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Aug 2015 · 1.3k
I'm not an Orange
Nathan Squiers Aug 2015
I know I'm not an orange, but I feel like one at times.
My heart feels encased until someone peels the rinds.
Now I'm open for the tasting, but something in me dies--
I'll be left as bits of scraps; left to feed the flies.

Yea, I know I'm not an orange, but I'm rhymeless all the same.
To most wanderers I won't fit anywhere; I just can't be framed,
Though, perhaps, some may see challenge for another day...
At least that's the way I think everyone feels, anyway.

Look, I know I'm not an orange, but I feel acidic just like one.
The farmer's hand can't leave me be; the chaos is never done.
So I'm stripped and sectioned off for all the world to own.
I know I'm not an orange; I'm just a citrus fruit with bones.
My soon-to-be wife made a point that any poem called "I'm not an Orange" probably wouldn't do well with any sort of rhyme scheme. Because I'm me (and not an orange :-p ) I took this as a challenge and made the **** thing work ;-)

Enjoy ^_^
Aug 2015 · 1.9k
A Fickle Trickle
Nathan Squiers Aug 2015
I hear the trickle of fickle murmurs as they tickle past my ear,
Their intent is ill, but to what extent should I indulge such a thrill?
Fickle tickle, still the clock's tick-tick-tick 'til time stands still,
Leave it all behind me, but never stop lest it catch me in the rear.

I'm here to remind you there's more than just time out there to ****.
You strive to stay alive; others die--what's left for them to fear?
They're escaping all the hassle you're then left to commandeer,
So can you really celebrate when there's chaos for you still?

The fickle murmurs of their vocals squirm about my ears,
They tickle--sure--but nothing greater than a trickle 'cross the gills.
All their malice could fill a chalice (but no room for fuss or frills).
So while the dead are free I'll trickle on as a tickle in your ear.
Something that started off as playing with sounds that quickly became something more preachy than I was expecting. C'est la vie, right?

Enjoy ^_^
Nathan Squiers Aug 2015
I've always been one for the dimly-lit halls,
The mysterious passages and the potential falls.
I'm not about the risk, though; it's not about the danger.
It's the hope that in the depths I might come upon a stranger.
A stranger with an eye that's seen something I have not;
A stranger with a hand that holds something I haven't got;
A stranger with a rope that will show a new knot.
It's about finding a stranger who can teach me a lot.

I've always been one to seek the lesser known,
To look within the shadows where no light has shown.
I'm not about the darkness; I'm not hoping to get lost,
I'm just hoping for a stranger who will be worth the cost.
A stranger with a pair of lips that tell me unknown tales;
A stranger who's succeeded where many others failed;
A stranger who has navigated all the unknown trails.
It's about finding a stranger who puts the wind in my sails.

My tendencies have earned me a great deal of concern.
I'm told that, should I stray too far, it's unlikely I'll return.
They tell me that my obsession is a danger in disguise--
that seeking out the unknown can lead to one's demise--
But they can't see something new with their old-fashioned eyes,
So while they look down at their feet I'll keep my gaze upon the skies.

What they do not understand and what drives me to my doom,
Is that one should never find themselves the smartest in a room.
One cannot learn all there is; a life can be bettered or it will worsen.
So getting lost isn't so bad if you get lost with the right person.
A good friend of mine inadvertently inspired this with the line that became the title. Based on that (and the desire to prove to them that poetry can stem from any source) I rolled with it.

Hope you enjoy ^_^
Aug 2015 · 1.7k
The Burden of Effort
Nathan Squiers Aug 2015
Dreadful.
Trying to be everyone's clown
While feeling an anchor of reality drag at my guts.
Face paint drips around saline rain,
But everyone sees the drawn-on smile
And joke that my mascara's running.
Lucky mascara, I think; wish I could, too.
Perhaps I'll cry out,
Wipe off the face,
Hope that everyone sees it this time...
But there's already a crying clown across the street.
One with a shinier soap box...
And nary the burden of effort to show for it.
Jun 2015 · 1.2k
Betwixt: The Call of Death
Nathan Squiers Jun 2015
Another day, like any other, left to wonder "Why?"
A mother, guilty as any other, left alone to pray and cry.
Smothered beneath the covers as I recite "I wanna die,"
Brother, it's just another tortured storm cloud in my sky.

Lie; I'm spewing nonsense like it's going out of style.
"Hi," I'll force a smile, "I haven't been down in a while."
By and by I'll buy the lies and just force myself to smile,
Try to fake the same old high as I'm just adding to the pile.

File my condition under "hostage;" forever bound...
Vile: forced to smile while the echoes still resound.
"I'll be fine," I tell myself, but it all comes back around.
While a tree can rise to new heights, it's still anchored to the ground.

Pound a blessed coffin nail into another wasted day.
Found another breath of life that still won't go away.
Confound the demons pushing me--holding them at bay--
Astound the very Fates, I have, so still in this life I stay.

Pray for the best, but I'll forever be transfixed.
Pay it all to the Piper, but he still plays his tricks.
Days, yester- and tomorrow, always feel affixed.
Lay still and listen for the call of Death; I'm betwixt.
Been trapped in a rather lengthy bout of depression. Figured I'd breathe life into some of the thoughts (air out the proverbial ***** laundry) while playing with a dual rhyme scheme (both in the beginning and end of each line).
Jun 2015 · 695
pier-AH-mid
Nathan Squiers Jun 2015
I
can
SEE
that no
other man
WILL ECHO IN
your eyes. i can see that i
STAND ATOP THIS PYRAMID.
but i can't see over the peak just yet.
AND I CAN'T STAND ON THE BOARDS
of your pier any longer. it's not a question of my place
in your horizon, but a question of how you perceive my climb.
Apr 2015 · 874
Radio Towers
Nathan Squiers Apr 2015
We’ve totaled all our totems just to glower under towers;
Handed in our scrotums; douched away our feminine powers.
We’ve traded in our lifetimes in exchange for prescribed hours.
We once basked beneath the heavens; awed by meteor showers,
But now we’re fed our heavens via signals from the towers…

We’re the antennae squatting upon the set,
So the gods in the TV can tell us what to fret,
But do you ever stop to regret
What they’ve forced us to forget?
We paid for this, but what a debt…

We felt infected by a plague known as freedom,
But the antidote… my god, what have we done?

Totaled all our totems…
Traded in our lifetimes…
Ignore meteor showers,
Just to stare at radio towers.
Feb 2015 · 1.2k
When I Go Out Each Day
Nathan Squiers Feb 2015
When I go out each day,
Despite what I might say,
There's an immense rage--
A mental cage--
That just won't go away.

I keep it all inside,
Where I wish that I could hide.
'Cause without that net,
There'd be much regret,
And so much more homicide.

There's poison in the masses' veins.
There's torment waiting to be aimed.
And I see it in their eyes.
And while I wish that I could maim--
To reciprocate their ****** blame--
I guess I'm just not that sort of guy.

The sort of guy who gives a ****,
'Bout all those who they torment, it...
It's not something I'm proud to say,
But I'm gonna say it anyway:
I feel it when I go out each day.

I see them cry; I see them hurt,
And, sure, I go on high-alert--
I WISH that I could care for them--
But then I remember a time back when...
When I hurt the same and they...
They'd do what I do...
When I go out each day.

Now ask yourself:
*Am I that way...?
I feel like we're all (most of us, at least) shackled by our own histories of pain and suffering, and those shackles are simultaneously a lens that skews how we see the world. I don't condone the above behavior (that's not to say it's entirely untrue of me, personally, just that I'm working to change it), and I can only hope that maybe presenting it in such an ugly way will help to awaken some inner truths for others. I don't want to cast blame, I just want to see some more happiness and unity in the world.
Jan 2015 · 1.3k
The Lady From Hades
Nathan Squiers Jan 2015
She emerged from within the fire, which is something to admire,
Yes, she showed us darker days.
She turned good girls into liars, and when the moment had turned dire,
None could be found to to cease her wicked ways.
*shrug* Just having fun :-p
Nathan Squiers Jan 2015
Just what do you believe you see when you think you see clearly?
Is it the same for those around you? Do you think they would agree?
Can you define reality? Can you give me a description?
Welcome to my world, now let me write you a prescription.

With teeth as white as doctors' pads, they'll drug you with their lies!
Their speech won't teach but rather breach the scene seen by your eyes!
So tell me now just what is real; please offer some conviction.
Or I can lend you some of mine; let me write you a prescription.

There's nothing real but what's really in your mind.
There's nothing true but all that you are able to define.
You say it's your reality, but I'm pretty sure it's mine;
An uncomfortable notion though it is to get behind.

Can you stick within my world for now, just coexist with me?
Though sad, I swear it won't be long before you return to slavery.
The pain you feel--what you claim is real--is a voluntary affliction,
So bear with my reality, and let me write you a prescription.

You can be free of the terror of your ordinary life,
Just by letting go of all the thoughts that bring you strife.
I've seen your world! A world where pain and fear is rife!
But in my world the pen can cut much deeper than a knife.

I cannot make you take this simple-yet-complex cure.
It's the kind of thing that works only if you're sure.
Though there exists in us a mind, in every ma'am and every sir,
There aren't many who will use them, of this I can infer.

So I leave the choice to medicate solely within your hands.
I'm not the type to give out orders; I make no harsh demands.
I simply hope to rid the world of this misery-driven addiction,
So please, my friend, do come in, and let me write you a prescription.
Drawing nearer to the time when I need to start writing the sequel for my Death Metal novel (current working title, "Encore"), and I'm trying to shift my mind to more lyrical-driven poetry (anybody who's read "Curtain Call: A Death Metal Novel" will know it's saturated in that stuff; by far the hardest part about writing the **** thing). However, as with most things, my philosophy-driven mind took the reigns and it turned into this.

Hope y'all enjoy ^_^
Jan 2015 · 763
I Crawl Away
Nathan Squiers Jan 2015
Who can say just what it is,
That has me on my knees.
Be it you or me...
Or the ghosts of yesteryear.

It's beyond all frame of thought,
Just why I'd be so weak.
Be it rapture or pain...
Or the memories of you.

Even still...
I crawl away.
Even still...
I cannot stop.
Though the past may be behind me,
A new ending yet awaits.
And so...
I crawl away...
And so...
I cannot stop.

For who can say just what it is,
That I'll crawl from come next year.
I've said in moments of darkness that we cope with that pain because the mystery of what new pain awaits is more intriguing than nothingness. Thought I'd play with that concept in a free verse piece.
Dec 2014 · 811
I Burn the Roses
Nathan Squiers Dec 2014
Twas under the brightest silver moon,
That I witnessed true perfection bloom--
Her hair like silken petals; her figure strong and proud--
And all this beauty blossomed five full months from June.

Just as frail as flowers, though, her splendor was painfully brief,
And, though many said I must move on, I could not contain my grief.
I could not bring myself to so easily sway!
I just did not have it in me to turn over a new leaf.

My mind's been a flutter with floating blossoms of her face.
A cloud of radiant spores I'm forever forced to chase.
This wasn't just a fish occupying a vast sea;
There were no other flowers that could occupy my shattered heart-vase.

And now her name's like perfume foreign to all other noses,
I've found a simple remedy that alleviates my pain.
But, as the garden of my heart festers and decomposes,
I feel a little better every time I burn the roses.
Dec 2014 · 1.6k
A Grimm Remix
Nathan Squiers Dec 2014
Ring around the rosie,
We ripped off all their tosies.
Run all you wish; all the more delish.
The idea of your ****** gets cozy.

Row, row, row your boat,
To the sound of screams.
The body in the bag is starting to sag,
But by morning it'll feel like a dream.

Jack and Jill went out to ****,
To **** their abusive father.
Jill got drowned when Dad was found,
And Jack forgot all about her.

Mary had a little lamb
With a secret in its wool;
See, it fed upon its owners' souls,
And with Mary he'd be full.

Rock-a-by baby,
On the cliff's side.
We see now you're not human,
There's no place to hide.
And, though we are scared,
Our armies will come,
And, one way or 'nother, this horror be done.
You ever find yourself trapped listening to something over and over and over and over again until you're driven so totally bat-**** crazy that you'll go out of your way to warp and perverse the source into something terrible and nearly non-recognizable??

That's not what happened here. I just wanted to be morbid :-p
Dec 2014 · 3.3k
Wanna Be My Friend?
Nathan Squiers Dec 2014
Let's break all the tension with the pretense of my presence.
Yes, I'm insensitive--but there's no other incentive others can give--
And while I'm not sure I could prevent it, I swear to no god I'm inventive!

Yes,
My hatred is incessant--ever present--and it's what I hold most sacred.
I'm a naughty narcissist with a nasty list of wasted kisses,
And I won't say that I'll miss 'em, 'cuz I'm the type who never misses.

I'm a hopeless romantic with a new sense of Tantric hope,
It's the antics of a frantic mind, but I'm too calm to cope.
They say I'm a raving, violent--rarely silent--tyrant with a craving
for the obscene,
Though, while I'm mean, I'm rarely seen within a mob or in a scene.

I'll admit I've got a streak, but--if you'd stop to take a peek--
You'd see a Buddhist, not a nudist, who's less a demon than a geek.
I'm oblique and I'm obtuse (do these math puns work for you?) yet I'm rarely never right;
Get my angle? Catch my drift? I might thrash, but, man, I'm thrift!
Hold on shift: I'M SCREAMING NOW!!
Don't know why; don't have a cow!
Remember that? That 90's rap? Look at me then; that piece of crap!
Shot down! Torn up! Shut in! Turned out!
Lips are sealed; inside I'd shout,
'Bout just how bad I wanted out!
Enraged and crazed; cravin' razors; a victim hiding from all saviors!
Turned to the pen to brace for the knife,
Started writin' and saved my life.
It's funny to say my life got better the day I started a suicide letter...

But letters turned to words and those words became whole worlds,
And before my very eyes a whole legacy unfurled!
I was GOD--not just a slob--but a shaper of all things,
And the schemes that I'd been dreaming shifted into scribing,
And I never stopped since then; it's why I'm still alive!

So my insanity became vanity as calamity turned to amity.
Sheer pessimism became untamed narcissism,
But if the mind's a prison then consider me jail broken.
Outspoken, re-awoken; take a moment to let that soak in.
That a boy doubtful of tomorrow could ditch the sorrow,
And become an immortal--though immoral, not totally amoral.

So yea, I've got my faults; I'm a sensory assault,
And while I don't mean to offend I'm just a product of the ends.
Played with fire; I got burned.
Dared to aspire; I was turned.
So I inquire to you sires as I march out of the fires:
You've seen my darkness and know my story--beginning, middle, end--
My name is Nathan Squiers, do you wanna be my friend?
Nathan Squiers Nov 2014
When it all boils down to it...

We truly are a momentary blip on a cosmic radar;
A momentary cluster of elements
Blessed with an incredibly limited-yet-inflated programming.

Now define "reality."

But we waste our time with fear and hate;
We concern ourselves with the mundane and the fleeting;
We invest in indulgences that leave us feeling more and more empty.

You are a single drop of water floating in a vast infinity of the cosmos.
The timeline will perceive you the very same way
You perceive that 1/10000th of a second that happened last week
(When you remembered a funny joke and giggled at nothing)

I see hysterics in the world;
Find the same thing when my escape goes digital.
I see people who think too highly of themselves...
(as though the end of their journey will represent a different death than our own)
I see people who think so lowly of themselves...
(that they're willing to throw away the splendor and mystery of tomorrow just to escape the hells of today)

When will we accept that we are human?
Wonderfully terrible, terribly wonderful;
Brilliantly stupid and idiotically ingenious;
Generous degenerates; selfish saints;
Complex-yet-simple humans!
Nothing more and nothing less!

Live not to be immortal,
But to show what greater gift limitations offers us:
Greater appreciation of what each moment represents.
Live for yourself,
So that, when you find yourself at he end of that road and looking back,
You can say "**** yea; I made that fleeting moment my own."

This is not said to scare or intimidate;
It's said to INSPIRE!
You ARE brief!
You ARE insignificant!
So stop concerning yourself;
Anything and anybody can waste that already precious time.
Rid yourselves of the poisons
That would turn the beautiful translucence of the water droplet representing you into a putrid blot of poison that the Universe would sooner forget.
Nathan Squiers Nov 2014
Go now to the second stair;
I've hidden many wonders there.
No gold or jewels or gems or cash.
But, rest assured, there is your share.

You'll perhaps think me brash,
When you happen 'pon my stash.
But, rest assured, there is your share,
So at the stair, go be abashed.

You'll find tufts of matted hair,
Clotted flesh, both dark and fair.
Now all these deaths are mine to claim.
But, rest assured, there is your share.

I cannot say it was my aim,
To turn the stair into a frame.
But, rest assured, there is your share,
So I'll not be taking all the fame.

So go now to the second stair,
First comes joy, then despair.
Past that: regret, then who knows?
But, rest assured, there is your share.

And just like the old saying goes,
I will admit, my blood-lust grows.
But, rest assured, there is your share,
So go to the stair and claim your throes.

Now go on to the second stair,
Fret no more; you've no right to care.
'Twas your goading put them there.
So, rest assured, you'll find your share.
Nov 2014 · 640
Ripped Loose
Nathan Squiers Nov 2014
**** yea...
The ***** let me out: heart and soul!
All mine now; just me against the world.

(But we'll worry about the Apocalypse later)

For now? A kiss? A caress? A tribute; I demand it!
Been too long since I tasted the honey of a woman--
Locked away from ***** like a celibate ******--
It's ******* barbaric!

(But we'll worry about the Apocalypse later)

In the whole-wide-word
There's a world of holes made to be wide.
Ripped loose...
Ripped loose...
Ripped loose...

*(But we'll worry about the Apocalypse later)
*shrug*
Nov 2014 · 685
Bits of You (A Grim Haiku)
Nathan Squiers Nov 2014
You were quick to calm--
To see things my way for once--
When you saw the bits.
Oct 2014 · 710
You WILL Remember Me!
Nathan Squiers Oct 2014
The gated gap between us--built of miles and time zones--
Made you oblivious; so certain that you'd be blind to my wounds.
You cherished every rolling hill and stretching road that kept you alone,
But hills were climbed and roads traversed so you'd be consumed!

I'd nearly died so many times--my own hand my fated doom--
But you'd built your walls to lock me out, and barred away my cries.
Well, old man, now's the time to see you've only built yourself a tomb,
And that, while my words live on, it shall be your arrogance that dies.

Ignorant, old condescending fool; a rotting sack of wasted promise,
I've built my throne from the bones of the soldiers you've sent--
Your heinous words, you ignoramus ****, are a hymn to my success--
And I'm ready to break your spine (since your soul's already bent)!

Tell me now about your paints while I scribble with your blood!
Come now, dear father, come bask in your flood!

I'll open veins above you and reign with a rain of ink!
You think I'd be just like you? Here comes another think!
I'm twice the man with four times the wit;
All the grit without an ounce of ****!
Let me slit my throat on quill-pen tip,
And watch you choke upon my quip.
Your ***** are tethered to a weathered brick of bitter remorse,
While I conduct a mantra diction of contradicted course.

I won't say you're dead to me; you're worth much more intact.
While there's many who can fit the mold, you help me construct losers--
The fodder I write just to slaughter; I've killed you frequently, in fact--
So when I need a worthless sack of **** you're the one I choose, sir!

So thanks for that, you beatnik ****; I'll **** it on your epitaph!
And I'll do it all for free!
This ain't a vindictive son bellowing slander just for grandeur, no sir!
This is an oath to an old oaf that, though I can't remember your voice,
You WILL remember me!
Venting.
Oct 2014 · 2.2k
They Creep
Nathan Squiers Oct 2014
In the walls and under the floors.
They creep.
Up the stairs and through the doors.
They creep.

In the forest or in the street.
They creep.
Padding along on silent feet.
They creep.

They’re the scourge of all dreams;
The source of all screams.
They flourish from our pain.
These terrible frights
That plague all our nights.
They’ll leave you completely insane.

They’re the thoughts that make you tick.
That make you fret;
That’s their trick.

They’re the scourge of all dreams;
The source of all screams.
They flourish from our pain.
These terrible frights,
That plague all our nights.
They’ve driven us insane.

They creep
They creep
They creep
They…
Another of the songs/lyrics I wrote for the first book of the Death Metal series.
Oct 2014 · 953
Unfinished Haiku
Nathan Squiers Oct 2014
"Life's too short," they say,
Much like a haiku, I guess,
Just shorter...
Something to consider.
Oct 2014 · 721
I'm a Monster
Nathan Squiers Oct 2014
You may not know me, but I want you to.
It's not vanity; I'm just warning you:
My life's a party, but there's pity too.
'Cuz I've been naughty, and the victim's you.

You see, it's a sea of blood rising to the ceiling
--see me there kneeling?--
Your heads reeling and a-reeling,
But you still think I'm so appealing,
'Cuz the feelings
I've got you feeling
feel like something
from a time that
feels like sometime
back when you used to bask in the sunshine...

BUT IN MY HEAD IT'S NIGHTTIME
And the sun sets in mine, too

You may not like me, and I don't want you to;
Though you know you do!
Your hate sustains me, and that brings pains to you;
You know it's true!
My life's an ****, and I'll ******* too;
But not like you want me to!
'Cuz the world's my plaything; and I'll break on through;
With or without you!

It's high-time for a time rift
--a thrift rhyme in a prime shift--
When my crimes make for signs
in the prized eyes of the beast inside.

Check the hour--see my power--as
you come to grips with what rips
you from the inside-out.

Your eyes drop to your watch...
and you watch eyes drop back.

Yes, I'm a monster; not just a spawned cur,
Not 'cause I'm a murderous beast--
not just that, at least--
But because I can see the beast in you,
Then coax it through.
I'm a loner, sure, but to endure eternity alone?
I'd rather spur a fellow cur; to breed more monsters!

And leave the zombified husks in the dirt.

You ask if I'm a monster.
Have you killed?
A ton, sure!
But show me one who hasn't.

It's unpleasant to say the least,
To admit that we're all beasts,
But which one of you has not entertained a murderous thought?
You see that sea of blood
--feel the feelings rising up--
And you dream of all the ways you'd just love to make them scream.

But they were only thoughts, sir! Surely I'm no monster!
Ah, but is harboring the thoughts so much more pure?

The thought's a plot from A-to-C; not felony,
but still... you see?
You see yourself from A-to-C--it's not insanity--
It's humanity; the monster lives inside of WE.
And the scene at C's the essence that they need to breath.

The C-scene you're seein's keepin' you sane, see?

Sure it's off track, but there's no denying solid fact.
It's not wrong to sing along with what's keeping you intact.
Say it with me now:
**I'm a monster.
Nathan Squiers Sep 2014
I'm sure you're out there hating all that I have become,
Cursing me and memories of all the things I've done.
I'm sure you're out there wallowing in the depths of I-don't-care-where,
I'm even sure you're chanting that all of it was unfair.
And while I don't feel I owe you a single wasted breath,
Allow me now to tell you how I came to bring you death:

As your lapdog I felt compelled to take you in my jaws,
And as your partner I was shackled by all those grueling laws.
As your master I was bored by every tear you ever shed,
But as your killer I was tickled by just how much you bled.
Can you see it now--should sight allow--what I never could foresee?
That only once, my tortured dunce, could you bleed enough for me.

I may spot you in the ether of the world not quite our own,
And you may ache to see that I have found myself alone.
However...
I've taken many others in the time that you've been gone;
Many who have served me well, so very few withdrawn.
These things aren't said to anger you, but just to give me peace.
I truly hate to plague my mind when my property decease.
Whatever.

As a mistress I was driven to see you beneath my boot,
And as an equal you were never intellectually astute.
As a servant you were lacking in the class that I demand,
And as a pet you oft ignored the rule of the feeding hand.
Through it all--'tween rise and fall--there was the alpha-sin, you see,
Because, darling, though I love you so, you didn't bleed enough for me.
I've always been rather intrigued by stories that were told from the point of view of the villain (or at least what most would consider the villain to be). Every now and again the urge to toggle this perception and offer a unique and rarely utilized narrative device. Earlier, I was enjoying some music by the German synth-metal band "Oomph!" and was motivated by one particular line (that pretty much directly motivated the title herein).

I hope you enjoy ^_^
Sep 2014 · 710
"I've Yet to Finish"
Nathan Squiers Sep 2014
"Let me make one thing clear, hombre," The Suited Man spoke in a low, purposeful voice as he rolled a cigarette, wetting the corners with a serpentine tongue a moment before passing it over his upper lip, "I have watched--with great joy, I might add--the nature of death." Then, pursing the cylinder between his teeth and offering a wicked grin, he punctuated his upcoming point with an audible flick of his lighter. Exhaling a pungent cloud in my face, he rapped his left ring finger across the length. "Everything is aware of its mortality; everything. The rich, the poor, the holy and the sinners; the birds, the ***** bees, all those saved whales and every single one of the hugged trees. Every squirming, writhing, wiggling, wicked little creeper and crawler that has ever existed and may ever hope to exist... all of them. Even the ******* atoms in the air! All things know that they're doomed--it's why even the single-celled beings have all those defense mechanisms; all those..." he smirked, flicking an ash, "adaptations, yes?--and yet, from the massive to the miniscule, none of them face their mortality with near the greed nor the total lack of grace as your kind. You've known since you were a wee lad that you'd die, hombre, so why resent it now; why fight for more time? Another hour; another day--hell, I could hand you a written guarantee that you'd have another decade to do whatever you wanted..." he shook his head and pulled the cigarette from his mouth to flick the growing ash and admire the ghostly trail that ascended to the mist-swirling ceiling fan. As the contemplative moment passed, he returned the cigarette to his mouth and leaned closer to me, bringing his cold, black eyes so close to my own that my vision knew nothing more. "What would that decade mean to you? For me it is nothing--those like me do not worry much about trivial human fictions such as time and... well, all of this"--he waved about the room with his index finger--"So I hope you'll forgive my skepticism; understand that it's just my ignorance to your pervasively infantile beliefs." He rattled three of his bony fingers on his jutted chin, "Tell me why I should sympathize with your plight over all others who have pleaded with me before you. Explain, if you'd be so bold, why I should adopt your urgency as my own."

It took me some time to find my voice. Between the smell of his herb--something that, in all my years of debauchery and romances, I'd never encountered--and the fierceness of his presence, there was a sort of little death that had wormed its way into my thoughts. I fought to sit up, but did not have the strength. I struggled to clear my throat, but could not command my lungs to work as I wanted. I worked to wet my own lips, cursing the dryness of my dated mouth. Finally, I gave up; succumbing to the reality that my body was useless for the soul occupying it. There was nothing left of me but my wits, and it was my wits that I needed now more than anything.

I shut my eyes against his overwhelming stare.

I held my breath against his foreboding aroma.

And I let the soul say what it needed to say:

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear, good sir," the voice I heard barely sounded like my own, "I have watched--with utter disdain, I'll admit--the passing of life. I believe you when you say that everything knows it will die, and I also believe that almost everything deserves to die. Not because almost everything is wicked or evil, nor because I feel some contempt or hatred towards almost everything. As I lay here I'm certain there are many eager to see me go, and I not only respect their right to feel that way," my lungs abandoned my speech's momentum and I paused to take a rasped inhale, "but I agree that I deserve the mortality that's haunting me."

"Do you understand you've already wasted more of my time than I typically allow?" The Suited Man asked, aiming his pointer and middle fingers--and the smoking cigarette pinched between them--in my direction.

I nodded, finding strength enough to hold up my hand; silently begging for a moment longer. "Please, I won't be much longer... and once I'm finished, I'll accept whatever fate you decide with dignity."

The Suited Man chortled at that, "And silence, I hope."

"Yes," I sighed, "and that." With my company motioning for me to continue, I succumbed to the voice of the soul: "You deal in death, so you must have seen enough to know that, while those like you care little for time, it is what defines all those who perish. What, if not those minutes, those hours, those days, years, and decades, are we to value? You deal in death, so I can't ask you to understand why we fight to live. To you, a book is not worth reading because it has an end, and that end represents a lack of substance; but that book, like each and every soul, has a story to tell. And the only thing greater than the limited time each and every soul has is the stories we leave behind."

The Suited Main rolled his black eyes and flicked another looming tendril of ash, "You bore me with your rant, hombre, and my smoke, like you, is running out of life. Get to the point or accept mine." He took in a rattled breath to fuel a dark and hollow voice, "Why should I let you live?"

"Stories are the most important thing for anything that fears death, good sir," I fought my growing aches to move my hand to the stack of papers at my left; the stack perched blissfully beside my old, dusty typewriter. Patting the pages--taking a certain satisfaction in the nostalgic feel of the stock I'd long since grown loyal with--I cocked by quaking skull towards the desk and its contents. "And while I await the day you'll finally escort me from my desk, there's a story that I've yet to finish."

The Suited Man narrowed his black gaze at me--the two orbs shimmering like obsidian beneath his timeless lids--before the glow of his pupils shifted to the desk for a long, tortured moment. Without looking away from the stack I still rested my hand upon, he returned the dwindling cigarette to his lips and inhaled before letting out a long stream of smoke.

Though I didn't see him stand, he was on his feet then. I took in his height with the same terrified awe that I'd received the rest of him--his sudden appearance in my late husband's chair across the room; his impeccable awareness, or my unwavering understanding of his purposes; everything that made him who and what he was--and allowed him to continue his long, tortured moment in gazing at the desk that had, just as much as the hours and days and years, come to define my life.

Then he was gone; him, his smoke, and the terror he radiated.

Letting out a labored breath, I struggled to turn towards my desk, trying to recall where I'd left off in my manuscript. As I settled in, I caught sight of a clean page secured in the feed of the typewriter with the only evidence that I hadn't been alone:

"YOU HAVE YOUR DECADE, HOMBRE. SPEND IT WELL, AND SAVE ME A COPY OF YOUR STORY."
Not really a poem in the traditional sense, but the overall theme was more poetic so I figured all you lovely HP folks would appreciate a little more ;-)

Hope y'all enjoy ^_^
Sep 2014 · 990
Another Day
Nathan Squiers Sep 2014
In this world I cannot hide;
All the monsters are inside,
And they eat me alive...
But I survive--yea, I get another day--
To see all the ways I terrified,
And victimized (it's in their eyes),
In my haste to survive...
Yea, I get another day...
Another day to waste away
So I can claim my own today,
When there's no two ways to say today
That I'm no further than I was yesterday.
The monsters inside who live to prey
Are praying I'll plea for another day;
They're laughing--they're jeering--when I say,
That I'll treat their gift some other way...
They laugh and jive while I'm eaten alive,
Because it's my self-deceit on which they thrive.
They wait inside--I cringe and hide--
And swear that my new day will be new.
But we both know it's not true...
Yea, I get another day...
Another day to waste away on ways to stay;
Ways to stay away from just another day.
So I tell them now--I tell them how--
I'll be someone different...
How I'll strive further,
Push harder.
How I'll love myself like my mother--
How I'll show truer love to others--
And feel a greater bond with everyone and everything...
Yea, I'll tell them the same old thing;
A regular circus; all three rings...
A jester I digest to puke up lies just to justify
Why I somehow deserve another day alive...
Yea, I get another day in this world
From which I cannot hide,
Because the monsters I blame--the monsters inside--
Are just pieces of me consumed by pride.
So what outlet do I have from me?
What chance is there for dignity when all of me
Hungers for misery from the rest of me?
It's those parts of me that haunt me--
What the **** do I want from me?!--
... ... ...
... ...
...
Unless it's not to be in misery.
Unless it's not in me to berate me,
But, instead, to motivate me; liberate me.
What if the monsters in me are torturing me,
So that the lies I feed them become reality?
It's not deceit, I see; it's the truths in me
that push me to push me each day, I see.
Just one more day...
I see.
Because it's in this world I cannot hide,
That I've been hidden to who I am inside;
Hidden from the oaths that I commit,
Just to waste away and then forfeit.
Just one more day...
I've been begging--feeding--for another day; another bore.
But now I'll beg and feed for something greater; something more:
Another day.
So I'd recently fallen into a rather deep depression that ate up a few of my days with a bunch of stupid, morbid questions that, to be blunt, I'd already answered to myself years ago.

But that's sort of what the whole clinical thing is, ain't it: being snagged in a self-inflicted mental net over and over while you feel yourself and others staring in thinking "The hell is wrong with this person?"

Well, I finally pulled myself out of it (with the help of some truly awesome support from my colleagues and readers <3 ) and I've decided to focus more time and effort on my writing.

So here's a fresh-from-depression poem. I'll also be sharing a bunch of new content on my FB author page at https://www.facebook.com/Nathan.Squiers (including updates on the book-to-movie process for my Crimson Shadow series). Many thanks for all the support & comments from my HP peeps; I do what I do 'cuz y'all keep me motivated.

