Jack wakes up in a panic, he’s manic.
He convulses on the bed,
His arms swinging in defensive manoeuvres,
Struggling against violent illusions in the night.
He’s tired, exhausted.
The nightmares had come again
And laid their cold grip on his skin
And now he has to begin again to forget.
His bed’s soaked in sweat,
His head’s pounding and drowning in the sounds he feels surrounding him.
But there’s only silence.
He shakes his head
And tries to dispel the blaring sirens
And the flashing in the back of his eyes
But the light and sound won’t quit.
He reaches for the tabletop to his side
And grabs a bottle empty of a bottle top
And downs it.
The sharp taste of cheap whisky
Burns his throat and helps to dull the conflict in his head. If only for a moment.
Taking a look around
He notices
He’s naked.
The clothes he slept in
Were swept off in the night
And thrown to the side.
His white skin is bruised and ******
Marked by the copper claws
Of the nightmare spawn
Trying to break through his form
And escape.
But the dead skin and red rings around his fingers tell a different story
Of blood and gore
But not from the paranormal
But more of an internal war.
See, Jack’s not sure what’s real.
He can’t quite distinguish the line between fiction and fact.
He sees it every morning like a crack running down his mirror separating his heart from his head.
But when he reaches out and tries to touch it
The green slithers of reflection withhold any consolation.
The jagged glass pierces his skin
And he bleeds.
He bleeds the way his mum used to sing whilst she rocked him to sleep.
He bleeds the ink from the love letters he wrote to the girl who he gave his first kiss.
He bleeds the tears that gushed from his eyes when she gave his first kiss away with a laugh.
You can see it, dripping down his palms
And painting the floor
In a mosaic of blood.
Each panel a Scarlett red petal
Coming together to form
A twisting flower
Sprouting out from the ground and wrapping its vines around his legs,
Trapping him in this
Labyrinth.
His head’s not right.
There’s something twisted in the cables
That’s left him unable to think.
He can’t see the world like everyone else;
In his head, it’s a game
But the pieces don’t match up
And the board is aflame
And it doesn’t ******* matter
Cause everyone’s cheating anyway.
So, there he stands,
In front of the mirror,
With the ground creeping up his legs
And slowly dragging him down.
His weight teetering
On the line of intrusive light
Refracting off the silver glass
And turning the cuts and scars into gold.
Around him,
Flowers are bursting out of the floor
And cradling every inch of his skin
In a massacre of colours.
For a second, his body tenses,
And then relaxes into the aroma of Spring.
He glances back towards the mirror
And can no longer see himself.
He has been encompassed in a coffin of life.
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 11:16 AM UTC
You see,
she does not live
on your planet.
Or exist
in your world.
she
is the black
on a butterfly’s wings.
The tickle
on your neck.
she cannot die
she does not live.
She
is everything
and nothing
The last
raindrop
in the
storm.
The impulse
behind your eyes
that says
yes.
She is love
and lust
and passion.
She cannot be
contained.
Her kiss
is life
and death
a beautiful
deadly
poison.
She
is the siren
when she calls
you will
answer
and it will mean the end.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
It is far too long
since I’ve tasted lust
and passion.
Let me breathe
your curves and
taste your thighs.
Softly
then sharply.
Remind my lips
of the sweetness of
Your sweat.
As we lay
together
vulnerable and
honest.
Our bodies
contorting in
ecstasy.
Euphoric and
connected.
I’ll whisper
secrets
in your ears
and you’ll
trust me
with your tongue.
Let’s forget
our names
and exist
forever
in that moment.
Paint
my back
with your
scratches.
Tease out
the blood
with your nails.
Let my lips
draw a masterpiece.
Let my words
compose
a song
and we’ll
end
together
breathless
intoxicated
delirious
in
a
final
violent
crescendo.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
The crystal ball grows dim
And shadows being to form.
Swirling into darkness,
They slowly **** the light.
The prophecy is broken.
The chosen one is gone.
Fallen prey to Hades urges.
We are now alone.
Tread lightly with your mortal soul.
Don’t let temptation break you.
If you submit to their desires,
Salvation will forsake you.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 7:45 AM UTC
Sometimes, the words don’t come.
The consistent stream of consciousness, ceases.
I am left with nothing to say.
There is a beauty in the broken mind.
Like an abandoned building taken by nature.
It is not that my mind does not work.
It is that it works too fast,
And I am left behind,
Scrabbling in the dust,
Desperately seeking a connection,
In the discarded fragments of thought.
I am fighting a losing battle.
I fear the white flag will soon arise.
And signal the end.
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
A crystal brim,
of molten sand,
reflects the sin,
held in my hand.
The bottle top.
A bubbly fizz.
The gentle trickle,
loves first kiss.
But love has gone,
Or doesn't exist.
A burning throat.
No longer bliss.
On occasion,
I deemed a bottle,
a bit of fun,
a little trouble.
The occasions gone,
but not the bottle.
My hand is cold,
the neck I throttle.
