Once I had a little dog
His name was kinda strange
He was covered all over with little spots
And so I named him “Stains”
He was always full of goofy tricks
I’d laugh till I had chest pains
But nothing made me laugh harder
As when I’d yell “Come Stains!”
“Come Stains!” Come Stains!”
You would hear me yell all day
My parents really hated it
When I called that dog to play
Whenever he looked tired
I’d say “Come Stains, on my lap”
The first thing out of my mouth was always
“Come Stains” after my nap
And when I went to sleep at night
My last words I always said, were
“Come Stains.  Come Stains. Come stains, on my bed.”

I remember when you were four
I caught you drawing on the wall
I couldn't get mad
Instead I just laughed
And I still have
The finger print painting
that you made
In fact I had it framed
I have every art piece you made
To remind me that your always here
with me spiritually

All These tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken away

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's
Holding you in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

We were at the hospital
I was sitting beside your bed
And you wiped the tears
Underneath my eyes
Then I heard you say
Daddy please don't cry
I like it better when you smile
So I smiled
Don't say no goodnights or goodbyes
Yeah princess your my little fighter
My inspiration, my perfection
My saviour, my hope, my strength
Your everything I am
I'll carry that with me forever

All these tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken away

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's
Holding you in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

I still remember
when I heard the doctor say
(There's no heart rate)
That line still haunts me
Your mother and I fell to the floor
Neither of us wanted to get back up
It felt like we cried for hours
And then I felt
something give me strength
Then I remembered what you said
Daddy please don't cry
I like it better when you smile
So I pulled myself back up
from the floor
Took your mother in my arms
Carried her back to the car
You were every step
You were every breath

All These tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken away

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's holding
You in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
And I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

I still remember when
I heard the priest say
May she rest with angels
watching over her
May they share there
infinite love on high
May they protect
her blessed soul
Let the Lord take her
Into his loving arms
To keep her safe from harm
I said Amen to that princess
And I've seen you in the stars
Yeah you'll never be to far
For we are always
With in each other's hearts

All these tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken away

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's holding
You in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
And I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

Sometimes I sit in your empty room
Imagine you playing, drawing
Creating all those games
You used to play
With your vivid imagination
A world of your creation
It's like your still here
I can feel your essence
I can feel your presence
In this place
It's where I go to relive your memory
That you left for me

All these tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken away

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's holding
You in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
And I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

©2018 Written By Benji James

I know that there is a table
in a Catholic high school in my local town
with an etch of the letter "G"
next to boredom-inspired vandal,
jagged lines, circles,
perhaps a few ******* shapes
as silly high school boys
are prone to draw.

An Advanced Maths textbook sits on a shelf
with a little doodle
of a peace sign next to an emo smiley
from a time where I was caught
between two phases,
tight black jeans and a flowing turquoise shirt.

Tobacco stains smeared
over the wood of a sealed off door
just outside my bedroom,
evidence of the first time
I tried a cigarette, seven years old,
and then panicked and tried to
flush it down the toilet,
only to have to fish it out and stuff it
in a little crevice, to be hidden and
remain there for seven years.

We leave all these little marks
and stains
in places we've been.
Spilled food, spilled ink, spilled drink,
tobacco stains and pools of blood.
"The marks humans leave are
too often scars."

I have scars.
Left forearm. Right calf. Right wrist bone. Both kneecaps.

A scar across my ribs and chest I was
so desperate to be rid of,
I bathed myself in oils and it was
the first scab I
never picked at; but a couple of weeks ago
I dreamt it was there again, fresh.
It tore open in front of everyone, bled out,
and I woke up gasping, drowning in my fear,
agonised, clutching at a wound that'd long since faded
convinced I could feel it splitting me apart again.

I have evidence all over my body
and more buried deep within the recesses of my mind,
scars so jagged they put knives to shame,
shining, pale, like diamonds in moonlight
not half as precious
but still invaluable.
Evidence of the marks humans leave behind.

I'm not innocent.
I don't pretend like I am.
I know there is a man out there
who gained another scar to add to his collection
when he was fourteen years old.
I know my hands carved it into his skin.
I know I used to use my fists
when others used their words to hurt me.

When I die, I know that I will leave
pieces of myself
everywhere
I've ever been. Whether people know it
or not, whether they
remember me
or not. There are ink stains
and coffee spills. My blood
is still on the floor of his house.
The high school cafeteria
has a circle of red
from a nosebleed I didn't realise I was having.
There are parks wearing my graffiti
and children donning my old clothes, and people overseas
still alive because of me

(or that's what they'll tell me, but
all I did was talk.
Give yourself the credit you guys deserve,
you're the ones who chose to listen.
You're the ones who had the strength to
pick your head up and carry on)

There are exes who still think of me
and friends who will one day
come across some article of clothing
or a piece of technology
I left behind after a sleepover.
Teachers who will remember
that smart, sarcastic student
who had panic attacks in their classrooms
and drank coffee in the mentoring hub with Mrs. Hume
whilst buttering bagels and functioning on no sleep.