Much love <3
Sep 2014 · 1.6k
The Neverending Haiku
Nathan Squiers Sep 2014
The Rise: powerful.
A great reminder of self.
Reflection of Fall.
Don't let it hold; not today.
Please, just keep going.
Propulsion: drive to break free;
Free of the Fall's grip--
Freedom for another day--
And another Rise.
Momentum: back in the game.
The cycle renews.
Driven back to the top now.
Unstoppable now;
Greater than ever before!
Rise above it all.
Look down, laugh; never again.
This Rise is THE Rise!
Never falter; never fall!
No, never again!
Not now that there's--a new doubt:
Just the potential...
Just the possibility...
Momentum plateaus--
It was too good to be true--
Momentum fading.
Should have learned from the last fall;
Should have known better.
Momentum's lost now,
Don't let this Fall be the last.
Reflection of Rise:
Let it hold; another day--
Please, just one more day.
The Fall: unavoidable...
The Rise: powerful.
Gotta figure it feels like this for everyone at some point or another; more often for the bipolar ones, though.

For all my fellow fighters: don't stop. Ever!
Sep 2014 · 3.4k
Torment
Nathan Squiers Sep 2014
He wears his smile in his pocket.
Where no one else can see.
And since none have seen him happy
They’re convinced he’ll never be.

His laughter’s in a fist.
So tight, no one can hear.
With no joy in his voice at all,
They’re sure he’s filled with fear.

All they see is torment.
They don’t look for what he was.
All they see is torment.
Nobody ever does.
All they see is torment.
They’re not sure what the cause.
All they see is torment,
And all his other flaws.

The world’s so filled with judgment.
It won’t stop to find the good.
But when time is so ****** precious,
It’s a mystery why it should.

All they see is torment.
His soul’s as dark as night.
All they see is torment.
They can’t see his plight.
All they see is torment.
All ignore the fight.
All they see is torment.
He can never set things right.
Looking on the horizon of writing a sequel to the first novel in my Death Metal series, "Curtain Call," I figured I'd start sharing a few of the poems/lyrics (take your pick) that I'd created as songs that the fictional, mostly non-human heavy metal band performed. The songs were, surprisingly enough, the hardest part of writing "Curtain Call" (which only took me 8 weeks to write ~ 2 of which represented the songs alone). In 2013, the novel was the only to win TWO separate awards in an annual book blog competition, earning both Best Paranormal Thriller Novel as well as Best Occult Novel of that year.

Here's hoping the sequel does half as well  lol

Given the rising issue with bullying and abuse, I feel like this particular song/poem (though written a few years prior to the issue) is applicable all the same.
Aug 2014 · 802
WEEDS
Nathan Squiers Aug 2014
Tangled in my own regret,
I can’t see through the vines.
I fight and tear and yet,
I’m far too entwined.

Tearing to see sunlight,
Though I’m already underground.
They strangle as they hold me tight,
And I cannot hear a sound.

Life’s a ******* ****
That refuses to be torn!
Flourishing from need
And choking all who’re born!

Trapping every creature!
Consuming every breath!
They drain everything that is pure
Leaving only death!

Life’s a ******* ****
In the garden of what’s pure.
Blindness is our one true creed.
And death’s the only cure!
Looking on the horizon of writing a sequel to the first novel in my Death Metal series, "Curtain Call," I figured I'd start sharing a few of the poems/lyrics (take your pick) that I'd created as songs that the fictional, mostly non-human heavy metal band performed. The songs were, surprisingly enough, the hardest part of writing "Curtain Call" (which only took me 8 weeks to write ~ 2 of which represented the songs alone). In 2013, the novel was the only to win TWO separate awards in an annual book blog competition, earning both Best Paranormal Thriller Novel as well as Best Occult Novel of that year.

Here's hoping the sequel does half as well  lol

Enjoy ^_^
Aug 2014 · 2.4k
Like a Filmmaker's Lens
Nathan Squiers Aug 2014
Fade to scene--pallet: blue and green--wide shot; mood: serene.
Establish view; a stock or few; pan right to view a distant two.
A hazy rim; we cut to *HIM
--so *clean and prim--just as we hear the hymn...
A tear rolls down his chin. The brightness dims; music shifts to grim.

Cue the screams; cut the scene.
We're back in the now and the mood is mean.

HE'S back in a view--pallet: black and blue--the shot askew.
The mood's muted; sounds of shooting. Cue dialog:
"Look what you did..."
Camera jerks; extreme closeup: a smirk; let the ANTAGONIST work.
The wire crew's here. HERO sheds a tear. Signal stuntman on the tier.

Orchestra on my mark...
Deliver line then cut to dark.

Light's back to reality. The view won't change, you see.
There's no crew or doubles. Just a wide sea of troubles.
No second shots; no calling "CUT"; it's all open-shut.
It's not like a filmmaker's lens; it's not just pretend.

Let me script this out what you're all about:
An overconfident lout, but backlit with doubt.
All part of a cast, direct you like I did the last.
I see that you're furious, but you're hardly fast.
Now I'll produce the fear as the shoot draws near--
I've got the schedule set; we're not finished here!--
You're calling "cut," but I'm just cutting you more,
And then I'll edit you out on the cutting room floor.

I appreciate that you feel you've come so far,
But never forget this is MY movie, and I'm the STAR!
Just a lovely little piece using filmmaking jargen as a metaphor of putting the hurt on somebody (prior to becoming an author I was studying to be a scriptwriter & director ~ though recent events are steering me back into scriptwriting once again).

Content and details are purely fictional.
Aug 2014 · 1.2k
I Went With the Night
Nathan Squiers Aug 2014
They told me to not go silently to that good night,
That I should never give in without giving a fight,
But I've bathed in the beams of the silver moonlight.
And I'm here to tell you that I went with the night.

It's not out weakness, nor desperation nor fright,
And I'm not here to tell you that it's not worth a fight,
But there's much worse monsters that occupy light;
Ones with far more malice, and a far sharper bite.

It's all about heart; not what's wrong or what's right.
You're judged by your merit and by your insight.
We're led by our spirits; we're not led by our sight,
We--all of us--who have joined with the night.

So slip free of your anchors. Let your true self take flight.
Shed away all regrets--you're held down by contrite--
And bask in all that represents your delight.
I come not with demands, you'll choose what is right,
But I'll confess to you now: I went with the night.
I was challenged to do a rhyming piece with a solid A-A scheme all the way through.
Nailed it! :-p
Aug 2014 · 1.3k
Devil vs. Devils
Nathan Squiers Aug 2014
It's like a holy war
When the masses march upon me.
The whole scene leaves me sore--
A hole seen by those who soar--
And, broken and bloodied,
I grin up at them and ask for more.

It's like a holy war,
And its when those holy *******--
A horde, a mass, of masochistic masters--
Hone on me like a holy task, there's
No greater sight for my eyes to see.
When they're still so certain;
Certain that the unholy one is me.

Twasn't me that drew this curtain,
And I ain't the one that's hurtin',
When they make their deals with devils.
See, it isn't standing up to rebels
When your convictions tremble;
It's your morals that need sortin'.

In this war of a devils against devil,
It won't be the youngbloods left to revel.

Come at me with your holy war--
I've fought before and demanded more--
But you'll come to find that what's in store
Will be far greater than what you're aiming for.

I don't see why you can't admit it:
That you've become demons, just like I did.
Yes, there's a darkness within me,
But, as the villain you want to see,
I'm afraid that I just can't take credit.
When the greatest sin that I've committed,
Was shedding light on all that you all did.
Been a while since I busted out anything new, so I figured I'd hit the scene with a bang (hello again, HelloPoetry <3 ). I've been writing a lot lately, so a lot of the rhythm here is inspired by some of my favorite J-rock & Visual Kei bands (the music that makes up my writing playlist) as well as the lyrical flow of rap/hip-hop (a genre I've found myself increasingly drawn to lately for whatever reason (I never fight these things  lol).

As is the case a lot of the time, this is hardly illustrating JUST a personal struggle, but offering some support to so many others who face a similar struggle of their own. To those in such a situation, this poem is for you, and let me remind you that you not only have strength in numbers, but your own untapped strength, as well.

I find myself--either for my religious or moral/ethical views or any other reason that people see fit--often targeted by a person or persons who see fit to villainize me, and I find myself growing suspicious that the only reason for this is so they can feel like the heroes when they take me down.
Sadly for them, I've yet to fall, and I wish the same strength and track record to those out there facing the same situation.
Jul 2014 · 1.0k
A Killer and His Victim
Nathan Squiers Jul 2014
A tortured killer and his guilty victim strode into the ravine.
A single shot disturbed the calmness of their scene.
Now, both dead, a killer's slain and a victim's hands: unclean.
Just a little ditty inspired by my favorite poet, Stephen Crane.
Nathan Squiers Jul 2014
Look, I was gonna go easy on you not to hurt your feelings, but I’m only going to get this one chance!
Something’s wrong… I can feel it.
Just a feeling I got, like something’s about to happen… but I don’t know what.
If that means what I think it means, we’re in trouble—big trouble—and if he’s as bananas as you say I’m not taking any chances!

