The witch raced the sun,
sculpting the clay into a paradox of herself,
and she could not stop until the day was done.


Blood, sweat, and tears flew,
as she made, and remade,
each limb and feature, into something new.


Her nose was long and crooked
So she made his short:
No, shorter.
Even shorter, and stern, too.


Her twisted, unsteady hands
worked the clay to make skin and sinew.
And she used her essence to make him real,
before the day was due.


Blood to give him life and color.
Sweat to give him a musty odor.
Tears to give him human emotion.
Steady hands and feet to give him motion.


And when the shadows began reaching for her at near the end of light,
She knew at last, it was time to give him her sight.


She sat back.
Looked one last time at her craft,
Stared where his eyes should be at,
and spat.


Blood rushed to his face,
Sweat beaded at his brow,
Tears streamed down his cheeks
As his heart began to pound.


Short and stern was his nose.
Untwisted and steady were his hands and feet
as he clenched his fingers and toes.


The residue of saliva was sticking to his eyelids,
So he wiped it away.


When he looked, there she lay,
Shriveled by her effort,
Dead in her unspecified grave.


The witch raced til night,
to give him her purpose, her life, and her sight.
And yet in limbs and features, they were nothing alike.
He was exactly her paradox
with only one thing in mind:


First, to clean up her mess,
Then, to sculpt the clay
into a form to paradox himself
Until the dawn of day.

These days bleed me out slowly;
skin hugging my bones closely,
and at night I dream solely,
of you.

Gaping wounds are still open;
my blood is being stolen,
and my heart's wings are broken,
while yours are new.

Your spirit grew inflated,
while mine shrank and deflated,
lacking air, like a flaccid
balloon.

Each betrayal sits with me on my shoulder.
It whispers its toxic shame into my ear,

Thin frame, frail mind, and heart light as a feather.
I slowly come to accept that death is near

My mind blocks the memory of you,
Without my meaning it to.
Subconscious defenses
protect me from feeling pain,
But after each wheel you slashed
from my racing heart,
I know I am not the same.

I feel like a hollow tree that holds it's shape but is dead within,
An outward appearance to keep and maintain,
While other creatures inhabit my skin

I don't know who I am anymore. And if I tried to reclaim a chance at life, I don't think I would win.

Ivy sprouts from the ground
fertilized by human decay.

Eyes grow, and the plants see,
legs ripen, and the greenery
walks among us.

Carnivorous, they feed
on strictly human meat.
They are Nature's punishment
for humanity's destructive greed,

But they are also Her salvation
and grounds to plant new seeds,
which promises the future
a second chance to breed, hopefully,
life that lives wholly for the benefit of Earth and Sea.

There is no love for me in here. When I peer my Eye inside all I find are empty spaces.
I never hoped for this outcome,
but sometimes (frequently, often), I find myself with only one option.
My Spirit is frail and exhausted, but it is not for that reason that this is the path I have chosen (accepted).

It is because I am an organism that cannot control my heart's bitter intent to hurt those who have hurt me.

Knowing what is to come, selfish undeserved tears drift over the crevices of my well-rounded cheeks.
And it is the spark of that selfishness that has allowed me to see: I should not exist.

Not if I have allowed something cold and dark that chases desire to settle within my chest.
Not if my intent cannot remain pure and always for the positive growth and development of the World rather than the ego.
When mine was tested and tried, it proved not to.

Because the pieces of me that fought so long and hard for a worthless cause have lost their flame, I will feel nothing until the end.

The ensemble plucked their violins,
blew their clarinets,
and struck their triangles at opportune times.

The music vibrated throughout the theatre,
winding between the pews and pillars
to reach the ear of every soul present.

The seats hummed to the deep strums of the cellos,
every pitch of the clarinets bounced from the decorated walls:
the sound encompassed the great room.

The stage was gracefully lit to expose each musician at work.
Amid the soft yellow lights were figures robotic men,
slave to the script that they no doubt strained for hours to learn.
As for their appearance, they wore matching white,
curly powdered hair wigs.
Looking akin to the hair on George Washington's head!

But despite the rather humorous display, none could argue
that the music that splayed from their steady hands
was anything short of exquisite.

