The Real World,
That is a matter of perspective.

The places I travel each night,
Those are real worlds, all of them.
The entire spectrum of realities
Every vibrant life lived.

This dull world, this emptiness
It is but a mirage, a specter , a shadow.

I walk through this dream,
A captive in a phantom world.

Knowing so much more exist.
But seemingly forever out of reach.

I travel from room to room
Searching through the Saturday rush,
the Downtown Bars.

A beautiful brunette, with a twinkle
In her eyes, held me, just a gaze,
Gentle, understanding, knowing.

It was all swell, we rejoiced,
In sugar words, with silver tongues
Though, now she's lost in the crowd.

My journey through sweat, lust and *****,
Takes me here and there
Places of eerie recollections, an ominous familiarity.

Some far different from the rest,
All the while feeling like home, but rotten
This is a dream, or a nightmare.

These are not doors, I walk within the past.
Searching for a girl, not wanting to be found.
So I lay her to rest, closing the door behind me.

Adrenaline and Pain,
They've brought me back to the dark waters,
Wading inside, the struggle to stay afloat.
The King, his legion, rise from their depths.
Ghouls scream, inciting a riot of mind.

The calming presence of self, helps me resist,
But this King brings corruption and death.
His fiendish aether crawls through my veins.
I suffocate under the torrential wickedness.

Once again, I rise, not my self.
Another medium for his crown of lies.

Before, I wrote of Masks.
Mutilated stories of written flesh.
A carnal retelling of misfortune,
In the pages I wore upon my face.

Now, I am just another Mask.
A solo sonnet amongst scoreless faces
Beyond them, a broken boy
Hostage to disharmony.

How fragile is your mind?
Does it stand against the tides of time.
Which from your perspective or mine
Can last forever or a moment.
Either is fine,
Its power we find.
During the reclamation of mind.
This dividing mind.
This self that is no longer mine.

Dark skies of midday madness,
The world has been painted in darkness.
Moments ago, the carnage of day,
Personification of pride, ran rampant.

Outsmarted, outwitted, outmatched

Pillars of ego fall, as all do, to their knees.
Nature is less forgiving, she has grown bitter.
She batters and bruises, lashing with rage.
But is this not her right, more so her duty.

Clouds pour their thick mist across heavens,
Day light is of a when long forgotten.
Bless this fortune, this humility.
Rise, embrace the turning of tides.

The problem,
One that I keep coming back to,
In America,
Is one of Identity.

It's a thing that ebbs and flows,
With the coming and going,
Of whatever agenda is pushed.

Now, if I'm pulled over, or looked over by name, or dare I associate with color.

Then they'll **** me and my blackness.

Now, should I take it personally, or empathize within the box they put me.

Then they'll curse me for denying the whiteness.

In this tug of war, I write my own story.

Two races,
One mind,
But the spirit of millions.

I am my ancestors, black and white.
This is my perspective.
I'm taking it back.

What does it mean to be me,
The soul of a brother,
In the light skin of another..
Mulatto.

That biracial boy with white walls
And white bars,
A prison of stolen identity.

White & Black/ Black & White
Day & Night/ Night & Day

I'm the gray and the dusk inbetween

I carry the guilt of remembering the dead
In fear that if I don't, who will.

This tug of war between time and memory
Brings fatigue to my soul.

Anger has long passed, leading the road
With forgiveness at its end.

Though, in celebrating life, I can't help feel
The weight of every conversation.

That dangerous, infinite, path of what if.
Decisions and indecisions that brought death.

Answers may never be found, though I hope,
To relinquish this guilt of remembering.

On speaking of maddening, madness
Zero down on this pounding, pounding
Of onset betrayal in my heart.

Friendly faces turned crooked smiles,
As my mind contorts them in denial
Believing in an imminent threat.

Panic blooms a wildfire of doubt,
The voices inside scream and shout.
Now we wait for the arrival of death.

This mystery, this sickening
These shades of kin, just don't fit in
And surely I'm losing my mind.

There is no plot, no grand scheme
To steal away my blissful dream.
But paranoia knows better, it must.