A tiny tremor.
A gentle slur.
It's time to go.
I hit the curb,
I make a move,
trip and stumble.
Stagger home,
alone, lumbered,
The bottle follows.
It always does.
A crown of thorns,
cut with blood.
I beg it to go,
I implore it to leave,
The bottle laughs,
The bottle's me.
A drink in the morn,
or the afternoon,
the nights as good as any,
under the moon.
I'm an addict.
Addicted,
to feeling,
a little less,
of anything.
It's been a month,
I've got my chip.
The flasks gone,
from my hip.
The damage's done.
My heads a mess,
but maybe it's not,
quite too late to impress,
a sober sensibility,
upon me.
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 8:26 AM UTC
Dear Sirs or Madams,
Of a literary persuasion.
I write today with,
A professional inclination.
I fear, and worry, my imagination’s clock,
Has, sadly, hit a writer’s block.
In short, I hope
(with a hesitance, hereout),
To employ the services of a muse.
Both, male and female,
Are encouraged to apply,
Though, I admit, my bias may lie,
Towards those who kindness, mercy and love,
Are praised and placed inherently above,
The human desires of power and wealth
And selfish ambition and pride in themselves.
Though, I suppose, this seems hypocritical,
I would confer this is politically cynical,
Rather, I’m looking for something. . . irrational,
An inspiration to fuel and flame my passion as,
Something and someone,
Yet, nothing and no one,
An ideal, an idol, a god and a human.
Something to write about,
A story to tell.
A depiction of the fire inside them that dwells.
The light, the colour the sun in their eyes,
The mountains and jungles, though secret, resides,
The palaces, mansions and kingdoms that hide,
Though present, disguised and entwined in their mind.
Alas, I digress,
Too often, I confess,
My mind wanders and turns,
Till I’m lost and undressed,
Left naked of topic, ideas and abreast,
Of chemical incapacity,
Of pure relativity,
So, a point of focus, a centre,
I seek, you see?
To aim my passion and love and thoughts,
And kindness and lust and heart, of course.
So please,
If you find yourself,
So inclined,
Write to introduce,
And flirt with my mind.
Tease with your words,
And caress with your lips,
And, if it elicits a feeling within,
I’ll write you a letter,
Of black ink emotion,
And seal it with blood,
And endless devotion.
Send it on its way,
To rest in your hands,
We’ll see where it takes us,
Let fate make her plans.
Yours forever,
Your humble admirer.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 5:18 AM UTC
When I venture to speak your name,
The word is uttered with spit.
A sour taste of unforgotten blame,
Tattooed with abundant regret.
A name is said to reflect a person;
In your case, I deem this the truth.
An honest reflection, a candid reminder,
Of my wasted, corrupted youth.
To blame another for your transgressions,
Is commonly labelled a sin.
But my transgressions and faulted decisions,
Have your name to which they begin.
I accept my blame and my mistakes,
Responsibility, I do not lack.
But responsibility falters and becomes hindered,
When poisoned by a heart so black.
Innocence and purity are surely a stretch,
Something, I admit, I have little.
But that which I did is now dead.
At your hands all my thoughts become nettles.
I tried to forgive and, harder, to forget,
But forgiveness is yet to embrace to me.
They say, forgiveness heals, but my heart remains broken,
Perhaps, to heal is a fantasy?
Is it possible to let go, from a love so toxic?
Does ignorance grant me false hope?
Or is it my mind, that prevents the acceptance?
Do I tie the hangman’s knot in my rope?
Maybe one day you’ll go from my mind.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to let go.
Until that day comes, I must say,
I never loved you, that, I need you to know.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 5:17 AM UTC
To exist in a thought,
Is to exist nonetheless.
To exist nonetheless,
One must exist all the same.
But to exist in a thought,
Requires a being to think.
And, for a being to think,
For that thought to be thought.
Requires a level of existence,
That must not be sought.
But rather exist,
On a nominal plane.
In a place and a time,
That cannot be named.
But there it remains,
This level of existence,
That permits the persistence of others existence.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 10:17 AM UTC
The sea is calm and tranquil;
Pebbles cover the sand.
I take a step and falter,
Held steady by your hand.
The darkest storm and thunder,
That burns its way to history,
Is nothing I can't handle,
In the moment that you kiss me.
The sunsets in the distance;
It's warm smile touches the shore.
It's beauty only paralleled,
By you, of that, I'm sure.
The highest mountain grows,
Extends into the sky,
Reaches up to the heavens,
and watches you while you lie.
Flowers spring from the grass,
Their colours light and joyful.
They grow only for you, my love;
With hopes that they'll delight you.
The birds sing in the morning,
With tune and grace divine.
Their celestial song is sun,
To entwine your heart with mine.
I've seen Aphrodite's eyes,
Been shot with the arrow of Eros,
But even the tales of Homer,
Aren't able to describe this love.
For you, I'd live or die.
My world is yours entirely.
My soul, my mind, my pulsing heart.
Are yours in their entirety.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC