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Max Southwood Aug 2017
Draining pools of blackened filth
Tiny pockets amass
An ocean of sludge to horizons end
Stone heart is cast away
Descends to the bottom

New blood bursts forth
Seeps into empty spaces
Mortar for the soul
In this wounded way
Ascend to begin again
Max Southwood Aug 2017
In darkest forests where magic hides
In deepest oceans with stranger tides
In vast canyons where the eagle flies
Exists a love that never dies

Through dense fogs and cloudy skies
Burns a fire that shines so bright
And in that light I see your eyes
Where our love could never die

In these forests we'll reside
In the oceans we'll own the tide
On the backs of eagles we will fly
To these lands, where love never dies

In these lands we will reside
I will be yours and you'll be mine
I will love you till the end of all time
And our love will never die
A shift in focus, a change of pace.
Max Southwood Jun 2017
Feel the burn of desire scorch your insides
Feel the warmth from the spilling of seed
My darkness is deep within you

Setting out on this campaign of lust,
Our bodies tangle, indulging in the pleasure of the flesh

Eat me up, swallow me whole,
As I fill myself with you
We are ouroboros
Max Southwood Apr 2017
Nothing to feel
One foot in the grave
Tired and weak
Let go of all dreams

Sleepless
Tired
Dying
Extinguish

Days never end
Mustn't all life someday fade?
Meaning(less)
Empty and cold, I am

Sleepless
Tired
Dying
Extinguish

Biding my time till Void I do become
Dissonant waves carry my husk through rivers of time
In the waters of Nihil, grim hopelessness ahead
Take comfort in knowing that all life must end

Sleepless
Tired
Dying
Lifeless
Extinguished
A simple poem about the saddest and most depressing state of existence; decay.
Max Southwood Mar 2017
What is the void?
Nothingness manifested?
There can’t really be such a thing…
How can there be nothing?

It’s impossible.

You can’t fault me for having trouble wrapping my head around an idea as intricate and deeply infinite as nothing. From a young age, we’re taught that everything, even empty space, is created from protons, neutrons,  subatomic particles…

Empty space is always made from something else.

Some describe the void not as a place, but instead as spiritual enlightenment and/or liberation. As detachment from everything. Some describe entering the void as the moment one realizes that if you try too hard to understand then you will miss the point; as the moment where the student realizes that he will never be able to anticipate his masters surprise attack, so, instead of being anxious he accepts his inability to know; as the understanding that holding on is suffering and letting go is freedom.

There is no way to truly talk about the void, about emptiness, because there is nothing tangible to be expressed in words. And yet, our curious human minds are so fixated on using dialogue to try and articulate this commodity.

Words will always fail.

Even if we could wrap our heads around this idea of emptiness, this complete and total lack of anything (comfort, love, hate, despair, joy, happiness, agony(all pieces of this complicated fabric known as human existence)) we would descend into the deepest and darkest of melancholies. The sudden moment of realization that non-being and being are one and the same and that the only thing separating the two is the awareness of being aware and the unawareness of being unaware would be too much to endure. The weight of realizing that nothing is everything, that we are 0 (placeholders for nothing (the extinction of our species before a return to nature untainted imminent)) would prove to be the strongest link of all in these shackles of existence.

What is the void?

Maybe it’s best not to ponder this any further.
Max Southwood Jul 2016
Sleepless, lost and wandering
Wondering what it all means
Beg the heavens for an answer
But silence is the only response from an overcast sky
The chain slackens and the cage drops
Cerebral bars block the paths of elated reflection
Contentment occasionally slips through the clefts
But is instantly devoured by sharks of agony
Grief, heartache, passion and sorrow
The artists toolbox
Blood, sweat and tears (fears)
Causation of our desire to die
Is what gives our work life
A simple poem about the "negative feeling arising from the experience of human freedom and responsibility."
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