Writing from calm
placidity.
Calm, blankness, stark.

Perpetuate it
maintain,
always want this

this is a good outlet
by the leaves
serene,
calm is not boring
it is the opposite.
It burns with promise,
lights
dark buildings
at pitch black;
calm is a torch in
castle walls.

Staple,
Stand still.

Carry calm
in pockets,
closer to skin than
wallets or watches.

Watch the calm
and let it still
this is beauty
this
is, fire,

still.

A perfect synapse to this ecology.
To this drone.
To this end game night.
When all tranquil hits at the same quantum.
This time piece of us is forever as we sit above skyline in the ether.
Clouds hold us like tombstones, in their clutch as earth.
I expose you to my inner bastion of thought and you accept. You agree to love.
The environments perfect for the crispness of night.
The crisp clarity of the night and shadow.
On this grave dug dirt, we set higher than any scraper of sky.
We are at the belly of the beast ready, to disembowel the tyrant.
We no longer are two but in sync and hold all power, beauty, and aesthetic measure.
The tide eats us into its stomach, where we protect fortune.
In the end it's that one person.
That one keepsake when we die.
Our last thought besides ourselves in our heart and mind.
Our final passion.
Now tell me that’s not dying together.

I need to go to the grave yard,
need to dig some dirt.
Make a nest for sleep.
Let the dirt infuse into me.

Infuse with me and the dead.
I want crosses on my forehead.
My forehead mounded upon with dust,
the soil of all this West Texas, impacted upon my chest,
and the sticks of skeletons shall ***** my flesh.
Make me parts of them.
Splinters, perfect spacing, spectral spines.
Barrow injecting me with creativity.

We all come from the particles left of,
by the demise of life.
We are leftovers of after thoughts,
left in attics, filled with soot in peoples minds.

Then I can make art.
Then I can cut out snow,
to shapes of stars.

Tin man in the ground, grows rust as he settles into moist dirt.
He wont grow any more like a plant.
But as sugar in the ground he rust and melts,
oxidates into nothing, then transmuting into,
crystals.
This is cemetery life.

I need to go to the grave yard.
So I can make a home.
Build me a little mistress,
make a family in her bones.

The cottage that we build there,
will have ivy, we'll have friends,
the gates of it will say welcome sir,
madam death waits to have you in.

Drinking milk thistle tea,
dancing waltzes in the fog light.
Diffusing in the spectral photons,
bowing down to afterlife.

Kissing the lips of the grave yard.
Opens the doors, hands extend.
I need to go to the grave yard.
So I can find a place, I fit in.

I'm caught in the meandering confines of the webs that hold all my words
like the tortures. that sinew creates
like the voices that spiders death makes

like a discrete collected. symposium in the Greek corridor
beyond everything. these thoughts. are a zoo of confines
every species is a destruction
we all slowly **** the once perfect thought of ourselves
because every single time we listen to another's thoughts
we give up our own ectoplasm
we make a country of ghost
a set. defined layer, film of loss
then
we try and share it.
on top of that
on top of decadence
on top of world skyscrapers that create new heights, new shoulders of the sky that our humanist shall strive towards
i just want my ghost to mean something
i want my light to overshade the shadow
i want there to be a supernova in my eyes
i want for you to take that power. make a reactor.

to be compressed beyond all thought to nothing
singularity
by guilt that pursues all preferences and destroys.
decimates you
when you wake up from the dream
the dawn comes
and you deem
all things as problems
Cause things you try for are destroyed
things you love are void
all passions are forgotten

and nothing
but: pain, torture, derelict,
are left.
a consuming hold strangles you to complete restriction of vein
all weather is told to stop
all your brain begins no calculations
standstill of formal
sis decease

the quandary of feeling just. so much pain
just so much problem
just so much manipulation of self telling you that you will be ok and knowing.

it is a lie

just like the things you've always felt
the things you've always been through
car washes that laser you to nothing
to nothing of worth like dirt. yet lower. demoted
promoted from **** and compiled to none
divided enjoyed and summed to the sum
of nematodic prevalence that ***** with your modesty
we must ****** this feeling of warmth
for if we don't take all the heat then the cold will never come
and we will be like them.

Passed out drunk
couldn’t cope
watched stars
in my eyelids
naked
dry
in humid
air
couldn’t carry it
needed something
3:41 AM
I woke
couldn’t cope
naked
drier
colder
couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t read
rolled and rolled
after eyes read
what they
never
wanted to see
pain commences
lurching commences
again.
Nothing said
makes it better
nothing done
time needed
well this
is bad timing

His soul has not ascended to heaven,
Hes just gone,
Nothing better.

His body will decay like a snail,
And all like that slime,
He'll leave a trail.

Its not even that sad, when you do it yourself.
Punk thrives off that idea, like Buddhist immolation.
Death ends wars.
And if they could they’d war in hell.
If they could.
If something was left.
They'd battle past death.

Luckily we are just animals and no eternal energy exist beyond our breath leaking to the atmosphere.

Thank nothing that the carbon wont carry our spirit.
If it did.
It would **** all hope and I would be forced to be a scar on the earth.

For I am made of Ghandi, ******, Churchill, and Stalin.

We are all part of an earth we revolve on,
Yet some refuse to take action on truth or refuse to learn it in the first place.

In most cases.
We should all end it.
And destroy the deadlights this inanimate "soul" creates.