(You are just what the doc ordered)

I’m beginning to feel like a write god (write god).
Can all the readers out there who think I’m right nod, right nod.
Now here I am again for another rap talk, rap talk…
They said I write like a monster, so call me scribe-star,
But for me to write like a beast means I’m a demon at least;
I got a devil kept in my pocket,
On my shoulder’s when I rock it.
Talkin’ of killin’ and of thrillin’; won’t stop it!
Write a demon doorway, now knock on it!
Ever since the dark days when I’d just lost it,
Way back when the world would pace and chant “Nutcase!”
I’m a ******, but I’m charming;
Yes, a crude, rude dude, but I’m still disarming.
Using syllables to **** ‘em all with this
empowering empire of powerful vampires.
The writer-type clackin’ back with typewriters, like way back, right?
Clackity-clack!
Rockin’ stack after stack, clackin’ out more attacks,
Ideas tacked out while hacks hack out their crap (but ******* spew **** all the time),
so I perform written parkour tricks so you’re not bored; strike a chord.
Show you Stryker’s tortured life of suicide ‘n strife turnin’
to strength and a fiery passion burnin’ while readers’ guts are churnin’—
teary eyes all burnin’.
Their fears are returnin’ from a story I turned out when I got turned on
to my own life.
Now I drop F-bombs;
exploding real-life scenes—
these ain’t your G-rated dreams, so take your outdated themes—
It’s the **** I’ve seen; don’t make me obscene.
I’m mean, I mean, it’s my means to screen a scene between a matte sheen.

‘Cause I’m beginning to feel like a write god (write god).
Can all the readers out there who think I’m right nod, right nod.
Now here I am again for another rap talk, rap talk…
They ask me to thaw out these oily blocks called ink-wads, ink-wads.
There’s a body in everybody , but not all bodies have a brain that makes them feel sane.
Like a train—just the same—
Might be runnin’ but we still cast blame,
The loading docks of our thoughts; they’re locked-up in a box,
And they’re stackin’ up like blocks
That turn the stacks to empty tracks (****!)
Trainees blame their brainees when it’s not easy training brains, see?
But the boarding isn’t boring—training brains; not trading pains—
Remember: the station’s self-exploration!
Me? I’m a hodgepodge! From train station to abandoned lodge;
Bully dodgin’, fully locked-in when I freaked out, fattened-up and then I geeked out,
Told “keep it down” but then peaked when I peeked deep down.
Creepin’ up, now, and keepin’ up (WOW!)
I swear it up and tear it up scribbled swords,
And now I wear awards for slingin’ words;
Offered praise; a chance to forget about the craze that once darkened all my days,
But I write that way—say “that’s okay ‘cuz it helps me write this way—each and every day!
And hacks think I act this way just to seem this way, ‘til come the day when the cray-cray takes the doubt away.
Demon obsessed? I’m possessed! Can’t own what you don’t possess!
“Hey, devil-lookin’ boy!”
So ***** for my honey I’m rockin’ horns, look here boy!
A Literary Dark Mass-acre,
Like the devil laid waste to a church on the page, looker boy!
They got a gold star, and a high five,
Felt so alive to see their own scribes make it to Momma’s fridge, ****** boy!
Hey, schnook-ah boy, looky here, looker boy,
I’m held up by The Legion, book-it boy!
Had to push for every word—every page—had to swallow all the rage,
Now you want out of your cage, schnook-ah boy?
I’m legendary—literary—and you’re literally just a *****, little boy!
So sell out while I’m bought out, ******-boy!

‘Cause I’m beginning to feel like a write god (write god).
Can all the readers out there who think I’m right nod, right nod.
The way I’m burnin’ through these pages, call me Dark Lord, Dark Lord!
But they’d rather burn my books, so start a fire war, fire war!
Can’t get it through your head? Words are more than Edward! He’s dead! WORD!
Let me drag you off to meet Dracula; take you back to the dawn of the dark lord, yea?
Fast forward to the foreword where the F-word’s “fangs” (you’re welcome);
This is my Hell, come! Be free!
Part Morningstar; part Morpheus! I throw up a kiss and jot down the kills like they’re red-apple pills.
Go ask Alice back at my palace what you should read to feed your head.
Sentence structure so smooth they call me FE-line, and my cat’s got better plot lines,
That the hacks will all call “sublime” (it’s “sub-fine”)
But me?
My **** scenes are brutal,
And my romance? Not frugal. I don’t saturate—I arrogate—
But I don’t condemn my characters to *******!
I wanna make readers care—if readers dare—
To connect and feel and follow where they can find some hope and power there.
While also giving them a place somewhere that isn’t here—though filled with fear—
A place where they don’t feel jeered or feel weird.
Horror ain’t just movie monsters, or gore-****** scopin’ sponsors!
You speak French? C’est de la merde, monsieur!
You look unsure! But I have the cure in the written word!
And though you once were achin’ for a rockstar author cravin’ bacon,
The role has since been taken by your man, Squiers.
And like a pair of pliers, I can reach into readers’ brains and cross all sorts of wires!
I’m settin’ cranial fires behind the eyes of all my buyers!
And while I’m growing Ghost Riders—ridin’ shotgun on the bullet-train ‘tween the pages—
There’s a horde of haters harboring growing rages
With a narrow gaze of who scribes pages.
They say I can’t write ‘cuz of my tattoos or my gauges
So allow me to assuage this: y’all can’t cage this!
If you don’t like it, let me show you where the grave is!
You’re well-aged, but I’m ageless!
Like the undead through the ages!
And like Shakespeare took to stages you can find me where the page is:
I’m hip to a script, I’m at home with a poem and feeling groovy writin’ movies; and I’ll be EZ on your TV.
You write normal? **** being normal!
What a novel theory! So very dreary!
Why the **** are they so leery, they say “Writing fear? We don’t want to hurt no feelings.”
Feelings? Setting up ceilings! Just more limits! It’s life! Live it!
Set the roof on fire!
Plot is getting hotter than a 24/7 squatter on a ***** channel!
So what if some **** gets a hair up ‘er ****? Don’t make it ****!
They wanna say “Hey you, we’re here to stifle!”
‘Cuz I mentioned rifles? Do they really want to trifle?
So I say:
“Better bring a sweater ‘cuz this thriller’s gonna chill ya—sure hope it doesn’t **** ya—and ya gonna get’a fill o’ all the ***** that I don’t give, ‘cuz I don’t live to let ******* quip or give me lip about my lit.
I’m entertaining and elating and also demonstrating how devastating a stream of escalating scenes can be so penetrating—although frustrating—to a mind that’s celebrating what it means to be vacationing between the pages; wading through the stages of a war that forever wages; meditating through the escalations now that they know what TRUE rage is!
“Oh, he’s too ******!”
That’s right! Ain’t right. That’s life: not nice; it’s strife.
It’s not just me; it’s we.
I just found a better way to show it:
Monsters that aren’t monsters;
Abuse put to good use; bred virtues!
“I don’t know how to plot plots like that;
I don’t know what words to use.”
Did it really never occur to them that to read a book—just to take a look—and THEN take up the pen?
You read King if you want to be king, strictly speaking.
A writing mind that isn’t a reading mind is a weakling; a weak link.
I’m a scholar—not a bawler—so I’m a flyer where there’s fallers;
Raised on Goosebumps and Creepy Crawlers so I’d Stine while others whined.
Got a dark side, but that’s The Dark Side on my side; counter haters with my Vader:
“I would be your father… but your dog beat me over the fence.”
No offense. Pretense: incorporate comedy and film; common sense.
Suicide pushed aside, though I still burn inside. **** myself on
the page each day so my readers can feel what it’s like to be alive.
It’s okay to hide.
Only your own devil knows what’s inside.
I own mine; he’s my co-pilot when I write. My demonic side; my demonic scribe.
Flipping my words to the birds—‘cuz, you see, that’s how I wing it—and flipping the bird while I throw down and sing it:
“Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
My words are my roar and tonight I write!”
The fights are in your sights like you were seated inside a movie theater;
You’d see Xander and Estella—wouldn’t you want to meet her—
Have a front row to the creatures in a feature presentation…
But ‘til then
Eat some Rice An’ read a piece by a man who
Had an “Interview with a Vampire”—
I’m a fiction author, why would I lie to ya?
Prince of lies? I ain’t Satan!
Close friends, but I’m Nathan.
Judged for appraisal—I’m priceless—I’m  nice: no; charming: yes.
Got a razor-sharp and Shining wit like a crown left
on a King… but not.
Why be a left king, when I’m a write god.
So I did a lyrical re-write of Eminem's "Just Lose It" that wound up being pretty popular, so when I heard "Rap God" for the first time I knew I had to do the same. While I hope it's entertaining on its own, I think those who have heard the song will enjoy that I remained true to the source material in terms of flow, rhythm, and syllable count (Marshall Mathers is really quite an astounding wordsmith in his lyrical writings).