Writing is my therapy.
I find it far easier to write
Away my demons into chains
Than to let their free verse reign.

I dare not sit in that chair
To face the things near or far
The cold and the heavy
The antiques of my persistent soul.

Though in time, when farther I succumb
Perhaps, I'll find that existential door,
One which takes me to the place, I need
To restore whats so lost within.

And true, I write the walls which hold me,
But better a prisoner of my own making,
Then be held hostage by an unstable mind.
Control, power, hold on, until you can't.

Snow skates on the highway home.
Zigzagging, Crisscrossing, Somersaulting.
White dust in a balancing act between,
Winter Winds and Momentous Metal.

I am walking, with my father.
To what he assumes will be a reconciliation.
I entertain the idea with insincerity.
I'll not walk down that fool's road again.

I see a group of women, a bachelorette party.
One approaches, she asks who will I be for the night.
She says she'll be someone or another.
I think about this, whats the harm in being lost in otherness.
But for the moment I must go, I'm off to a party.

I'm in a stadium, alone at first, then the rows fill.
Friends, loved ones, circled around the stage.
My friend, my brother is next to me, then is front and center.
He announces the celebration, gathering here for a friend.
Its happy, we reminiscence, I embrace it for the moment.
Sadness, I know is on the horizon.

I see it clearly, I know how a story goes.
Another friend, belly full of liquor stumbles home.
He draws a hot bath, as death prepares to takes its grips.
I feel this, I feel him slip, I feel him begin to drown.
I'm coming, but not fast enough, I'll arrive and he'll be dead.

But, there's a chance, through will, I become him.
With every ounce of drunken strength I pull us out of death.
We catch our breath, crawling for the bed, until I arrive in flesh.
There are dogs all over his place, and a hell hound, chained.
He wore a devil's mask and knew me to be a false man.
Just in time, I barge through the door and catch my friend in rest.
Spared for the time being, for doom is coming.

I leave him in his slumber, returning to the darkening skies.
I see a group of fallen youth, a loyal band of thieves.
They run and taunt the night, the disillusion of innocence.
I feel I must warn them, but time and words have escaped me.
Reality sets in, in the form a a car screeching, peeling away.
I know too well whats to come, instinctively, I run.
White light, red-orange fire, kaboom.

I come to, choking on the blackened ash filling the air.
I see charred bodies of those far less lucky than me.
I wonder how I am alive, but I know better, its rotten.
I crawl through the destruction, and try to regain myself.

Months go by, and again and again the bombers come.
At first, I feel they're hunting me, but they must know I live.
That such methods to thwart me are ineffective.
But that mustn't be the case, no it must not be at all.

And in truth I know this, the chase in this direction is obvious.
I realize it the reverse is true,  I am drawn to the chaos.
I go where death is sure to come, even in my undying.
I wake up, with that mystery in mind.
I hate the realism in such dreams.
I hate I will never know why.
I hate that this is the end.

There is a devil inside of me.
An aspect so far removed from self,
It is so inconcievable, so impossible, and so unlike anything I could imagine.

Such selves sit in a sea of silent symphony,
Until the mania power trips into madness.
Then the screaming starts, the sad souls of infinite self, wailing their woes into every action and inaction.

But this wrongness, it has no tongue, no words of daggers. Just the mind numbing imposition of its own existence.

While it is in no particular way, its own creative, there are those of empathetic tones who transcribe its violent song into death hymns.

I sit a passenger, on a dangerous train, headed faster to hell, and I'm the devil inside.

I'm living on borrowed time
Sleeping on tomorrow's time
Most days I'm very particular about sleep.
About six and a half hours does the trick.

This evening we decided to share wine, two bottles.
Spur of the moment decision, it was only Monday.

(Is this what it feels like, a real relationship)

We laugh, we talk, she holds me, I return the favor.
Later, we make love for the first time.

She's been waiting, but so have I, for the first time.
I'm mesmerized, I take it slow, I want it to last.

We are open, we are honest.
I feel safe, so very unlike me.

There is no anxiety about this,
There is no self destruction.

