Brian Patrick
My head pounds with each beat of my heart
The pounding grows with every second that passes
Seconds turn into eternities of distress
That distress grows into pain beyond endurance
The pounding continues to drain my spirit – hah
Pills and drink only mask what is happening in my head
Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing
My thoughts are turning inward – **** dastardly thoughts
The throbbing won’t leave my head – it’s ever-present
The darkness is growing inside of me with every beat of my heart
Thoughts, gruesome thoughts, start to take form in the psyche
They churn and grow into such images of despair and worthlessness
A .38 feels so real and yet heavy in my trembling hand
Blue steel should do the job and consummate the end
Swift flight through the jaw into the throbbing head
No more throbbing or pain, nor thoughts of demons – just serenity
A blade might be nice – to the jugular, the deed is done
The slow drip allows me to contemplate my demise
To see those things that drove me to this end
Slowly easing into nothingness might be the way to end the pain
Whatever chosen method of demise – this earthly life betrayed
Shall allow this body to die and decay over the timeless drift
To end this stay that has tormented my means throughout my time
I cling no more to thoughts unreachable and painful only to fall into requiem
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
John Keats
O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,—
Nature's observatory—whence the dell,
In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refined,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Brian Patrick
Slowly it invades all senses
Drifting into the realm of daylight
As the daylight dwindles it is replaced
By the emptiness of the dark
As one diminishes, another appears
Bright against the black sky
Crying out for human gaze
Since time has remembered
With the bright beacon of the sky
Comes the wafting mist
The mist that harbors the cold
Chills that permeate through the soul
The darkness of the night beckons the immortals
From the nether world to the surface
Looking for souls to capture and revile
As mine is being torn from my chest
The calls from the dark are strong
Strong enough to pull my being into Valhalla
Slipping into the vortex that is the night
Falling into the void that will hold me forever
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
Brian Patrick
Insidious by its very nature
Yet soothing to those who indulge
It calls upon its broken cohort
Every two hours like a sentinel
It silently creeps along the mire
The Reaper within smiling and leering as he
Calls upon the Banshee McLemore
Searching for the wanton easy prey
Somehow the Poison drifts along the ebb
The shore becomes a winter haven
Solace among the rubble and waste
The storm as the background for a living hell
The innocents have no fight with the
Pinprick that brings their bodies delight
Off into the realm of self edification
The familiar warmth that overtakes
The warmth that turns into stark heat
Fluttering eyes look to the heavens
The beauty that is McLemore, lips waiting
Death in all its beauty awaits
To be stolen from the claws of McLemore
Cheated from the Reaper's blade
The spray that awakens the departed
Another snatched from the clutches of the Poison...
...has risen
© 2014 Brian Patrick
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
Brian Patrick
A gift is given without expectation of return
A gift is wrapped in anticipation
A gift can be hidden in finery
A gift is accepted without question or hesitation
A gift may be breath into life
A gift is a feeling beyond mere words
A gift brings joy and solace
A gift allows total abandon
My gift is beyond all expectations
My gift is tall, blonde and exquisite
My gift is the greatest promise of life renewed
My gift is totally mine without reservation
Thankful for my gift of love
Thankful for my gift of life
Thankful for gift of beauty
Thankful for my gift of forever
© 2014 Brian Patrick
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Brian Patrick
Tall, knowledgeable, caring, jovial and holy
Respected by many; exalted by others
His road – the road that should be taken
Irish of course, but not of the old sod
The unattainable, becomes at once, attainable
Your reckoning lightened by his words
The Black Robe is a tale to be told by all who believe
Believers they may be, but not for ease of living
He, The Black Robe, beckons you to seek his countenance
Consolation is offered within the folds of his robes
You accept the gift without hesitation of belief
Your belief in the blood sacrifice of the unbelievable
The comfort of refuse offered by The Cassock
Truly blackens with the deceit of the unholy
All too friendly for men and boys
The betrayal all too familiar for me
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Brian Patrick
Plodding, trudging, slogging through the reeds
Praying for death or at the very least – rescue
Sweat and muck mingle as one
Sliding down my face and pouring over my body
Why me? I have no repair
Looking behind; not a human in sight
The arrows fly by whizzing in the dark
Into the mud I go – fearful
The light in the distance beckons
My limbs giving way to the weight
The rope catches my neck and tightens
Into the Chart House dragged to no avail
My captors start the endless mindless dance
I am at the beginning of my long goodbye
Dare I give them the dark secret they desire
Never, never …
… the blood trickles down my ***** neck.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Brian Patrick
Cold blooded, darkly dripping
Teeth; long, sharp and oozing red
Nails extending beyond the reach
Wings embracing the night sky
Beelzebub scans the upper crust
His cantations include the depth of misery
The collector of souls and destroyer of flesh
The Rake, the conveyor of death
After the vernal equinox, preparations to begin
The first of the year yields way to St. Wineblad
Blood, body and soul gathered
More to continue for Walpurgis
As the sun sets, the three-eyed raven appears
The signal propels The Rake to flight
Searching, searching for worthy sacrifants
Low over the cornfields he marks his prey
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Brian Patrick
Interesting, that someone like me
Someone who grew large on the street
Would have their very own island
An Island where one could go, but never live
The Island is far from beautiful
The flora and fauna are deplete from color
The water colorless and hard to the touch
Sand invades making all heavy
Visiting my Island becomes too often
It pulls me – no beckons me like a lover
To extend my stay never to retreat
Never to return to the life I live
Once on the Island chills and tremors grow
Dripping with sweat only to give in to torment
No sunshine, only the darkness and despair of the Island
My Island delivers desperate comfort
Never do I want to leave – only always
My Island only for me to wallow about
Forever trying to leave this paradise lost
Only to find my island visit lingers ...
© 2014 Brian Patrick
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Brian Patrick
So isolated
My being feels like lead
groping, groping
my fingers raw with ripped flesh
Rotting, putrid air
Breathing becomes a burden
Walls keep closing in
Dark, dank and musky
The ***** *******
The cunning **** that he is
Exiled me to this earthly dungeon
My sentence to be drawn by death
The constant murky mess
Sludge that seeps in every pore
Without forethought or feeling
Life without touch; death
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC