The age old question,
Climbing back up from
Rock bottom,
Fingertips straining against clean hewn
Limestone
Piece by piece
Taping yourself back together.
"What happens now?"

effervescent chaos; sizzling
in the blackest reaches of the untapped
psyche. dreamscapes woven from
the fabric of ten quadrillion crystalline spiders
working in perfect harmony
to construct a thin coating of sound
upon all of creation.
you run your hand along a stone monolith
that looms into the sky, reaching
on and on longer
and higher than the eye can
perceive; off to stroke
the face of god.
a fine strand of hair on a blastula of
atomic pulp.
the hills around you, bathed in silvery
strands not unlike silk wisps wafting
the smell of baby powder into the
air, stretch off for miles,
slowly undulating away to meet an unseen
ocean of oily water.
the sound of a knife being dragged
across the strings of
a piano emanates from the monolith.
you gaze up into the reflective,
glistening clouds.
you are alone in this.

i save bugs, when i see them in danger.
i return spiders to their webs,
i scoop up drowning pillbugs
i take ladybugs to flowers that look
particularly infested with aphids.
it gives you a good a feeling to
act as a benevolent god
on those who have no choice
but to succumb to your immense power.
unlike the real god,
which may or may not exist
(i bank on no)
who,
no matter how you slice it,
is pretty much just an *******.

the walls of the b ward bleed unseen blood
the gore of the shattered minds of
those who dwell within.
if 'dwell' can be used in such a way.
no life exists here.
nothing resembling
who we once were.

i sit and strum my guitar tunelessly
listening as each of the chords
strike a dissonant
exclamation in my mind.
i play without intent,
letting my fingers
guide a symphony
of sorrow over
the frets.
it's not the kind of music
you listen to as you cry.
it's the kind of music you
make when you
can't feel.
it's not the kind of music
you listen to for pleasure.
it's the kind of music
you hear in your pain.
it's not the sound of the
oceans driving home
sense,
it's the sound of the desert
inside you drying
your soul to
a shell.
atonal
noise.

bleeding luck
a triumph in enmity
love and cantankerous
betrothal.
willingness, nobleness
and destitution.
i'm in love but not in love.
i'm in lust but not in lust.
i am confused, i
am drained,
i am wasted
i am feeling unborn
and reborn.
i remember drawing ragged
circles in your flesh.
long flutes of water playing
off our bodies,
pooling on the ground.
a touch a smile a hug a laugh.
but at the same time each
thought is destruction.
where are we?
who are we?
what are we doing?
i can do this,
i care enough about you.
though
to simply be friends
is good enough for me.
don't make bad decisions,
and i'll promise
to do the same.

Thus world is too cold
and painful to be alone in.
its a deep loneliness, something draws
my soul at, chewing me up.
I fear to wonder how the other must feel
Lest I sink down too deep in the dark
And am eaten whole.
This world is too cold
and painful to be alone in.
You need a light to guide your way,
humans weren't meant
to be self reliant.
That's why its a virtue.
Doing things you don't want to do
is considered...
What am I saying?
This world is too cold
and painful to be alone in.
Lost, seeking what can't be found
A ship with broken sail sinking
in a freak storm.
The captain got drunk and caused it
Albatross around his neck
Stuck to his flesh like a trophy
of his misery
The sailors consider hanging him
from the bow
But instead clamor into lifeboats
and leave him to drown.
He waves them off
And in the cloud and steel rain, that lashes against
Their arms and faces stinging,
The first mate turns back and looks
A peel of lightning strikes the
broken mast,
Splinters explode out from the wood,
Shredding the captain, still waving,
Still with that dead albatross
on his neck,
His words ringing through the
din and shouting men.
"With fate we part ways,
Yet in death I'll see ye all to safety.
I failed my crew twice,
And in once
Never again."