Ghostwriter

"Dear Diary" said the scribe onto the page. "What is it i wonder, that inflates my **** to as big as my ego when i write about myself + take the time to pretend that i care?

Tick Tock

fix-it-man

A voice to drive this passion.

Transitional transcendental trapped
betwixt
The written and the spoken
word.
A restless journey
dependent on interpretation and perception.

Then to become of word into form.
To breathe ink and birth creation
into reality.
Then i could sing these words and dance to each rythmic strain.
It would be life lived as it is written.

If time will provide.

Then of course this discourse will close the gap and bring me closer to myself.

Oh Myself! You're back again, how i missed you and your self indulgent interest.
If only you were there, the spectacle, you see, was me.
And for a nano-chromatic passing of time, you and me, us, you see, we were actually, honestly, one and the same.
The spoken word had become the written and with little contamination from self, had become true and of conscience.

And i call myself a scribe? as i pen a silent voice with softly spoken conviction

blooms to dust

Im losing sight of
You
in this black and white
Gausian blur
of  timeless pain.
Im losing sight of me
in this blighted plane
of quasi symptomatic
existence.
Do you hear the words in my head
as the scramble to
untangle
the mess
you've left behind?
The pills still thrill
but acid tongue
does wash down
pain
again again again.
Rotary madness:
this rhetorical drift
of  love
fighting
life
fighting
worth
loving
nothing,
save for
pain.
Yes, again,
i ask of you only
to bury my heart beside yours
as the blooms turn to dust
and
the composition of our love decays.

Comfotably numb-without the Floyd

Comfortably numb
not dumb:

Just mute.

Riding silence
instead of life.

A presence atrophied.
An altered mind.

The kind
of
High
that drops you low.
The kind of stale
that leaves you pale

And weak at the knees

Id cry,
only tears take time
and the
seasons
will change
without waiting
for
my voice
to saturate
my face.

Translucent
liquid nuggets.
...
noiseless
as they slide
off the record
and onto my plate.

I'd offer you a bite
but
we all know
what happened to the hand that
fed
the hunger.

You look at me
as if
i were a ghost,
a spectre:
The nightmare
that anticipates your every
move.

Look in the mirror
for
an emulation
of the degenerate
debris
that is,
was,
has become,

U/us.

Comfortably numb.
in this
miasma:
This miriad of  mechanical madness.

I can hear the wind

The darkness consumes

A room
Darkened
but for the
resonating brightness
of
Pain.

Yes Sir, i can hear the wind, but your silence is blinding.

Stale stone
cold
eyes.

Dont  leave me alone, the light is gone
my hands are empty and my vision sold.
I need.

A cellular
place
to exist
in Silence
and code.

A shadow to my grief. A widow to my pride.

This is my Land.
These are my walls.
Faith
tests more than
just limits.

Dont leave,
I can hear the wind
I need.

Silence.

drank the bullet

I drank the bullet
{mercury silk}
from your mouth
{so dry}
as you came
{then left}
fast and bidding
again
without moments pause
to reflect on
who was
shooting who?

survival is cheap

This is how i feel
this onion peel
discarded
shell of wasted empathy//
this is how i taste
this furry filthy *****
waste
of
flavours savoured.
This is how it feels
inside
to die
then lie
in hope of faith
restored.

Sitting
while it rains
outside
my thoughts.
The seasons storm
while thiniking//pausing//stroking
i climb back into the safety
of my mind.
it is mine.
To hibernate
a pleasure
brief but
still so much
grief to grieve.
A cliche,
this damp patch
of regrown
faith.
This testament to
survival.
perhaps not the fittest,
but always
a stayer.

Dear ****** diary

I know i'm not alone
but i'm tired of talking to
myself.
Outside of these walls seems
so very
far away.
I never dreamt i'd learn to love
this life,
then feel as if i'd given myself away
in pursuit of
a different me.
I cant see past my lies.
I cant breathe through this smoked
den of
filth and anxiety.
This is like drowning
without the
******
of death.
This is like suffering.
All over again.
And i thought i was
all and encompassing,
but i am only
small and encumbering.
for every day i live this life
(of filth and lies and strain)
i hope there is another
where i am raw
and can still
feel the pain.