She stays awhile, we exist in each others comfort.
She leaves, I walk her out, we say our goodbyes.

And I'm left thinking, I'm happy.
I'm thinking, its been such a long time.

So I've forfeited some sleep, in the hour of the lover.
To bring forth and borrow more tomorrows.

In pondering the blues,
Of folk music, writing, and culture
I began,
"What is my celebration of sadness?"
I thought.
I reveled.
Rebellion and the fall of man.
The toxic man, the cancerous man
Who filled me with hate, behavior
And most of all suffering.
I celebrate this fall,
In the beauty of change
In the beauty of self-love
And as I loved myself, I became
Able to love others, as I always had
But without borders, an empathetic truth.
To understand, accept and to struggle
With the human experience.
Which I imagine will always be the case
Struggle breeds change.
And it is that I am most thankful for.

A year ago, I resolved to write,
Everyday, no matter what.
Noble in my intention, to let
These words Blossom
But impractical in my imprisonment

Papers and parchment became walls
Which grew hungry and full off anxiety
True to the nature of my failure
I felt every bit of imagination die
The magic engine chocked out, rusted
With failed expectations.

However, this creative vigor, this
Impossibly strong passion, sparked
Life once again, as it tends to do.

So I resolve once again, to write
But only as the wind blows

As the extraordinary rushes,
So will I, to the pages.

Ripples of Darkness
I tire, weary from the day
Nightmares sail forward
Through a storm of closed eyelids

Eyes flutter, dare I sleep now
Visions, lightless creatures
They call to me, more rather
I am sure it is a scream

Haunting me like absent words
The ones which I've buried
That creative self, once more
But we rise again, always

I let these spectres wail
Who am I to stop creation
Paint the horrific, vibrant dusk
And I'll admire this truth

Burning, burning, burning
The world is up in flames.

If you will it, to the Universe
The Universe wills the same.

But when you will it,
Within a dream,
Then your wills are just insane.

Devotion makes a good story.
Should an obsession take precedent
Over every other aspect of life.
Yes, that is a story worth hearing.

What such things would people,
Give up life and limb for?
What such things would people,
Cast aside all ties to achieve?

I would hear such things,
I would ponder them.
I breathe such obsessions
Heavy and addicting.

To lose everything for a singular purpose.
Compelling, it’s intoxicating.
Should I find such a cause,
I’m sure will be the death of me.

Desperate was the Hand,
To the Fist,
To the Door of Introspection,
To the Mind, to the Darkness.

Pounding, pounding away,
The broken bones,
To the dust of flesh.

A moment before forfeit,
The Great Gate collapses.
Bursting into a torrential tide of Madness,
This scornful swell swam deep into the Heart.
Its suffocating chill, mirroring the growing Dissent,
Resonating all of discord in a living Thought.

Hope's last stand sends deceit fleeing.
Rushing waves, shuttering away,
From the pathetic kindle.
Such a sad flicker, this bastion of salvation.

As with All Things, this too falls.
The Darkness, the Madness,
The Door to all Doors,
Consumes the Light.

I'm dreaming
I wake up
I'm a phantom
I feel it all
I'm lucid
I breath existence

I'm dreaming
I see white
I'm flowing
I grow skywards
I'm humbled
I begin to wake

I'm dreaming
I see the sun
I'm trying
I can't hold on
I'm failing
I sleep no more

I'm Jekyll
Alcohol is Hyde

Is that not the parable?
The moral of the story?

I am not compelled,
I don't need the drink.

But a few too many,
And its a self destructive streak.

Is that alcoholism?
Is that abuse?

The first step is knowing,
And its been quite some time.

So I stick with few or none,
Hoping to be just fine.

But do be wary,
For that few too many.

Because you'll lose it all if you do.

I saw it carved in the flesh of a dream,
"You're nothing, until you do it."
And is that not the truth.
For you no much more a writer,
until you have written.
Nor are you a killer,
until you have killed.

Who wears the Broken Crown,
The King of Fiends.
Who wears a Million Faces,
The King of Fiends.
Who wears Hell Fires,
The King of Fiends.