Well...except for my dear old Aunt Floyd.

"Awfully quiet in here," she exclaimed.

The forlorn night of the moon is born,
the light of the sun gives to it birth.
What lives in the dark of the shadow,
cannot be burned by the flames of the sun,

Lest nature is to be denied its grace
and Chaos is to roam free.
Though, there is room on Earth for both
darkness and light to roam within their bounds.

Earth's heart to beat life into the vein
It's mind to hold death in its will
It's palms to tend the wounds of its flesh;
to give life anew,
and the soles of its feet
to wander again in death's valley.

The presence of the day cannot here touch ground
All the same, the shadow cannot reach the mountain's peak
Earth knows what boundaries to put in place
and it is Nature that obeys them.

But it is humanity that denies Nature its right.
We breed Chaos within the wind that blows
Spreading misfortunes around Earth's sphere.
Our wars and will to dominate life within and without our kind
famine the land of its native prosperity.

Earth screams that it's palms cannot keep up;
Cannot heal the damage done in time for more to be done
But humanity, ever burning with primal hostility,
willfully ignores its call to peace.

We burn in the shadow, and chill in the light of day
Offset the balance of Nature, and live selfishly
as the moon in the forlorn night burns clear,
and the sun in the opportunistic day is snuffed out.

The lights flickered so quickly
I almost thought I merely
blinked.

But my eyes, I'm sure, were open
And I felt a presence foreign;
ghost

The cup slid so subtly
I might have missed it, surely
except,

It was already
so close to the edge
that it fell
and
broke.

The sound of shattered glass
sounded so sharply
I almost thought it cut me,
not ghost;

poltergeist.

And it showed me
that it was not yet
satisfied.

Doubts about the Creator
sometimes overtake me.

There is a dichotomy between God
and Coincidence. It can often
be difficult to discern where the line is drawn.

And from this lack of proper discernment
is born doubt.

The story of the widow is so sad,
I'm not surprised she took her life.

The old lady, surely depressed
stabbed herself twice with a knife.

She was widowed, you see,
by her husband's ex-wife.

Who was overwrought with jealousy.
She came like a thief in the night.

When the widow found him dead,
of course, she was riddled with grief.

And amid her wailing,
she managed to call the police.

They did their job, but the arrest
could not offer relief.

And over the years, her moments of happiness
became more and more brief.

I was unperturbed when I'd heard the news
of the old widow's suicide.

But the woman in the cell next to mine,
hooted and cheered with boisterous pride.

Giants we think we are,
but no bigger than pebbles
on our Creator's shoe.
Compared to our potential
we are sub-par

And yet, we think we are succeeders.

We do to escape
the feeling of inevitable death
Soon to be bones in the dirt.
Zombies already walking, I'd say
I surely feel dead inside,

And yet, we think we are alive.

Imprisoned to eternal sin,
Beat the young and betray our kin,
****, pillage, and become tyrants.
We think we are giants
but we only do low deeds to feel tall.

And yet, we think we have morale.

Grandiosity has plagued the soul,
We do to get away with
and bury morality in our future graves.
Teach children bad behavior
and punish them for it.

And yet, we blame the times.

I blame the lovers of themselves;
the all-for-one thinkers.
We believe we are giants
but pay no mind to the mound
of sinking sand we stand upon.

And yet, we think we're going up.

Voice, do rectify,
Bindings to a prophesy
Arms flail about ritualistically
in tandem with the incantation.

Air becomes disturbed,
and voice box erupted,
strain the pitch, Nature is stunted,
Life breathing its last breath.

Hands pointed downward to the sky,
And the universe shifts,
Throat clenches in a final cry,
And caliginosity awakens,

Birds change their song,
they sing in darker tunes
in light of darker times to come
The sun takes back its light from the moon.

Chaos ensues.
He peers his head over the horizon,
His eyes offer no truce.
Instead, to force his wrath upon the people.

Monks prophesied he would come.
To I that summoned,
his presence is welcome,
Smile takes my cheeks.

O'er the distance, voices shriek,
driven mad with murderous instinct,
slaying lives, I stand watching from the peak
None could escape the vicious rage.

