a woman once drowned from lonesome fear:
the kind of sickness
you cannot hear.

she toiled with the time she'd lost
willing to take the brunt
of their cost.

the last word that parted from her lips
was "the fire burned my heart alive,
a pain that I cannot survive."

and the tiller came to take her away.

when the tiller comes to grasp your hand
what will he take from you?
what will he demand?

there is no value to devotion
if you're the only one
swimming in the ocean

so whatever sets your chest aflame
there is no fire
you cannot tame

Sometimes I feel like I'll die on this page
My penmanship falters, my life in the ash tray.
My soul coiled in to paper and ink,
Where I sat and I thought, where I sit and I think.'

Today was one of those days that started in a torrential downpour of hardship and discernment which scattered my mind whole with confusion and resentment.  As I woke, a hole began to form in my chest.  One that would surely be the death of reason and the atonement for hours spent in silence, letting my throat fill with the blood of my unspoken words.

“I think I shall dig a hole and when it gets deep enough I will lay down and die as every other dog I’ve known has done.”

Alexander pushes his mother's hand away and retorts, “It is bad enough to have his name, let alone to be his son.”

Whatever it may be that sets my chest aflame with a whole desire, lay within the confine of your deep, beautiful form.

It rings, it rings!

How I long!  How I long!  How long have I longed for this?  How long have I wished to be realized as some feminine form?  How long have I silently wondered on my own time?  

Simply, I haven’t.  Simply, it is you.  Simply, I must be your woman, for you birthed that which is: this woman.  
You: You have brought me to my womanly purpose.  You have brought me to the radiance, which lingers in the eye of every loved mother.

It rings, it rings!

Whatever it may be that sends me to my knees in admiration,
That shakes me with such force,
That brings me to this earth- that rises and falls with your breath.

How I will be your metronome,
Your ageless home,
Your careful host,
And Honest Wife.

It rings, it rings!  

Whatever it may be that leaves my hands in locking, longing for your sweet taste astounds me within some crevice of this mind:
Where I find myself beneath your greatness,
Where I find myself kissing each stretch of skin,
And crying to you:  

Oh, my love, how I long!  How I long!
How I desire to be pressed, fermented,
And enjoyed over ice…
How I will sweat and gain moisture: I will be the condensation dripping desperately down your wine glass.

The candles burn at both ends,
When love and life come to an end.

Sitting now I know I tried,
To swallow my heart
To swallow my pride

I was encouraged to begin,
The life of a wife;
One drenched in sin.

Not lust nor greed
Could tempt my eye
But deep inside, I longed to die.

Today was one of those days that started in a torrential downpour of hardship and discernment which scattered my mind whole with confusion and resentment.  As I woke, a hole began to form in my chest.  One that would surely be the death of reason and the atonement for hours spent in silence, letting my throat fill with the blood of my unspoken words.

There is something particularly damaging about communication.  Though it can bring two people together, it also the one thing that can tear them apart.  This particular miscommunication has left my heart aghast with the thought that it will not be communication or the lack thereof that will sever our relation.

All things must die.  All things will die.  For those of who are comfortable with that idea, it becomes difficult to see the merit in staying when many different factors join together in a chorus to sing:  The horror!  The horror!

We fall once.
We fall hard.
We hand our hearts off like a playing card.

We will take you to parks,
And fall to our knees,
Revealing the pain that grows with the trees.

Never Fall in Love with a Writer

We will take you to monuments and museums,
Holding the world in ours hands,
Ready to break in accordance with your demands.

Never Fall in Love with a Writer

A writer is fragile.
They’ll bare your pain from every angle.
A trait the common man hadn’t thought possible.

Never Fall in Love with a Writer

We will dedicate each word to you,
Until dreaming will never do,
Because it can’t express our love to you.


Never Fall in Love with a Writer

We are not like the rest,
You’ll never die in our mind
We are why love is blind.

I am...
A writer.
A corporate slave.

I sell my ink to afford my next page.

There is a fire where my heart should be...
As far as I can see I feel you breathing next to me

But this is no grave,
Its simply a tomb

Where from the ground
You'll return to the womb

Nine Months & A Day
Til I throw your memory away

Crush those cries beneath my feet
Ignore the pleas
For sweet release

It is your pain I will defeat
Beneath the Earth, your fate will wait

Nine Months to the Date

So here I hang from lofty branches
Tying rope
Whilst you wait for your answers

Nine Days and a Month

Til I throw you away
Where every cigarette will say

"Nine Months &A; Day
Til I take you away"

Failure comes in a lot of forms
One is the look of your lovers face when you realize
He is no longer yours.

There is a point where you come to hate the
Heavy knowledge that it is not he
But you who is unfit
To satisfy what you have come to know they need.

I know that our love must go.

Another alleyway leads you to their future,
When you see the next woman
Standing in line.
But this one, isn't wasting her time.

It is amazingly beautiful and altogether resembles
A perfect image of torture.

an object at rest
tends to be the same speed
and the same direction
lacking connection

to petty holidays
where ya act like you'll change your ways
you won't

throw on that record,
grab those sticks
it is time to hit some ****

Let me crave it,
Let me tame it.
Let me sit and think about it,
so that I may feel what I have not had the pleasure of feeling before.

Im one of those ridiculous people,
I'll justify myself. I do not need your help.
I never have.

I am the girl you love to hate,
The one you think may be doing something,
But whom occupies doing what you couldn't
Simply… being.

I am the dream of the other woman, wrapped in value,
Crowned in moral.
I will break what you couldn't find in,
I will write it out.

FIVE LINES.
A STAFF.
I WILL NOT GIVE YOU WHAT YOU NEED!!
I will show you what you need.

Please, find me between the lines
and the apple tree, which
I find to be all that makes up… me.

Tell me that loneliness is more than I could grasp,
A sudden task,
That I couldn't spread between my fingers,

HA! I have found purpose.

Alexander
Crooked and darkened by the plague of modern intelligence, Alexander wanders down the familiar streets of their town with a compelling yet distant look nested upon his brow.  Disillusionment had radicalized him long ago and reduced most of his friends to acquaintances, and family to strangers.  Little did he realize that he had annexed himself from happiness when he spent every moment thinking of love and success.  So much so, that he had created standard by which these experiences could be logically sound, stable, and reliable.  If any of the key factors were missing, he dismissed his emotions as if they were late to class and continued about the mania of loneliness.




@A.Zahorcak2014

DESTITUTION-hypocritical, reflective, directionless, black roads, space, loneliness, realization----> reality, inability, lacking, murderous, prison, convicted, conviction, need to-do, railroad.

ACTION- process, comprehension, journey, end-point, earned, gained, knowledge, hope

had a dream
red sun rises
old west feeling
low brim hat
eye, locked
m22
whiskey, no gin
oak (dark wood?) table
or wine?
i don't know enough about it
rust, ****** hair, beard
writing
parchment
window pane
light-natural-through the
window pains
cloths
fine fabrics
fine point pens
old poems
about old feelings
falling out
of notebooks
i should still
be
writing in

What makes a reader?

What makes a writer?

What compels anyone to the love of language?

Why do we not sing?

Why do we not play?

Why do we not paint?

What leads us to be so loyal to our craft?

There is a man who seeks new methods of relaxation, a man who can so easily slip into another man’s life.  There is a man who is enthralled by the mere re-telling of high tales.  A man who is quite an observer. A man who is logical (in one sense or another) and observes his plate well.  A man whom rests his faith on an influence and the good faith of escape.  A man who rests in the lines of paper, whether they be marked by blue or red ink.

He stood up,

With a vigor comparable to that of a bear.

In a rush, blood began to flood his veins.

They pulsated, and wound his fist back to a tightly-coiled projectile.

And eventually when the sun came to its final moment, he understood.  Long after his body will rot, his pen will continue to spill ink.  Long after he dies, people will continue to live.  Long after humans die, things will continue to die.  What could mean more than that?

I found myself

Drifting into space,

Filling empty glass jars

With bountiful lace.

Yet I lacked that confidence,

To give my words prominence

And broke

A once solid promise.

I threw my pen straight to the ground,

For a stick of lead I’d found.

Tried to write-

Then set it down.

Held back a severe frown.

What led me to this stick of grey?

I could not rightly tell or say!

Perhaps an air of strong regret,

A devilish mistake I could not let,

Stain my page,

Contain my rage,

Or throw the sheet over my cage.

Rebellion is a task because there are a number of forces to overcome.

