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Apr 2019 · 261
The Explanation
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
Hi, my name is Cole.
Grab a shovel and we'll deepen the hole where I've buried my goals.
They try to blame my soul for the peril untold,
Though, great fortune most of their lives do hold.
Molded after my father I was destined to be cold.
Alone, broken, I folded.
Unspoken moments in silence are just like King Midas,
The opportunity’s gold, but there's still violence way down, deep inside us.
When tribulations unfold, so does my situation.
Find me by myself, impatient,
On a narcotic vacation, wasted.
Taste the medicine I force upon myself on a daily basis.
This explanation only strengthens my self esteem’s annihilation,
So pray damnation is what I need to keep some kind of exhilaration.
Drawn away from elation, I take the bait and go on strike against my ****** up creation.
When I was 15, the world ended around me,
Cops and medics abounding,
The sight surrounding my plight, pathetic,
Regret was surmounting.
Twelve scars on my throat, they said the odds were astounding I made it, but who's counting?
(Plus the one on my stomach where the blood geyser was spouting)
Like intimate sentiments, death attached to me,
I learned how to live with it.
There was a time that this soul had a temple, now, just a tenement.
The second time I played God I succeeded in my ill intent,
Pronounced dead at the scene, my funeral was finally imminent.
Til I opened my eyes and the room was one I'm familiar with.
I was sure eleven Ambien would work for my benefit.
Why am I being kept alive?
It's like there's no possible end to it.
Multiple reasons as to why I am so sick of this living ****.
It's a given: derision and treason purged me of innocence.
I'm immersed in this intricate curse,
Coerced into impotence.
Teasin’ hearses became a profession,
Hurting became obsession,
Depression’s the path I traversed,
Along with aggression.
So you may have a few questions concerning
The wrath I possess.
And when I rise from the ash like Sylvia Plath I'll confess.  
When I emerge from disguise, the sociopath will profess
The explanation for suicide, and the urge to regress.
Apr 2019 · 751
Letter 2
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
The tragic path to a self made torment is awakened in me. The inevitable remains paramount to death. Just as with those who cause me pain, I cause them pain as well. The Lost Vision becoming more lost. The undeniable lover questioning her motivation to stay. Such love I regulate within my heart. But still, the strength to carry on fades to black. The biggest struggle I possess at the moment is that of the Lost Vision. The greatest promise I intend to keep is driving the Lost Vision into madness. It fears my departure and careless nature, though through all the emptiness, I do not plan to leave the Lost Vision's life.
I've caused so much pain, so much worry and insecurity.
As if I've stolen a key to the door of their heart, never again to give it back. A prisoner in my own soul; a build up of guilt now from the inevitably caused pain to others from myself. The essence of God still not being discussed, for I wait for that perfect stranger still. He came once, but I lost him amongst the hopelessness. I strive to escape this hole I lie in. But now this hole has become my home, my wasteland, my reality. I can't apologize enough to you, the Lost Vision, for making you feel that I will soon depart. I can reassure you I am not leaving you now.
But still, I cause many people grueling heartache. I am given so much love, so much that it's nearly overwhelming. Yet I still dream of ways to throw it all away.
So many tears I shed over a broken mirror, broken in spirit. It lacks the ability to reflect my happiness. For happiness was also lost to the hopelessness. So for now I continue my days, waiting for the end of heartache.
Apr 2019 · 696
Letter 1
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
Within the endless void in which I constantly dwell, I struggle more and more to keep my sanity from escaping me. The more I dwell, the harder it becomes to remain from a vast, parallel reality, which opens up to me freely. My own home, a sanctuary of hate. For myself, for this life I "live." I cannot depend upon myself for happiness and consolation anymore. Only a few others can provide these essentials. The lost vision; the girl by the lake; the undeniable lover. As I listen to ecstatic waters, and look beyond the lake in front of me, I witness the sunset; its wondrous power to bring, give, and nurture life. At this moment, I feel as if I'm waiting. Waiting for that stranger, that perfect stranger, to walk by and discuss the essence of God. The bench I sit upon: empty. God does not provide a soul to bring it warmth. You may ask, "How can the bench be empty if you are perched upon it?" I will tell you, I am no soul bearer. I have given too much of myself to others to have an inspiration or warmth to give to this bench. For I am only temporarily using its space for myself. Those in my life are very much alike. Most are only there for a temporary time. However, there are those who will be present for a much longer time. Unfortunately, the inevitable is the death of a dream. Because even though they are here to console me, I'm afraid they inevitably cause me pain. But nonetheless, if they were not present within my life, I would have no life at all. But what is a life without a soul? Put your head against my chest and you will find there is an absence of sound. I pour my heart out for others, and it keeps me from knowing my self. So for now I will remain, dreaming with a broken heart.
Apr 2019 · 892
The Schizo's Inception
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
When I was 15, the world ended.
And it wasn't as spectacular as I thought it was going to be.
I had always imagined the sky tearing open and flames of fury would rain down upon us all,
But instead, it was my heart that was torn in half, and the fire only rained down on me.
It took 45 seconds for me to destroy everything that I knew,
and create an entirely different world,
Not only for me, but also for the people that knew me.
I was born again, bore the sin, more than anything horrible I ever felt, I was torn in ten.
Had I put a knife to my throat? Or fell in love?
What's the origin?
And nobody could ever understand it better than the horror itself that closed me in.
But she destroyed the bin,
With me in it and I was never ever sure again.
Like paper shredding under fluorescent tubes, my skin was thin.
Let demons in and they took shelter and then horrid soreness manifested within.
The eyes of the Lord looking down upon the men and women,
And all he could see was that my darkness had surfaced again.
I swore to Him I'd never resort to that sin,
But more than expected I was short of the win,
And lost myself with hopelessness,
My unfortunate friend.
Scorching torture forced me to pretend,
Over and over I retorted the fib with a grin;
Smiled as the lore spread like venom in skin.
The door to the end was open.
Therefore I went in,
And premonitions filled my core,
So I was forced to give in.
Over the course of a decade, the source of discourse caused me to see a red shade of anger.
For what felt like 4 million days I endured the rage,
Simple and plain I was psychotic, in danger,
ignoring the ways
To force myself to have a smile on my face.
It remains insane to me how the blade, when it penetrated,
Gave my skin goosebumps,
The doctor made me feel humiliated.
Sickness in my brain wants to put me in my grave,
OD was the second time I attempted the same.
But the fact of the matter is
The facts are a shame.
And the way that I felt this day,
Brought hope of finding a way,
To rid my head of the voices that haunt me,
Spewing disdain.
Third time's a charm I suppose,
Or at least that's what they say.
Apr 2019 · 869
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
There's a time in, dare I say,
Every man's life where he must
Choose between what is wrong
And what is not going to help.
He must be able to see that
What is right will not be the correct answer;
What is wrong will be the path to go.
For in these times, a man will realize that
What he seeks is not for him to obtain,
But acknowledge it as a mirage on the horizon,
Some distance away,
On a course that would seal his fate.
Lost at sea is the man who obtains what he seeks,
For his worth he keeps in his shirt pocket,
Limited by the darkness that surrounds it.
He knows not the detriment that lurks below
As he drowns in his own greed,
Betrayed by the hands of his own god.
Mar 2019 · 261
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
The cold wind sings its lullaby
At 3 in the morning when no one can hear.
Untold sins bring up fear, a sigh
Released in the midst of sheer
Boldness. This coldness is clear,
Shoulders held up high,
This old soul smolders, endeared,
Behold the source of the flame, revered.
His own bones deteriorating from self hatred, he owns loanable favors.
Devoted to blatant peer pressure, mere pleasure.
He's caged in like a snake
Surrounded, for days, with four sides in a tank
Clouded by judgment as menacing as sharp fangs.
He wonders what may hide beyond the glass pane,
On this side of the storm, ignorance, like thunder, bangs and
Feeble minds plunder in pain as he gasps at the crass bane.
Alas, shame musters and he cries out in pain,
Disdain and frustration make him lose patience and thus, his veins rupture.
His name the grave mutters in vain,
It stutters insanely.
Utter fear engraves itself in the pavement,
Nothing contains it.
Lust favors reprehensible acts and calls them sensible,
Hence his demons savor his knack for evil’s principle.

