay
Hung suspended in the new years day
With witty demurrals and ignorant chaste.
Posted on January 4, 2014
13 Jul 2014
The wicker man was right
Like him we all shall burn
Ask the darkness that weaves the night
The wicker man was right
Daylight has brought us spite
The dusky Rubicon shall never discern
The wicker man—was right
Like him, we all shall burn.
Posted on December 14, 2013
13 Jul 2014
To the one who hosts competitions…  
Which ******* gave you the right?  
I wouldn’t listen to your rules even if you paid me.  
Nor would I let you tell me how I would write my poem.  
I could write something totally not related to your competition and submit it.  
Maybe I’ll **** your girlfriend and let you read about how it went.  
She didn’t take your name when she came(just so you know)  

Who said you could take such liberties?  
I’m gonna bash your head in with an exhaust pipe  
And when it dents and gains a sharp edge I’ll scrape your eye with it  
Just one, because I want you to see…  
You wanna host competitions, do ya? Meet my little match  
Ever wondered how a lit match feels in your nostril?  
If I sparked it and let the gunpowder catch flame in your nose, how wonderful would that feel?  
Listen here Mr. you asked for this by hosting it… there’s no backing out now…  
I still have a few things to run you over with.  
**** umbrella? no splash guard? ugh… too messy…  
Ah my favorite! the serpent’s tongue.  
For that I’ll first have to break your jaw, then hold your tongue out  
Then I’ll stretch your tongue out with clamps and slice it right down the middle  
Such a fitting exercise. For you.  
You have become what you really are.  
I’ll leave your manny parts intact… I know how we are when It comes to those.  
I will tell you though, you won’t be able to use em ever again… sorry about the irony.  

Lets get down to business, shall we?  
I hate you. You know why.  
I’m gonna inject you with a pain enhancing serum.  
Then I will administer XXXX ***  
It’s an ancient technique of entertaining someone.  
Dating all the way back to almost 900 AD  
It was banned, sadly, in the last century.  
Anyway, you’re lucky I have knowledge of this  
It won’t spoil our fun… lets start with the obvious places  
Eye lids, lips, ears, finger tips, toes, arm pits, the *******, the wrists….etc….  
You shouldn’t bother keeping count, that’s my job  
But I highly doubt you’ll even live past number 233.
Posted on December 14, 2013
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