Hope you enjoy ^_^
Jun 2014 · 1.4k
Urban Starlight
Nathan Squiers Jun 2014
The air was thick with rancid hate as we squared off in the mist of night.
There was no words--no grunts nor groans--that oozed past sneering
lips. It was a rustic sort of torture; the time slithering between you
and I, as we each came to grips that only one could anticipate the
dawn. Oil stained the rain-soaked way; the alley shimmered in
the moon. I couldn't recall what had brought us there; what
ill-will we shared. And though your eyes shone with scorn,
I swear you felt the same. It was then the hatred started
rolling like a current 'cross my back; as though the
energy inside of me was fighting to break free.
I watched with eyes uncaring as the glass
began to break, and scattered bits of this
and that began to whip about! You had
never known me well enough to truly
know what lurked within, and as
your startled eyes betrayed your
fear I knew that I'd already won.
So much viscous agony--such a
glorious defeat--a body left in
ruin. I stared at what I had
done, awash in a morbid
optimism, and I saw the
shards of glass twinkle
under a cracked light.
Consumed by the
sight, I saw you
sink into a sky
of oil and filth
and eternal
blackness.
Your
own  
urban
starlight.
I was inspired by some busted beer bottles that sparkled on the side of the street like stars when I was driving one night. The irony of a beautiful night sky replicated in such a violent way got me to thinking of how I, myself, could create such a replication while paying homage to the inspiration. Because of the death theme, I wanted to start with a very broad, wordy "life" and slowly dwindle it away. Submitted for your approval, ladies and gentlemen, I give you "Urban Starlight."
Jun 2014 · 1.2k
Just Like Streamers
Nathan Squiers Jun 2014
They flap in the breeze just like streamers:
The strips of flesh and ribbons of guts.
All the residual chunks of the screamers;
All the bits of the ******* and *****.

They flap in the breeze just like streamers:
The memories of all that they said.
They crushed all the hopes of the dreamers,
So who cares that they ended up dead?

They flap in the breeze just like streamers:
The lingering shreds of remorse.
A legacy built atop skulls, ribs, and femurs;
A mission of evil I've come to enforce.

I, like mankind, have lost all control.
I now side with the sinners and schemers.
You ask of the tattered remains of my soul?
Why, they flap in the breeze just like streamers.
A little diddy 'bout a dark & demented anti-hero. Found myself contemplating a new comic book series as I jotted this. Let's see what comes of it ^_^
Jun 2014 · 1.5k
A Tiger's Life for Me
Nathan Squiers Jun 2014
With slink-and-slide, they wink and glide,
But offer not a growl or purr.
The shift and sift of stripes alight,
As sinewy grace takes to the night,
And all the forest dares not stir.
All that's left to do is hide.

It's a matter of pride that carries the stride;
There's more to the fury than just the fur.
It's not just of claw or of jaw that leaves us in awe,
It's the grace and the pace that they carry their paw.
That, while there's power enough to be but a blur,
It's with a stoic grace that these creatures betide.

You can call me a dreamer--that I pine for their life--
But I'm not the only one who seeks freedom from strife.
And while they're out there, burning bright,
There's no shame shared in the forests of the night.
So call me crazy for wanting to be free,
But I'll say with pride, "A tiger's life for me!"
In "celebration" of getting the second half of my dual tiger head tattoo (making that three tigers I have tattooed on me... thus far), I wanted to do a little something-something in the marvelous creature's honor. There's a few references that I'm guessing a few of you will pick up on (no harm/foul if you don't), but--all-in-all--I'm just hoping it's enjoyed.
Jun 2014 · 978
Only Room for None
Nathan Squiers Jun 2014
Between you and I: eternity,
An empty space that weighed a ton;
The silence howled like a banshee.
I had hoped that you might run--
Might sacrifice your dignity--
But you stood firm; what's done is done,
And we held tight our weaponry;
My grip was white around the gun.
We couldn't bring ourselves to see,
There there was only room for none;
That was the end of you and me.
Jun 2014 · 471
She was Pale
Nathan Squiers Jun 2014
She was pale--
So much so that it hurt to stare--
And her hair
Cascaded like a fluid curtain over her slim shoulders.
Her eyes
Were large and brought about memories of childhood wonder,
But with a darkness that sent a cold shiver down one's spine.
Her lips,
Seemingly the only part of her that was still alive and vital,
Were the color of overripe raspberries,
And as they peeled back one witnessed their doom...
Ancient (and, by that, I mean about 4-5 years old) poem that I dredged up from the deepest darkest regions of cyberspace from way back when. Really had no idea what to do with it or whether it was worth anything more than sentimental nostalgia, but here it is :-p
May 2014 · 3.3k
And the Devil Cried With Me
Nathan Squiers May 2014
The world was stunned as the a Dark One fell,
His legacy blooming like a black-petaled rose.
The thorns pierced through the eyes of man,
And the Devil cried with me.

He showed the frozen skin of morals--
With gaping pride and ******* strength--
Adorned and caressed by machinery.
And the Devil cried with me.

There was babies in the barrel,
And an alter upon the horns.
******* cries far-and-wide.
And the Devil cried with me.

Harmonics perching on twisted limbs,
And darkness bursting from our chests,
Our greatest nightmares echo His sinister sight...
And the Devil cries with us.
I was truly crushed to hear of the recent passing of one of my favorite artists, H.R. Giger. Though this is a belated homage to the man that brought us the creatures from the Alien movies and KoRn's mic stand (just to name his most recognized work), I felt the need to offer something up in his honor. I didn't want to take this too literal out of respect for the surrealism the man inspired, but, at the same time, credit was most certainly do.

RIP, Giger. Your legacy will rage eternal.
May 2014 · 1.6k
Behind that Painted Face
Nathan Squiers May 2014
There's so much praise and adoration,
Plaguing those across the nation.
But I can see what's behind that pained face:
Just rotted meat packed on a scorned disgrace.

Oh, what a wretched situation,
When to not be flawless breeds condemnation.
But when they're gone they won't leave a trace,
Just flesh-toned pastels and overpriced lace.

We must finally see there's no correlation,
'Tween real beauty and commercialization.
There might actually be hope for social grace,
When we all can see behind that painted face.
My dear friend Gianna offered me a theme in my time of need (gotta hate those moments when the drive to write is there, but there's no foundation in mind). Anyway, fake beauty/false reality offered up in a playful AABB scheme.

Enjoy ^_^
May 2014 · 1.4k
Go Back into the Blood
Nathan Squiers May 2014
I've trekked across the deserts 'til there was sand beneath my skin,
And I've swam under the oceans 'til I started growing fins.
I've found myself in perils from which none before could escape.
From frozen caves to scorching skies; from rolling sands to sinking mud.
And, after all my travels, I've decided to go back into the Blood.

I have scaled so many mountains, my hands began to take their shape.
I've fallen victim to the dangers of all natures of landscape.
But through it all there was not a single war I couldn't win.
You see, I was born of far worse; birthed from a visceral flood,
And, after all my travels, I've decided to go back into the Blood.

A product of the darkness, I am proud to wear my sin,
Like a badge to prove my source to every place I've been.
And, though I am immortal, I'll wear my cape upon the cape,
When the End of Times arrives to carry all into the Scud.
But on this day my travels wish me to go back into the Blood.
I was inspired by the late & great Robert Frost's style of feeding the following stanza's starting rhyme in the prior's body. Utilizing this rhyming "bridge", I decided to focus on trying to convey a brief-yet-eternal story that takes my love of vampire lore into account with classic, Odyssey-style grandeur (somehow a Nordic-like concept with "The Scud" came into being--I might play more with that idea in a future piece). In either case, here's a hodgepodge of nomadic, vampire-driven, Frost-inspired gnarliness.
Apr 2014 · 1.1k
Here I go:
Nathan Squiers Apr 2014
So...
Here I go:
Glaring back at the angry face
That's matching pace
In the mirror.

