Some people are into strange, really into it.

So I had my fair share of spikers, the kind that are into strange.

They thought of Me as a tool, a new territory, waiting to be harnessed.

The go to guy for weirdly scrambling.

I longed for someone, someone to touch and to call my own; someone who won't leave me.

I didn't realize I was conjuring up exactly what I wanted,

a disaster, a high magnitude tsunami waiting to sweep through my life.

Waiting to wash away all that remained (all that I held) dear.

A tsunami that would ruin us all.





It certainly occurs,

taking with it, souls uncountable.

Insignificant to the whole, irreplaceable and heart wrenching to the few.

The result of my wistful wishing,

a dead black cloud hangs above, heavy and misty.

A waiting jar about to pour out its contents, be they bitter or sweet it knows not.

Funny, as the hearse walks me to my resting place, all I see is black, bleak and dark.



I tarry by the corner, listening to the waves splash with a whiplash against the rocks,

I look down to see how the people I knew are faring without me.

There are tea parties and a lot of ambience.

As my flesh lays there, clothed but bare to the coffin's hard-feel;

too cold to feel these things I felt,

too dead to even take notice of the crickets squeaking just above my grave,

the incessant annoying whispers of the nocturnal dwellers, shallow and loud,

alive in the moonlight,

I wonder how anyone could ever rest in peace.