Lack of remorse caters to the whim of the artist's reactive nature,
Lately, my fate has shown its true color,
Faded, it’s black,
Signed, the Plain painter.
Trapped in his drawings, his anger strapped like a weapon,
Regret has set in, like
Fangs and claws in your skin.
He questions plain and simple
Objectives he made in civil

His brain he fiddles with.
Lately it's made him lose a bit.
Sanity no longer placed in a state of complacent safety.
Erased from the face of history,
He faces the greatest mystery of faith:
How to catch a butterfly when the forceful wind’s against me?
Admittingly, since the distance presented its ill intentions,
I've witnessed the birth of innocence,
In this was, too, repentance.  
Forgiveness became a gift for me not,
But remains prolific and lame as it brings me pain.
These dreams rot,
Bereft of pristine thought.
Increasing in pressure, serene gestures
Spike at extreme measures, pleasing
A sea of  people just before they reach peak level
Of unequal treatment,
Leaving myself behind, so I Hyde
To appease Jekyll's.
Bereavement embezzles delicate meaning,
Eloquence seeping from my pores,
I'll admit treason,
Bring a stiff reason as to why this ship sinks and  
Reap the benefits for a quick season then right back to being cold.

Keep seeing ghosts but startled demons
Retreat with swift, keen intensity and
Quit seeking evil things to finish me.
Since she impeded with insistence
My fealty conceded, senseless.
Real to me was lethal vengeance,
Begging me to rescind interdependence
And purport to bequeath,
the reader,
Evil menace upheaved on the likes
Of people that deceive the needs of feeble grimace,
Steep and oblong is the course
he takes when absconding with illness,
Mental resilience, a reprobate uncommon
To deal with.
Pain reveals his main appeal,
And still they describe it as brilliance.
Chains of steel retain his will
So in ways he refrains from fulfillment.
Deals he's made with the demons he keeps
Rain shame down on this villain.
He channels wakes of chaos toward
The ones who forsake his plea
And help create his prison.
Envision now a spirit free,
But tortured by his angst,
His rhythm separated him from
The music written,
And shakes him in opposition;
Breaks him of his willful mission.
He hesitates to fill his needs,
Until he feeds the greed of millions,
Putrid schemes induce increasing
Feudal dreams of resilience.
This too precedes the illness.
Entropy must be a must, intensity
Proceeds to injure me with intense
A fence between the mentally demented and a sense so keen
Is all that prevents the intelligent fiend
From relevant being in this
Hellish ravine
Filled to the rim with
Malevolent creeds and devilish seeds.
Prevalent deeds of ill means
Seem to instill an immense severance,
Leaning toward eloquence became the relevance seen around this decadent theme, yet,
The elephant in the room repels the elegant dream from being met.
Soon the bells will ring in hell
And too you'll sing of mere regret.
Those who read his tale of screams
Proceed to nail his coffin shut.
He's intrigued when awful things derail and
Sews the things he reaps.
He leaps, morose, to depths below,
Beneath the hell he knows and keeps.
Retreating poses questions close,
While silent rages creep.
His Queen, he hopes, will save him, though,
She'll only know to sleep.
Her beauty meets his eyes in peace,
But haunts him endlessly.