Maybe our place in the universe is
insignificant. Or maybe it's the
most significant thing
of all.
Maybe the Buddhists are right.
Maybe we are the universe, together
as one. I sure think it makes sense.

Streams of consciousness
and spirits that need healing.
We work the sun
without even realising we're doing it.
We destroy it, too,
which is perhaps why we
are so self destructive in turn.

Maybe we're
smaller than specs of dust
but that's okay.
You don't have anything
without the particles required
to make things up.
Everything is a collection of atoms:
the tiniest things of all
yet they're the centre of everything,
the beginning of everything.

So when the end comes and
we burst back into the sky,
stardust and souls and
blinking little lights,
we'll have left our marks on the earth
regardless of who remembers
and we'll still be there, twinkling,
a collection of atoms that came from a supernova
essential to the makeup of galaxies
and life itself.
What could be more beautiful than that?

Interlude.

What's your favourite colour?"
A question that has lived with me throughout my entire years.
With confidence I said "purple"
They always asked me why. I never really gave them the most appropriate answer. Mainly because when I was young, purple made me feel different. Girls were always expected to love a certain pink, to always follow that order. Purple made me feel superior.
Made me all sorts of different.
Always a good different.

Little did I know.

Purple stains*.

Tomorrow is a day closer to our day.
Everyday is a day closer to ours.

I sit on this wooden chair,
Listening to it creak as my body makes a frontward backward motion.
I stare aimlessly at the road ahead.
Wondering.
Always wondering.

"Annoyed with the World?" she puts her tiny soft hands on my shoulder.
Making me feel the heat radiating from her.
I continue to look forward. Already knowing where she's going at.

"The perks of being an Eccedentist",she whispers.
"The secret of this pain lies deep within but can only be seen by our kind".
I sigh, massaging my temples. Not really feeling the need to hear what more she has to say.
In attempt to run away, I pick my heavy battered body up and start to walk away.
She chuckles light hearted "Running again I guess?"
"How long will you deny these stains? How long will your body handle them? Don't run away. Talk to me"

Her words remind me of a certain everybody. Always telling me that they want to listen.
To comfort me.
But they don't understand, I'm not trying to get pity or supposed heartfelt advice.
I don't want that.

I continue to walk away from her, counting every step that takes me further from her view.

"I am in pain", I whisper to the winds.
"I've got bruises so deep that they have turned into scars. The kind that stains every part of me"
"I want to cry", I slouch my body.
"But what point is it to waste my tears on someone that has put me on hold? Should I really be doing this. Crying so loud for love that existed only for their benefit"
"I'm an instrument of pain", I laugh.
"He is my composer. With each stroke, with each beat. He creates harmonious symphonies that leave the crowd bewildered. He creates a wave of sensual vocals that lead me breathless and in pain"
"People love his work, they love to listen to the beats of my drained heart,  the soft strum of my throaty voice", I sigh.

My body is at halt. I can no longer continue to walk.
With that, I fall heavy on my knees.
Hands on the rough sand.
Head trying to bury itself deeper.
"Everyday is a day closer to ours", I cry.

My body shakes feverishly letting out the pain.
My throat cracks in attempt to let my voice be heard.
My heart shatters even more. My mind flustered and goes black.
My eyes are bloodshot, but no tears.
It's only been a few months but it feels like years.
Holding on to him. To this pain.
I try to get a grip onto the soil but my body fails.
I fall, now laying on the ground.
Whispering, crying to it.
Finally letting someone in.

"I told you, that only I understand you", she crouches and releases a small smile.

She squints her eyes and croaks her head.
"What's your favourite colour? "

I keep quiet. Not from embarrassment but from exhaustion of this cycle. I'm always caught at my worst.
Why must I always be caught.

"No answer", She sighs
"How do you expect to get over this if you don't talk? " she whispers harshly

I sigh, I shut my eyes in hopes for her to disappear.
I can't handle playing to her. For her own comfort that her life is somewhat better than mine.
This instrument, is worn out.

"I'm still here you know. And I'm not trying to save you. I could never do that. I'm not him",I hear
"I just can't watch you break down like this anymore. I don't want you to feel what I felt", she coughs.
"I'm not here for saving. If you refuse to talk of your pain at least let me in on your favourite colour ", she pleads.

"Purple", I murmur

"Just like the colour of your stains",she laughs.

auburn days roll by
like the end of a lit
cigarette, with a
puff of smoke
and emotionless
lipstick stains.
seasons pass
like the whiskey
bottle is drained
to an end to
drown those
emotionless
lipstick stains.
tears tick by
like the bottle
of pills that
cover the crisp
bathroom floor
escaping the pain
of emotionless
lipstick stains.
life comes to a halt
like the budding
drops of crimson
blood that paint
my favorite
bracelet running
away from the
emotionless
lipstick stains.