So...
Here I go:
Shrieking 'til my throat's a mess--
Coated in blood--dressed in distress.
It's not clearer.

So...
Here I go:
Waging a war  now;
My mind's an inferno.
The need to let go now won't--
Stop.

So...
Here I go:
I ****** the razor
My god, you've gone crazed, sir
YOU DON'T HAVE A SAY HERE
It's time...

So...
Here I go:
I'm tracing old tracks of attacks from the past,
And though it's been years it still seems to last.
There's adrenaline surging,
My system is purging,
And my heartbeat is going so...
Slow.

So...
Here I go:
They tell me to do it--to man-up; go through with it--
And there's just too **** many to say that they're wrong.
I've waited too long.
I've waited too long...

So...
Here I go:
My salvation's at hand,
They might not understand,
But it's part of the plan, so I...
Breathe.

So...
Here I go:
My hand is still shaking,
How much time am I taking.
My mind must be breaking!
It hurts...

So...
Here I go:
My head's filled with locusts!
So hard to stay focused!
I know I can do this! I KNOW!
And so...

Here I go:

Taking the razor I once held so dear
As an instrument that once made it all clear--
A tool that would purge me of hate and of fear--
I see now it made none of that disappear...
And that's why I've kept it all of these years.

So...

Here I go:

Just one more goodbye,
As I sever the ties. Letting
The strands break away as I...

I cast it aside...
And then comes the pride.
All those years that I'd lied...
Loved ones planted the seed:
I don't need to bleed
To know what's inside.

I've got a whole life
Outside of the strife.
Now here I go...
For all those who suffer and feel the torment of self-loathing: you're not alone, and you never will be. There is hope and life beyond all the pain.

Hold on to hope <3
Nathan Squiers Apr 2014
Caught somewhere between my vision of Hell and yours,
I was shown the truest meaning of the place.
Where an eager mind and playful soul is forced to all fours,
And told that they mustn't wear their true face.

They manufacture devils in the name of social grace.
They'll strip you of your pride and **** you to your core,
And it isn't done until you've been cast to the rat race,
Just to be reminded that your life's become a bore.

But I won't be a cog within their cold and ****** machine;
No, I'll never let them chip away who I am for their fair trade.
They manufacture devils, yet have the gall to call me mean.
I say I'm every bit the demon that you ******* made!
Apr 2014 · 1.3k
Tulips Are as One
Nathan Squiers Apr 2014
Two lips met in the forest,
Sighing South and heaving North.
They prayed with words unspoken.
Drinking in the dried tears of sated loneliness;
Chewing 'pon the swelled pride of ancient lusts.

An ethereal plume drives the dew-soaked petals closer,
Until neither root nor stem can discern their place.

Two lips met in the meadow,
Singing East and chanting West.
They pursed with anxious anticipation,
And parted with baited excitement,
While the ghosts of lovers surfed upon their hums.

Two lips.
Are as one.
Apr 2014 · 821
Psithurism
Nathan Squiers Apr 2014
She looks so gorgeous hanging there:
Her eyes like glass and silky hair.
The bits of skin that still remain,
Make me think of porcelain...
But it's her bones that speak to me.

The wind eternal kicks up then.
It swells and drops, and back again.
The perfume of rot calls it near,
And it's only then that I can hear...

The wind whispers through her frame,
That's when it tells me her true name.
They call me sick, and though it's true,
I can't stop doing what I do.

There is no love without a name--
We say the words; it's not the same--
And none can speak quite like the wind.
Now what's your name? Shall we begin?
Apr 2014 · 631
c***rolled
Nathan Squiers Apr 2014
(I've become cuntrolled; unrolled)
I am just a cog.
A rusted gear in the shady mechanics of your whim.
(I'd better do what I've been told)
The key with which you wind away my time.
Your eyes are now a bog.
An abysmal oasis of regret that I must always swim.
(You paid with lies, so now I'm sold...)
But I suppose the punishment fits the crime.
(Just a slave being cuntrolled)
If the asterisks in the title weren't enough of a heads-up then any offense taken is deserved.
Mar 2014 · 686
A Hunter's Haiku
Nathan Squiers Mar 2014
I hear their heart beat
Sound drives an eternal thirst
My fangs... how they ache!
In the end, I'm a vampire author first :-p
Mar 2014 · 1.2k
It's NOT For You!
Nathan Squiers Mar 2014
You chided and misguided--
Sighed and chided snidely--
While I stood there and deified:
Your opinion was once so sanctified
That it petrified and putrefied
'Til I was drawn to suicide.
And I won't lie,
I doubt that you'd have even cried.

Now this patricide's not emblemized;
Not glorified nor a source of pride.
It's just that I've been rectified;
I'm satisfied and verified.
You see, old man, your claims have been denied.
I stride beside a stronger pride,
We're unified, not terrified,
And, were you here, I'd just...

Laugh.

Sure,
We simplify and vilify,
All that we fear, but I--
I can't bring myself to cry;
I'll no longer will myself to die--
Because, in the end I'm just too high
To even look you in the eye.

I've modified and purified.
And, while you're compelled
to sit and hide,
I'm glorified--self deified--
And your podium's is now occupied
By the one who you once toxified.

And NONE of it's been for you.
No, old man, it's not for you!
Needless to say, my father and I aren't on the best of terms. Jotted this rap-style piece a while back as a means of creating some closure and satisfaction.
Nathan Squiers Mar 2014
"This is but once an end to us,
A single blot upon our page.
There is still much we will discuss.
In another time; another age"

Her palm went weak within my grasp,
As her soothing voice began to fade.
And like the biting of an asp,
There was no bargain to be made.


"I cannot breathe this wretched air--
Made toxic by her extinguished breath--
And were I to feel I could not care,
I'd follow her into her death."

A plague upon mortality!
A curse 'pon all the gods!
And yet the binds of morality,
Will maintain all uneven odds.


"There is still much we will discuss.
In another time; another age"
It repeats and rolls--a cursed chorus,
Set 'gainst a melody that dances up a rage.


Nothing left to discuss; no other time or age.
No longer can I breathe her breath; there is no other way.
The world is not a picture show; we're not born on a stage!
Life exists for pain and loss; there's no grand scheme we play!


"I cannot live this wretched life--
Made empty by her extinguished flame--
I'd hoped that I could make her my wife,
But not all plans are laid the same..."

I drag myself into the street--
Away from the memories of her--
And fall 'neath the current of marching feet.
I try to forget all that we were...


Then I sense a figure there,
A silhouette among the crowd.
And all I'm left to do is stare,
With what little strength I'm left endowed.


"There is not but once to any end,
No singularity to the times.
Though it will not repeat, my friend,
The past works well in rhymes."
Heard a quote in a movie recently that rolled along the lines of the title I've adopted here. The notion was so compelling that I wanted to do a short, pseudo-tragedy story, but the rhyming element convinced me it would serve better as a poem. Decided to play with direction & flow to create a sense of scenery & character(s) (something that, due to HP's formatting, wasn't working the way I'd wanted).
Mar 2014 · 758
The Kiss that Made me God
Nathan Squiers Mar 2014
My god came to me before my very birth--
Their radiant light a looming darkness on my soul--
And before my feet happened to touch upon the Earth,
I had tasted on Their lips the means t'make me whole.

Their lips showed the cosmos.
Their lips showed me distress.
Their lips left me comatose,
Crippled by their lips' duress.

My god appeared to me upon my birth--
My lips still mute and mind still mush--
To inform me that I'd proven my worth.
"It'll take time, my little one. There's no need to rush."

Their words showed me intellect.
Their words showed me euphoria.
There were beacons merged with derelicts;
The most glorious phantasmagoria.

My god appeared to me just now--
Smirking back in my reflection--
He told me that I'd done him proud,
That I'd become my god: perfection.

I'd showed myself the cosmos; the truest intellect.
I'd showed myself distress; the cruelest euphoria.
I was no longer comatose; not just a derelict.
I'm now the bringer of duress;
I'm now Phantasmagoria!
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