By the end, all as a deserted cage,
The ground cold, people lay dead,
Chaos reared his malicious head.
I stand on the precipice, laughing deranged.

Your love was a fire you lit only sometimes,
leaving me otherwise of its warmth deprived.
The emotional heaving of my chest
for the pain you caused me was best
expressed in the dark of night,
where you couldn't see my inner fight.

Your love was not just a stab to my chest
but a slow twist of the knife.
I was left to mend myself alone,
then perform as though I was brand new
every time.

What terrible sorrow it is
to know there is a world of souls to talk to,
yet the only ones I can find
to share company with
are the devils inside my mind.

They work me into delusions
using their power to keep me locked
so far up in my head
that I am disconnected from my body.

Self destroy, they tell me.
They protect me from the sting of the blade
that I take to my own skin,
******* it into a void somewhere in their realm
so that I feel nothing
no matter how deep I go.

They tell me how easy
it would be to break my wrist.
Tell me how good it would feel
to bash my head until I see the stars.

The world is ending, they tell me
so end with it.
They give me sights of fire, ember and ash,
let me see a glimpse of their world,
inspire me to draw them.
But art no longer feels like a creative outlet
When I see what they made me draw,
I feel an endless doom.
There can be no hope in the world
with these devils of mine running about.

They give me a plan
one that ensures a quick death.

When I resurface I realize,
I am in a hospital.
The nurses give me medication
to take the voices away.

You're okay, they tell me.
You're okay

I knew there was another world out there somewhere
A world better than the one that was created in here
gestures to my head
"What is it?" The nurses ask.
"Does your head hurt?"

"No," I say. "My friends are gone."

I wanted a love
that I could smell, feel, and see.
A love that looks vibrant red,
feels like a swollen heart,
and smells more piquant
than the salt of the sea.

And finally, I found it.

The pit of my stomach
clenches when I am around you
And my eyes search for yours
but instead they look through
the empty sockets in your skull.

I hold your heart in my hands
literally,
and it drips,
pouring love's fluid
all over the floor.
And your eyes, I find swimming
in the corked jar filled with formaldehyde.
To preserve them, so that I may always
know the ocean blue.

I bask in your fragrance
as it consumes the air around me;
stronger and more pungent
than the scent of sea salt,
but oh, so pleasant.

I lay myself next to you,
and let my touch
sink its warmth into your cold skin.

This love looks vibrant;
As vibrant as the red
that sloppily coats my hands,
Feels mushy and swollen,
like this heart of yours I hold
close to my own,
And smells sharper,
Sharper than the knife I used
to gently, and with care,
cut it out.

All of my good memories
are stuck far up on the shelf.

They are books that I know exist,
but may as well be useless
for the dust that they collect.

By night, I energize
from destroying the souls
of innocent lives:
my bloodlust takes flight.

I revel in the cloak of darkness
and shy at the bright of day,
Celebrate the taste of blood
and wish the night would stay.

I see behind my eyes
the cries of suffering
my human form sings
while the blazing sun is awake.

I feel the echo of self hatred and horror
at who I am
and what I do.

By night, I shift and bare my teeth,
tear apart raw flesh and fresh meat.
Break bones and eat marrow
and dread the dawn of tomorrow.

I exist in contrast
to the thing that pathetically
weeps at day,
and forever wish
I could eat it
away.

By day I wait,
for the curse of night,
to become a beast of
torturous fright.

Each time,
I try desperately to fight the change,
But my strengthened form
continuously breaks these chains.

They fall uselessly to the floor,
and I watch behind my eyes with horror
as I crawl on all fours.

Driven by an instinct
that belongs to the beast,
I growl, and slash, and slaughter,
until the innocent lives around me
lay dead, and mangled.

By day, I suffer
with the curse of dread
at what I am
and what I have done.

A power I cannot control
controls me, it seems
but we are not one.

I stand as a stark contrast
to the thing that kills by night
and I continue to do all I can
to cast
it out.

My mind feels like a graveyard of trees.
Every fruit of confidence I bear
withers away into a thing of
self doubt.

And because it is the only fruit I know,
I indulge myself in eating it,

And because you are what you eat,
I too, eventually wither away.