The first being the saturation of the grid and the reasonable desire to succeed against these odds, that in turn make this lifestyle difficult to achieve.
-- The realization of the powers that hold our government with the capability to destroy the very genetic code of human beings.

Fed by extreme structure until life outside the system is illegal.  

Second: the curse of pattern recognition and the grand achievement of neurolinguistics;
The systematic and biological inclement of philanthropist action
taken to assert an advertisement is within itself a mechanism
to wash true passion for life on this earth.

the day, rots my skin away
washes me bones
bleaches me straight
to white again
so i can fall to black
back again

chronic
like the lifeline
i keep trying to cut

point blank range
engage
shoot me down
burn this page

keep coming, keep going
you're holding me back
while you complain to your friends
about all he lacks

can't you see that your savage?
though you may call it 'normal'
presents and praise
are not arousal

let friendship surpass interest
and extend outward with growth
your life is not a picture,
it is a sacred oath:

fear my love,
no- it doesn't lack feeling
but it comes with a treasure
a single meaning.

Do not fear
the contamination
of your captivity-
survive the encompassing mind.

Or writh
and reel
that you cannot feel-
cannot keep up with me

Turn the wheel
like me

******* and the glasses
Of wine. Wasting their *******
time. In what they thought
was Love.

Getting started can be the hardest part.  
How hard is it to accept-
That the craft you so need can feel at times, so harsh?
Sitting down to an instrument
Piano or paper.

The Musicians tones are angered,
Though the notes sweet.
Hear the aggravation of fumbling fingers,
Witness the strength of the mountain.

Consuming light, burning heavy
And white; What will you write today?
See the light to to your eyes,
Witness the heat of the sun.

There is blaring whit noise
In this room:
ITS THE SOUND
Or rather
The heavy and troubled lung of medical equipment.

It sounds like the slowest dropping,
like the TONE is permanently descending
downwards;
AS IF
Virgil were here to guide it through Hell

OUTSIDE:
Third worlds spin their wheels by
Form of generator.
Constantly blowing barley in the face,
with it's cocktail, anti-freeze breathe

Only in the man made world can the cold
Come from electric heat

THE WIND BLOWS
AND THE BUILDING SHAKES

I have not felt as if my role plays into gender, yet I neglect the idea of set standards to which 'common' 'civil' people suggest to be appropriate dinner conversation.

Humanity is a course.  The path from chaos to order and order to chaos.  Each human burns like a star, and just like the galaxy, there will be collisions.  Controlling that creates the need to have an accepted way of life.

I am not guarded, I am precise.  I give all I posses to those in need and refuse to be taken from.  Diminished.  I am not heartless, I see the way.

I feel no shame in my rugged frame, and praise the build of my character and virtue.  Determined. Every-flowing.  Like water.

You can't dilute it.  Drop ink in water, in a few moments you will not see the pigment.  Yet it lowers its quality, its ability to be consumed as a life source.

When people recklessly posses the emotions, the ability to create and destroy- View it as a gift, not an arsenal.

An immense cloud passed over our fraction of the sun and the rain fell heavy. It struck the streets.

This day, I was curling my toes around the filth.
My keeper screams at me.

And she-she stares at me.  Through a frown tacked to the corner of his bedroom mirror.

"You don't write, you whine, set that pen down."

He sits on the edge of this cushion, and the mice sleep in the stove.

He is an incredible actor.
Softly he rests around my neck,
Before rotting like an albatross,
Weighing down my neck.

He is heavy like air,
As God wishes,
I will suffer his hand.

My over textile obsession,
does not even flinch.

suddenly aid comes, again
on my finger
that big fake
gem

These walls are fairly yellow.
It is not my husband,
but some wild illness.

Oh Charlotte,
Why couldn't you meet me half way?

Shinin', burning bright
Fire light, the Bright
and Glowing Place

It is the little things
The subtle hints

When you first peered
Around the corner
Eyes shot
Write through me

Nicknames, dreams
Wondering what it means
Bury it deep
O-P-E-N

And now its flowing
Breaking the ****
Water pressure

Could write many more
The occurrence
Calming
Energizing

feeling wrecked,
when I need
direction,
connection.

raise my hands
for protection.
collapse.
ain't no such thing
as perfection

can't even touch
the weary lighthouse flame
when the shackles round my ankles
think my life is
a ******* game.