in the deep recesses
stacked away in the hours devoted
the pen starts and stops
faint scratching sounds as
ink bleeds to page

images surface along the edge
of dreamlike state
folding back the breathing waters
of each thought speaking its own true nature

a language i cannot utter
except with my clumsy hand
except with my tears

each page its own song
with heroes and villains
tragedy and triumph
each image a crafted love story
between poet and word

twist along each trail
loosing oneself to the creation
tear away the bonds
that hold you steadfast in life
this place transcends mere life
this place is redemption

i weep at the fading image
as the poem closes
so little time to grasp all it showed me
and my hand so inadequate
my words fail to express
the love story of poet and word

feeling the finer points of winters many truths
his ancient skin bruised by the many passing seasons
violence is his son
wasteland his daughter
church of the withering limb
apostle of the hurt soul
this poem is an open grave
this poem filled with my pain
and a thousand souls will rush forward
wanting to know this particular pain
wanting this scar on their own soul
the poem will speak to you in a voice so sweet
and you will want to know the world that spawned such
a lovely creature...one that could understand your particular pain
they will chase a vision of who you are to be to them
and your mind of dirt or dust will grind on
and your loneliness is not eased
your tears still sting like knives on your soul
i would give you all i have
all i have ever had
to just hold you in my arms
and be free to cry with you
cry with you

sits in the dusty room and slowly turns the
hand crank on the wretched machine
unfolding a hundred sinister faces grinning
unleashing a thousand bare feet knuckling the
threadbare carpet leading out to sunshine

dawn is almost upon us
and the truth i must face up to
is merciless
and it eats at the scarred surface of my soul
this factory of madness i must abandon
this pleasure palace of the sinister i must leave
this small world that i at least understood

i stand on the threshold and peer uncertain
out to the world that shocks me

how will i contain it
how will i master this vast place
i cannot even silence the fearful beating of my heart
i am alone in this world
i feel what it is to be crushed benith the weight of indifference

the paper with the hundred sinister faces and thousand bare feet
gathers raindrops on the bus stops floor
no longer able to unleash a power to sustain me
the paper is but a rancid cartoon
and weak reminder of worlds left behind
i shrink ever further into the shadows
hoping not to be seen
by the real sinister faces
not to be benith the thousand real bare feet
knuckling threadbare lives they rule
i am alone and afraid in the real world

Losing my sanity in a place that's no longer reality
A place of all profanity
Endless waves of struggle
For nothing more than a quick kiss,
Recreational use of poisons
Or medicine to achieve fake bliss
The unstoppable pendulum
Ever moving forward and back
The useless tests and useless fact
To see wrinkles form
And loved ones leave here disabled,
Unable to comfort
The loss of ones inner soul
That safe place which you once knew
The arms of someone that knew you
The ultimate penalty and pain
The regret and the shame,
You thought you knew what it all meant
But then everything is now backward and bent
Motionless, the stillness a melancholic confirmation
Your harness is gone
And now your spiralling,
Above and beyond.

Forever unhappy.
These words echo throughout my mind searching for a landing spot
as if my mind was made up of cliffs, instead of a straight cave.
                         Damage done throughout the years
      has broken off
                           pieces
                                 of matter
                                             from the sides,
seemingly making me unstable
when in reality each groove offers security to those
brave enough to enter my darkness and venture forth.
                  Forever unhappy
has become the theme of my penitentiary.
He wrote it as I felt it,
                    but when the earth shook with our last kiss it still didn’t budge.  
Emancipation- if there is such a thing- has failed to find me
                                                             despite the fact that I left.
I took a liberty walk into a straightjacket because the truth is:
                          I cannot escape him.
Since his absence, I have lost feeling. If I’m not preoccupied, I’m numb.
I press through the day normally
                 except for the occasional external
                                  faltering to submission
                                                    in doses of anxiety attacks
where my hyperventilation becomes a rhythm of its own
until I find myself distracted once again.
I’m forcing myself to be more involved with life, but it’s false hope.
                                  I know he resides in me,
waiting rather impatiently for my return. Lurking like a demon,
yet shadowed to preserve innocence
so when the light renders him different, we can both blame my vision.