Those hollow eyes of tortured gold.
Those foul horns of haunted mutilation.
The charred skin of mortal flesh
The broken wings of nightmare fuel

The blood of my blood.
The pathology of my pathology.
The beast of my beast.

The Eclipse dawned shortly after sunrise
Though clouds decided to swallow her gaze
A supernatural dimness filtered the horizon
Some things occur and are felt deeply
Others often, can be never felt at all.

I felt the surge of madness.
The Dark Moon plunge her auras
So deliberately into my mind.

Irises became dark full circles
Reflecting the wonderfully insidious Luna
Her Eight faces shone as dancing disc

She sings, inviting visions, mayhap delusions.
What was seen before, and thereafter
Are stories of the beginning and end.

Gifted, with a sinister sight, malevolent.
But boundless, togetherness, solidarity.
All at once, with every I, to ever be.

The crusader drew back the hammer
Dangerous eyes looking past the barrel
To the fiendish man, broken before him
Behind the bruises, behind the mess
Helpless, his father lay before him
His father, the sinner, the fiend

He smiled a wicked but honest smile
Down towards the old man
Words would do no good,
For they've all been said and done.
The crusader was full of reason
Full of divine purifying resolve

But the devil, preparing his forked tongue
Between the sugar words and curses
Sought to utter some final saving grace.
Pulling back, squeezing with satisfaction
The lightning drew across the room
Thunder split the sinner right in two

Deep breathes, soothing his soul
The crusader inhaled the scent of death.
Too long it had been, far too long.
That such a fiend creeped upon the earth.
No goodbyes, no heartaches, just death.
He withdrew himself into the night,
Off to continue the reaping.

What is a song, but a spell
A lyrical incantation of wonder.
Capable of transcending from
One emotional ecstasy into another.

She says, "Go on, tell me."

So I do, I talk about these devils.
That sudden swarm inside,
I speak of the paralyzing misbeat
Of a stressed out chest.

"That's your anxiety?"

It takes me over, controls me,
Helpless behind a steering wheel
Of a maniac's mania driven horror
But I'm stuck for the ride.

"And who is this other?"

Nameless. Just a foul thing.
There were others, masks
A sea of voices, drowning me out
High tide and its sink or swim

"Go on."

When I'm calm, its quiet.
But I know they slither on,
The engrainimg entrenching thoughts
Of cruelty thats not my own.

"You're afraid?"

I'm wandering about the darkness
With fiendish things in mind
A pitiful puppet of anxiety
Waiting for the end of times

Too often, we wish for things,
which fill us full of regret.

Too often, we become the things,
which fill us full of dread.

Too often, too often,
this nightmare persist,
Too often.

Too often, I am at the mercy
of this madness.

Too often, it swells within my heart,
incapacitating me.

Too often, I lay in feverish pain,
a prisoner of anxiety.

Too often, too often,
I wander into darkness,
Too often.

Too often, I become this awful wretch,
this terror

Too often, I beg,
to be set free.

Too often, and its always,
Too often enough.

A creature of principal
A being of habit
Ancient artifacts, loyalties
Ravaged.

I suppose you knew,
As they left your lips... words.

I am, all about the rules.
The biblical codex of do's and don'ts
Written matter of factly across this rage

Words, truth and lies.
Seeds are sewn, tensions rise.

I reflect on the monster,
Who fuels his hungry belly
On torturous regret.

And still, I smile,
Wicked, demise on the mind.

Let me tend to the garden,
Let the roots grab hold
Let the hostility erode,
Let the finality harden

Your heart too.

The fiend stood before the threshold,
with a wicked gait.

High above the rooftops, with darkness
flowing from his cloak of nightmares.

The claymore cementing his sinister
disposition, neck crooked high.

Rage, his helm, that devilish crown,
slithering all the lies into me.

This throne, my flesh, he claimed again,
the marionette of his madness.

I walk heavy, with the burden of his pain,
swiftly he barrels through the jungle.

Through all the winding and weaving,
destruction has found its home within.

The King, his slave and the broken,
words are whats left to save us.