Red as the dawn
blood hangs from the young man's corpse,
and drips
like water droplets from icicles.

Crisp as the mildewed air
the smell carries a tang
that becomes the atmosphere.

His neck
stretches like crinkled leather,
rips beginning to form
as the noose struggles
to dangle the weight of him.

His life was ordinary,
with little focus.
But in death, there are far more details
to be descried from his rot.

Maggots pool in his eye sockets,
squirming and fighting for eats,
like nibble fish squirming
to get their meal
of dead skin on a spa day.

His mouth hangs open,
blackened and destroyed
by nature's devices.

His feet have turned blue;
nails cracked,
as though he struggled
with all his might
against the promise of the rope.

A rag doll he has become,
while the tree he hangs from
is strong, sturdy, and reaches to touch the sky.
And he dangles just inches,
struggling to reach the ground.

Soon to fall into a crumpled heap
among the dirt, and fallen leaves
with a splat, no doubt,
like the heavy drops of rain
that splash the mud puddles.

Grime and decay
stick to each and every part
clinging to his dry and wrinkled skin,
like rust on door hinges.

His limbs
look long and unnatural
as the deteriorating layers
of flesh wrap tightly around his bones,
as a babe swaddled in cloth.


An animal would not eat him
as it may contract illness.

But is it not already sick
that we would sooner
watch him fade away so gruesomely,
Allow nature to run its course openly,
publicly
than to lower him down
And build him a grave?

We would sooner see him and *****,
than to ***** ourselves
by coming too close
to his ghastly secretion.

Memories repeated.
Life looking bleak
and I'm feeling beaten.

God(s), plant a seedling
in me that will grow because I am needing
a new story than the one
from which I am feeding.

My current orchid is full
of bloated rotten fruit,
and the ground is sinking,

These memories repeated,
keeps me a hostage
to the unfermented soil
on which I am seated.

My roots are upending.
Fix the soil for it needs mending.
I hope you can hear me,
as my voice is exploding
with pain, as the life I am holding
is decaying.

Stop making death threats
and start making promises.
Otherwise, you'll uselessly
get our hopes up.

And if the threats continue,
you'll find yourself with:

-A broken arm,
-Slit wrists,
-A sack of dead cells of a brain

for how many times you'll be forced
to make good on those threats.
By slamming your arm shut in a door frame,
taking a blade to your wrist,
and banging your head against a wall,
There is no end to the threat list.
Because neither one of them creates an end to you.

But there is an end to the promise list,
and it ends with the first decision
you have the guts to make toward a promise.

-Shoot yourself,
-Throw yourself in front of a train,
-Inhale ammonia and bleach
-Stab yourself repeatedly with a knife,
-Jump from a buildin...

See, I told you this list would end. And it didn't take long...

Saving that last bit of sanity
for the most sane decision I will have made in my
very
short
life

You must first imagine death
in all of its gruesome details
to better focus on the living.

But unfortunately, death no longer looks so gruesome.
It has lost its detail, just as the living have lost their focus.

So...What to do with this Limbo...

Watch, and imagine the living from afar,
while gambling with depravity.

I feel like a dark soul
who could either raise hell,
or burn in it at ease.

One day, you will see your future
stretched out long enough to tie a noose with.

Will you tie the knot?
Perhaps, or perhaps not.

But one thing is certain:
your future looks like a pile of bones in the dirt.
Will you live that out to its extent?
Or cut time short, and make it happen now.

The future only lives at the expense of the present.

The hand is splayed,
ready for our supper.
A willing sacrifice for the meal
And if not willing, then to steal.

His eyes grow wide
in pain as the knife
cracks off his fingers up to the knuckle;
The stumped ends quickly
become bloodied.

Screams wail
as the agony
of severed flesh sets sail.
Cotton rags are stuck deep in his mouth
to sheath his jagged edged shrieks.

The fire is ready
to feed five.
We gather around this source of nutrition
to save our lives:
Humans vs. humans
in order to survive.

The wailing shrieking man
is removed from the revelry
for tending,
To keep infection from tainting
our tongues next we gather
for eating.