He wonders what she feels and thinks.
Mar 2019 · 1.1k
VIII: Risen
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
Unlike Drake, we didn't start at the bottom,
We met about midway.
Two people amidst a common problem.
Darkness cloaks this part, at most I'll start to
Coast to the cause of the issues that bother
Cole the most, his heart revokes the thought
Of coming close to ignoring it farther.
I understand like a ghost, I see right through your father,
Voices don't come close to being as
Reprimanding as thoughts do.
They long for your heart to retain as much hatred as they can barter,
Until you can't stand the way that you breath or look at a person the same as you're recalling.
Much to the dismay of Blood,
I had to leave, I was falling,
Alcohol was more important than you all
And for that I'm sorry.
I tried to get away and break my chains
But veins yearn for that which takes the pain
Away and for that I only grew to know more pain.
One thing led to another and still the story's the same,
I've thrown away 5 years of my life to help me dig my own grave.
Amazingly I've made it through to write this story
And say that I've put childish things aside,
And live a better life today.
I support my son and make a living,
Just as Blood may.
As humans we're designed to seek that which
May better our emotional state,
On each individual level.
We chase that which can
Levitate our own knowledge in case there are
Discrepancies at bay.
As people, don't you want to know the full story,
I know your reputation for curiosity precedes you.
If not, why do I not deserve a chance at a sorry?
What means necessary must I take just to have a conversation?
It's quite hypocritical in fact,
But I digress in that partly.
Does trepidation rule over you,
Til you're blind to damnation?
Forevermore, you have risen,
Yet I remain uncomplacent.
Mar 2019 · 562
VII: The Cabalistic Truth
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
Heretofore I hadn't dared cross paths
With the snare of a trap near my core.
There was no wrath for the mistake I made
And the lore I gave for the way the floor gave
Beneath me entangled itself with guilt and behold: rage.
At this stage in the story I hadn't been held accountable or said I'm sorry,
And the secrets remain engraved in the stone
Hidden away in the closet with the rest of the skeletons I made.
Bone chilling truth makes its way to the surface and
I’m struggling, it’s hurts.
And I can't find the words to
Explain how the urge to implode keeps knocking on the window,
I can see the silhouette beyond the curtains.
Where do I start? Oh, the circus.
Scatterbrained, thoughts falling like ***** from the juggling act.
In fact all I need is the makeup for my clown mask,
But I can't hide it any longer,
Like a meteor falling,
The agonizing force of guilt has made its impact,
And my world is shaken with its calling.
Headlights appeared just behind the truck,
The voices calling,
I'm alright I know but what about this truck,
What have I done? I'm stalling.
Cops arrive, paramedics,  they're checking my vitals,
But they're not gonna see the words of truth
Unless I recite em.
Son, I can tell you're sober what happened?
Are you shaken? I don't doubt it.
I don't know officer it was too quick to be exact about it.
But if you go look in the woods you'll see where I threw the answer
So I wouldn't have it around me when you asked about it.
Hope you don't plan on walking any further than we're standing.
I can't afford for you to exploit me,
You got a phone that you could hand me?
I need to stall you like the truck, but without the bad luck, hope it works,
Just get in your car and let the paramedics do their work.
It's been 4 years now and I'm feeling like a **** more and more.
Everyday I'm growing towards going berserk.  
Cause I'm a ****** coward,
I can't even write this down properly,
Still leaving truths vague or not even addressing them entirely.
If you see this you know who you are,
I lied to you, cried to you, man I'm a ****** coward.
Don't look down on me when you see the truth,
I'll tell you face to face one day, just hope it ain't too late to do it.
Please don't hate me dude,
It was a mistake, I didn't mean to do it.
If I could take it all back,
Then right now I wouldn't need to do it.
Mar 2019 · 1.1k
VI: The Preamble
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
Seems that ‘entertainment-sake’ started off with ease,
But now the pain is greater and it's hard to contain it.
Whatever need be said here's my attempt to say it,
I hope this doesn't leave me jaded,
Even more so than before, so, here’s the statement.
Like a disease, I maintain a deadly anger,
Just to appease the needs of basically strangers.
And when I can't breathe, they blame me for the strangulation,
And heave heaps of painstaking sensations
Upon me. And all I do is remain complacent, so they
Don't see the side of me I'm containing.
For now I'm safe from the day they find me hanging in the basement.
I need to save myself before it's too late to reclaim it.
I just hope these words are enough to make me complacent.
Embracing all evil things that bring me to the brink of insanity,
I’ll compose the fable, as much as I can purvey it.
Mar 2019 · 344
V: The Prospect
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
In the rubble and ash of this crumbling path I took,
It looked like the crash was a jumbled mess of a book,
With torn pages and half of the good ones had the same look.
The truth in the writing surpassed walls,
And I became shook.
Had I known then what I came to understand later in life,
Would've changed the face of my fate and I could've avoided strife.
The pain strengthens, the days lengthen, The narrow pavement remains stable, though latent,
And now I'm getting run off course like the truck that crashed in the woods from the same ****.
Of course, I put the inhalants aside like childish things,
A little too late but hey, it's the thought that counts, ain't it?
Sit back and watch this painting unveil as I frame it.
I call it ‘Shame’ and I hope you like it cause I made it.
Mar 2019 · 974
IV: Airbags
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
Gravity seems to cease in mid air,
Time began to rewind like the VHS tapes we used to peruse.
Lost to the hopelessness of remembering all that was spoken,
Still trying to grasp what I was destined to lose,
Hungry for that which will fill the emptiness,
Clandestine decisions create all the rules.
A black hole type of control,
I went maniacal and shortly afterward became betrothed; enthroned though alone.
The bigger picture will soon unfold,
That night on the country road,
Driving the whip-it was an evening so cold.
Fairy Tales told in the fool's forest sparked
Demons perverse and sordid.
Fight or flight was being sorted,
The plight was horrid, closely courted,
Shield and sword defended horror.
Pretend to mend the chip on your shoulder,
Put up those walls around your border.
In short, the more you fake your disposition,
The closer your back gets to the corner.
Tire tracks in the grass led to the tree line,
Screams transcended smoke and steel,
Like hot steam rising from a forsaken teapot.
I wish facts weren't so ossified,
Because the force behind discourse and pride
Is hacked, controlled, and lost to time.
But truth remains in purest rhyme.
Mar 2019 · 1.5k
III: Rumination
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
This temple of sacrifice feeds sorrow aplenty,
To nurture its agonizing corruption.
It envelops your mind,
Breeds conformity, and peril unfolds.
The hourglass is broken, the sand was lost to conformity,
Becoming nothing more than a speck of dust in the rubble
On a sidewalk that leads the fool to paradise.
There he dwells with hopelessness,
Still waiting for the answer that he didn't hear.
The chilling sound of crushing metal was quite loud when the car radio shut off.
Mar 2019 · 1.1k
II. Music, but a Weapon
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
The other day I had the very same thought,
Just as I did the other times, however many;
A romantic-comedy kind of retrospect, if you will. We were selling out concert tickets to upholstery as the best, or at least most confident,
Karaoke duo to ever cross paths with a dashboard.
“When I'm gone just carry on, don't mourn, rejoice.”
Opera singers every other day...
Does the music still manifest within your nervous system?
Can you feel the sorrow pulse from the V - i resolution chord?
It's still screaming if you can't hear it.
...had I known then what I know now, well,
Perhaps  this memory wouldn't hurt so ******* much.