But he too, has stolen such things away,
for what am I without them.

This desert, dry as my lips, as my eyes
Which shed no tears.

This pale sheet of barren hell,
The voice of isolation.
Far, these days, from heaven.

I take a long drink, perhaps my last
Not to quench my own thirst,
Drawn from my own mouth.
But, to cure the insatiable thirst
That was my Father's.

Which has grown fiendishly in me.

But I drink, and I know
And I loathe, twisting
Myself into something mean,
Bitter and wrong.

I own this beast
I know his name
I curse my father
I devour his shame.

Though most of all, I walk forward,
Never averting horizon's gaze.

His eyes drew back into endless darkness.
The smokey storm of features which raged
Where his face should have been struck lightning
Down my frozen spine, entangled by this sight.

The man peered into me, which his empty gaze.
Black holes which in their plainness, tore away sanity.
I wanted to ask him, I wanted to know, but words lost me.
He laughed a madman's laugh, faceless or not, he smirked.

This devil, came and went, only seeking a name.
He stepped out into the night, a frozen gaze, and into nothing.
A creature haunted, without voice for his destruction.
I know he will return, screaming death until words find him.

In that moment I knew, that feeling of knowing,
To without any reasonably conclusion,
Have an unyielding sense of where the pieces lie.

And that tasteless grain of alabaster, so profuse
Raining even harder now, the ground a pathetic mixture.
Blood, mud and betrayal.

Two strangers, one in bed with the **** of the world
The other, with an unamused smug, hating the other.
Pausing, the rain stops, checkmate.

For all of an eternity, how does one not know self.
And upon becoming one with filth, why was it so?
In envious conclusion, I sleep, relinquishing control.

He rummages to the forefront, having prepared.
Having mastered this scenario hundreds of time,
So seamlessly did he maneuver.

Casting away the mask of my failure,
To carve forward his dominating force of hand.
This personality, so fiendish but still me.

The flesh flies buzz on the old bog,
Tattered, forgotten in the forest of tainted dreams.

The foul air, in its humid fever,
Carries the stench of death, and secrets between friends.

The muck, thick and rot with fears,
And time too, seems to lose itself in the swamp's embrace.

The shrill cackle of dusk set herself
Upon the waning summer heat.

Low lit purple haze on the horizon
Painted wild in the cresent Moon smile.

Bear out the harvest, sacrifice all fortune,
Be full and join the evening on the morrow.

As the Sun exhanged his twilight gaze
Darkness drew itself into the shadows

Slave away for offering, the Night is near
As Day fades, the dark blue sky is empty.

Screams, despair is upon the fools
Lambs to the slaughter until she rises.

I have been tasked with consripting
Thoughts so wicked and vile, they
Are most certainly unnatural.

The transference from the chaos
Of the mind, to the semipermance
In written word is liberating.

To dive I to my madness one must
Understand, that the sincerest truth
That I have ever known is the deformity
Of self.

Every waking moment has been
A testament to the alienation of my
Own demeanor..but what made it tick?

It seems forever and a time ago.
Since I felt, this sinister darkness
Haunt my bones, insidiously ethereal.
Outgrown, and overshadowed but,
Only temporary was the night.

In a search for self, after voiceless screams
Bled their emptiness into any word muttered.
Perhaps, I was fooled into the harmony
That this evil muse had whispered.
Her hast soul shattering tune.

Forewarned in foreshadows, nightmare's gleam.
The stability of my present, was the demise
Of my former. And I fade into the black.
A pale silhouette in the story of character
Marionette to this mutineer.

Brown beetles, shiny shells
Embedded into my skin.
Burrowing, these crawlers
Find their home in my flesh.

I tear away, in a frenzy
For fear they'd make a stay
But this twisted dream
Ended, with the sunrise

Yet, much to my demise,
The itch, scratching, scuttling
Many legs, swimming among
All of me, an awful psychosis

I feel the digging, controlling.
Betrayed, I cannot trust where
My own extension , begins
And where insects end.

I pour a cold one down my throat
To subdue the rage, or perhaps anxiety
Underlying and insidious.
Though more likely to swallow, with it
Regret. The small things, and the large.

