The sound of running water is soothing.

Ritualistic, by nature, it just flows and pools until it stills, to be able to reflect back a scene that is silent, if you stay frozen long enough, staring, it captures a picture like a photograph. Still, unmoving…

Inside the steam that rises is like an early morning fog that delights the human eye because it can’t see beyond the ugliness that lies outside its door. Inside the fog, a whole new world is created. Something else, becomes more…

In the silence of the water no longer running and the steam that evaporated and has taken away the message from the mirror that you wrote, who knew it would run away to hide?

There is now the choice of a weapon of disposal. A choice that would forever be the marking of a soul, never caring, will never take a side.

Standing in front of a still whisper of water that is ready to receive a body that is intrinsically woven within its own fabric and ready to step back into a time when it was just, was... a time when it ebbed and flowed and could just be…

As a sacrifice, the robe drops from naked skin, dancing, floating, to pool at feet that have walked through fire, have been burned by ice, that have traveled a road that should have never been walked and ended up with photographs, of things, that nobody, NOBODY, should ever have to dream (as nightmares) let alone live, or see…

Sinking below tepid water to wash away every sin that has ever been, ever was, or, God Forbid, should ever be. There is horror looking upon sights that most would consider evil or gory, but still they tell their own story.
Looking down through clear, still water, it’s still possible to see, everything, including all imperfection, in all it’s glory.

Taking the weapon of choice, a razor sharp edge, like a sword that has been swung to defeat all its foes, it is forged by the fires of Hell to cut through skin and bone, to bathe the water red, to hide all the imperfections from a sight that is never blind…

It’s not beautiful, but it is bliss, there is no beauty inside a world that takes away a haunted soul that thinks the only way is to make it to the water, to be washed away on a tide of self hope and never think about the shore that it has left behind…

Nov 28, 2010

In shadows we speak lies all too soon forgotten.
Tragic flaws of a twisted gear the lost ending, old friend why do you appear so strange?

In the shadows I understand what the light could never allow us to view.
The ever self indulged ****** the broker down Wall Street.
Are they not but the same addicts of a different fix.

The street understands what the common man can never voice, the abstract ending is but a smokescreen of distraction I have little time for ******* but I have all the time for you.

I see from ship to shore the ever-changing tide.
I can't give you advice for I can't even help myself, hold the answers so better yet you may understand the questions my friends.

In the shadows we hide speaking our riddles scribbling down lines.
Only to be left unheard cast aside in dark corners I know this company well.

Old friend why must you be so strange?
Once the poet now the mute your words still hold very much weight in empty lines and past thoughts the memories linger still.

In the shadows they did exist were still I remain.

If you see them

With their tongues
down another's throat

Through a red haze
as you choke

Standing outside
the clinic
having a smoke
Planned Parenthood
or checking for STDs

It's a sign

you see???

I didn't see it there!

the kitchen chair

You hit me in the living room

where there was so much space

a solid lounge

a coffee table made from oak

a television cabinet

protecting life's assets

but you hurled me

into the kitchen

with just one stroke

and I rolled laughing

until I hit the chair

that splintered fine pieces

of rough hewn stakes

into the air

that fell around me

like a cage

I didn't want to escape

but when a spine is broken

the only sound to make

is

a

sigh

It was a nice day to die

hahahaha
strangled choke

with your head in the sand
standing bent over
for just any man to walk by
still you try to mumble
while I sigh...

You make me cry

while all your life prose
cools just like a *******
upon a body not breathing
stiff as a cold breeze
You sit like a scarecrow
guarding your non de plume
drowning out your own scream

why don't you

attract that ravenous beast
that will feed upon
your braggart heart, tear apart
your broken bones to the meat
that rots like a rancid ****,
all covered in mildewed
strawberries
and curdled cream

You were never smart

Eating away at the morning dew
chomping on a feast that few
ever completely inhaled
but only just nibbled on
bit by bit except

I did

but do you know
what really gets my goat?

I do