It's hard to listen to music in the car anymore,
Well, nearly impossible most of the time.
It awakens sleeping demons that need not be bothered,
Their tails cut like a severed bond between two people who conquered tribulations far beyond the reach of the greatest evil imaginable,
Yet still lost control of ourselves from time to time.

The tires slid across the asphalt during that calm storm a few years back
“What’s in your head, zombie?”
Mar 2019 · 575
I. The Puzzle
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
A look inside the hourglass will prove treacherous waves to be a mirage upon the sand;
Dunes plummeting to nothingness, surmounted by achievements once thought to be unreachable.

Like a puzzle piece, we tend to be enticed to the edges of sanity at the manifest of our trivial dysfunction;
Binding walls that keep the resolutions in order,
Though the boundaries in which we tread are but a gimmick in equivalence to this labyrinth of scattered dreams.

Find it in you to preserve animosity,
For it is the backbone to what love entails.

Embrace the animosity.
Mar 2019 · 831
The Logistics
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
Constantly averting controversy,
Hurting from unnerving problems.
Not the worst thing I've unearthed inside,
The birth of mind-disturbing strife attacks my life, so I
Turn the knife and end the plight, cause
That's the kind of fright that strikes the right delight I see in sight.
In darkest night, sin harkens.
Vibrant demons mark their silent dealings with violence.
Screaming stops my lungs, no breathing,
Retreating feelings try to stop the gun from ringing,
But the voice inside my head that's pleading
Remains important and so appeasing.
Like a fiend I resort to that deemed purport,
A pristine contortion of me and distortion,
A means for war, hence demons worsen.  
Cursed, I've seen adverse *******.
Burned, at least the urn was worth it.
Dreams are but a sea of urges,
Waves of hurt; a ****** circus.
Earth was keen to be so perfect,
But dirt, it seems, reversed its purpose,
Purged of peace by scheming serpents.
Words convene to verse excursions
Terse, obscene, and birth diversion.
Learn to breathe when yearn disperses,
Purely seek to preserve incursion.
When earnest deeds immerse subservience,  
Evil creeds are sure to surface,
But thoughts serene will soothe the burdens.
Heaps of greed control these words,  
Though, predisposed in certain versions.
Weeds they grow in fields of ferns, and,
No one seems to know the urgence.
Flowing streams bring treacherous currents,
Twists and turns that reap insurgence.
Since discernment keeps deterrents,
Court the beast with immense observance,
Or disease will curse life's brief occurrence.
Treat the deepest ravine of courage
With leniency so peace emerges.
Dreams are but a grieving circus,
That creep beneath your bleeding surface,
Seizing leagues of zealous verbiage,
Leaving hurt to skirt loves purpose, return concernment;
Submerge the cures for feeling worthless.

— The End —