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Brian Johnson Feb 2020
I took a line from a book and twisted it around my brain hoping to clarify these obscure sequences that have no order that just congragate under the soil of your nails fabricating a forgotten plot to freedom, a plight in the hour of celebration under the nights sun. Bathe my sweet in the oils of desire, join the frayed ends of life's consequences, of times forgotten song whispered in tomorrow's breeze. Forget reality and her breeding in the basements of America, forget reason, embrace the sanity of the insane. Come to the new grass and lay bleeding for time, for the Lost eyes of instinct. Gather the creatures of yesterday and slaughter the heros of today in a ritualistic offering to no one. Bring the gods they all so cherish, let them speak their defense to the defenseless, let them plea bargain their right to rule my will, my sight, my freedom in the universal sorrow of weeping souls bleeding slow deaths in our sheltered concubine.
Brian Johnson Feb 2020
What's become of the solace I once sought? I've chased her for years through infinite lives in endless miles. She's eluded me. Rebuffed my advances, ridiculed my existence like cornerstone trash. Cobbled footprints structure within a dark memory for garden over the soft years gone by. Lost, alone and forgotten, trampled with no quarter. Laying deeply within this hole I concede defeat within the soft shallows which embrace the emptiness that was once hope.
Brian Johnson Feb 2020
Regret the regrets and forget to forget. A compound fracture in thought a delicate ****** bought. Confusion, delusion, an exclusion from reality within a surreal moment alone lost, tossed into this vast wilderness of shame. Trees tear flesh from bone, all my heroes have been thrown dead into tomorrow as I realize today is but yesterday's sunset still burning my eyes with ornaments of pain adorning my hour of guilt, happiness in my tears colleges in my fears I can see this body to do it only to find myself submerged, drowning. I slit my wrists they precision resurgens wealth finding screaming butterflies writhing in my blood with forgiving eyes, soft lies. Opening a doorway to depravity within a shot of bliss, Angels kiss brought  erections to the hollows of my soul. The soft warmth of hopelessness is a comforting blanket of familiarity, numb, content and alone. Nature's blooming carnival life before my eyes and I set out to see some thought bankrupt morality.
Brian Johnson Feb 2020
I bought a ticket to cruelty only to find out it had no redeeming value.
Brian Johnson Feb 2020
I sedate myself to avoid the sadness only to find I'm surrounded by confusion.
I kiss this e to open my heart and release the stranglehold upon my mind.
Softly the words embrace each other within the recessed corners forming the cereal feeling impossible to escape.
To release these suppressed visions I see such a demanding chill a battle in which I am defeated.
Just more torturous mind battles
Brian Johnson Feb 2020
Secured in the music an averse sympathetic note creating poetry. A soft emotion so violently felt it bled the eyes to strain the fingers. Such an aversly complicated flow, tears slowly stained the soul, saturating the heart in warmth, wrapping the withered body in a comforting blanket of forgotten harmonies singing some mystic hymn of a Lost belief, before the massacres before the greed of Christianity. A belief in natures songs, love. Ignorance erected churches, greed. Knowledge was born in the the silence of the mountains, enlightenment from within without excessiveness. Flesh and bone, forced through the eyes of vulnerability we measure success within the confusion of wealth. The innocence of feeble eyes absorb the contradiction plaquing our eggshelled minds throwing our soul into a tortured world of confusion, questioning question with questions
Mindless rambling of AN in treated
Brian Johnson Feb 2020
Is I've never been myself even with myself.
Is I don't even know who I am.
Is that I lie but don't know what it is.
Is that I'm a walking cliche'.
Is that I question Questions.
Is that I live through writings no one will read.
Is I am a coward.
That I have a thousand masks, each stolen from someone else.
Reality is I don't want to die alone.
Is I don't know how to ask for help.
Is I'm still a terrified boy Snug in his eggshelled world of fantasy wishing it would all go away longing for the warmth of one last embrace of a woman he never knew.
Obvious personal
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