I suppose it does not really matter,
Regarding to relevancy. But I drink,
I write and then I reminisce.
The past, her lips, and the discussions.
Yet, never quite feeling able enough
To be. Vulnerability, it escapes me.

And as one memory passes onto another,
Never does it become anything less
Than meaningful. Each moment
Shining as a star to define the
Indefiniteness which both calls to me,
And more accurately eludes all
That I wish to be.

The stream played thick and heavy,
      in the red dawn, of the darkest night.
Tree-lines aghast in the kindling,
      of the Summer Solstice fires.
Upon the sunrise, on the banks among the foliage,
      time tracks into the overgrown trails.
In a deliberate folly, the seasons pass
      as the blended wood, welcomes unwavering change.
Lead back, to dusk, the crisp inviting hum
      of running water, and only a moment has passed.

I see all of the worst decisions I've ever made,
All of the wrong, that I have done.
It follows me, in the worst of ways.

But a dog, an especially this one,
This gentle, brindle soul.
Every bit of good I've ever done
Walks in each stride of her white paws.

The clouds of misery, which often find themselves
looming, in despicable ways.
Evaporate in the lick of a tongue on my cheek.
Or often, a toothy smile, which I do not deserve.

She is boundless, for who am I to contain her.

Every word falls deaf
Soundless songs depress, suppress
Any ability to breathe music (of my own)
An empty vessel, ravaged,
Through a torturous fountain of
Words: letters, syllables violently clawing
(Towards the Sun, any inkling of light)
Spewing in such a horrible way
Just to once again find relevancy
To flow like waterfalls, nurturing
The saplings of the low valleys
To bloom, and flower into peace and
Be Reborn.

I consumed the man in the mirror
Who stared so emptily into me.
The gaze which split this body into two
He is just but a whisper, long forgotten.

I could not tell you when,
But his weakness was delicious.
As he faded, I only saw myself
Nameless now, until the dawn begins.

I too, eat his words, wondering where
My own will be found.
Suppose a tear is shed, running slowly
Down my cheek.

We wonder, when we will find
Ourselves.

I tried crawling out mind
Eyes following the morning wrens
But that ****** screaming
They are so cheerful, hopping along the fence
Why are thoughts so loud today?
Run to the shade little birds, today's a scorcher

Heat stroke, but its only May!
Scatter now, fly away with any tune.
A cool glass of water, I do feel better.
Sing away, 10 wings flutter, the harmony
Something still doesn't seem quite right.
Shadows in the wind, feathered friends.

Black feathers signal an arrival
What seemed like endless roads
Carved rugged into the Earth
Beady eyes welcome this moment

Low valley streams, white rapids
Serenely sinister silence of the woods
Two feet, four paws just a blur
Grounded only by a painted beauty

Sun sets, fire rises, that smokey cinder
Eating,  laughing, living so free
Stars explode through the tree tops
Night summons an absolute darkness

Blood red dawn, a shadow of the day
Walking now, footsteps, running water
Collecting the goodbyes and good times
Naturally black feathers occupy the vacancy

******.
Slips out of white lips
I lose my ****.

Blood boils.
I hate the word
It ties my tongue
But, I get it.
Didn't always
But, I get it now

A reclaimation of hate,
Black skin shining
Owning the power of a word.

I need a little help
I took a little break
See I have to work, work, work!
Otherwise I'll be a lazy good for nothing!
Its ALL work and then SOME play.
But if its SOME work then surely its NOTHING at all.

Words, word, words!
I can think them just fine,
Some days I'll even speak them quietly, to myself.
But here lies the problem, I lose them in translation.

I am thinking, I am thinking
Such a good line, such a clever prose.
Open the pad and notebooks and not a word goes!
I am thinking, I am thinking
Such a good line, such a clever prose.
Open my mouth and its out the window!

I want my words back,
I want to write,
I want to write poetry
I want to just empty my mind
I want to leave out all the words
I want to be satisfied with these little things.

This was a start, I am sure it helped.
It had to.