The yacht swept up in the dunes had been
Abandoned the year before,
I came across it, quite by chance
Some miles away on the shore.
The bow was buried, the mast had gone
I climbed and I peered inside,
And there in the cabin, it seemed to me
That somebody must have died.

There were stains of blood on the cabin floor,
Stains of blood on the sink,
Handprint stains on a cupboard door,
I took me outside to think.
Without a body the boat felt right,
I needed somewhere to stay,
And this was cosy and out of sight,
As free as the livelong day.

I used seawater to clean it up,
I got the cupboard to shine,
Whoever had bled in there before
This cabin would do just fine.
I found some blankets under the bunk
To set up a makeshift bed,
I felt like a proud new owner there
And the feeling went to my head.

I caught some fish in the darkening light
And cooked it there on the beach,
The flames had flickered and showed the mark
As high as the tide could reach.
A breeze blew up and I crept inside
Protected from wind and rain,
And sat, and pondered a lazy pipe
In there, where a corpse had lain.

It must have been after the Moon went down
I first heard the woman’s cries,
Up from the shore, through the cabin door,
‘You’re always telling me lies!’
The wind was howling about the dunes
And the waves beat loud on the shore,
And over it all, the woman’s wail,
‘We’ve been through all this before.’

Then something clambered up on the deck
A thing with an ominous tread,
The hairs stood up on the back of my neck
As the woman wailed, ‘You’re dead!’
The thing jumped down to the cabin floor
In a shapeless gown of black,
All I could see were two red eyes
As it moved on in to attack.

The blade of a knife flashed by my face,
It gleamed in the light of the stars,
I tried to cry, ‘Whoever you think
I am, I’m not, I’m Lars!’
But the blade sank home in my shoulder then
And I reached for it in pain,
I cut my hand on its sharpened blade
As it tried to strike me again.

That shapeless thing had let out a shriek,
Had glared with its two red eyes,
‘Why do you hide on the Devil’s yacht
If you’re not a part of his lies?’
I tried to answer but nothing came
The pain swept me like a wave,
And blood was seeping from cuts and wounds
I was trying in vain to stave.

The figure turned and it left the yacht,
I staggered up to the deck,
And watched as it entered the breaking waves,
A sight I try to forget.
There were stains of blood on the cabin floor,
Stains of blood on the sink,
Handprint stains on a cupboard door,
They were always mine, I think.

For the woman that I’d been hiding from
Had sworn with her final breath,
‘I’ll seek you out, wherever you’ve gone,
It won’t be a peaceful death.
I shall loose the demons from the hell
That you gave me, ready or not.’
How could I know that they’d find me where
I’d hid, on the Devil’s Yacht?

David Lewis Paget

What could they do?
What would they say?
I have scars all over
My blemished flesh
Would they shun me?
For being more in tune to my suffering
Would they send me away?
Shove a pill past my lips
And tell me I'm okay

I just want to feel hope again
Want to be washed clean
Of these physical scars
That have caged me
I want to let go of this
These feelings that I get
More than anything, I'd rather
Die than just pretend

I want to go home
It's a strong urge I cannot shake
But I'm sitting in my bedroom
So tell me, if this isn't home
Then what is??
Would I rather lie inside my grave?
Would I decide to wake up
and live just another day?

Could you fill my heart with hope
Instead of this sorrow that
I've come to know too well?
They can wash the blood off of my hands
But the stains on my soul
Could be never cleansed

They could try for a thousand years
To try to convince me
That this is all worth the tears
But the fact of the matter is
Nothing could ever change
Because upon my soul
Is one large black stain

BUT THE STAINS ON MY SOUL
COULD NEVER BE CLEANSED

AND THE STAINS ON MY SOUL
WILL NEVER BE REPENT

NO, THE STAINS ON MY SOUL
WILL NEVER BE CLEANSED

Stains on your shirt
Stains on your hand
The stains gets ******
As you keep rubbing your hands

Your leader
Your master
Within 30 seconds
He died before you

You felt no sympathy
You felt no remorse
Angry in your head
Sadness in your heart

The stains are everywhere
The stains confuse you
He once said "Cold hearted people don't bleed."
Your are surprised that he bled

But he knew
But you never knew
The strength you had
Your strength that came out in a fury

He knew not to do it
He knew not to laugh
You grew angry and emotions ran high.
Are you accused or excused?

Through the years of transparent existence, a void of illusion becomes apparent and slowly becomes nothing more than a side-show. The dribbling glimpses of truth fade like the bones of old. No man can create such an indentation in the mold of space and time that the observers at the end of eternity will render their imprint upon the infinite gaian consciousness and body of universal proportions of any significance. Even the earth laughs at such ridiculousness. The ego is a strong bind - it can create maya and attachment to such fantasies easier than a bear can find it's ideal location for a winter hibernation. It's a world of craziness, where nobody knows whats going on.
The man woke up from his deep slumber. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Squinting, he looked around, studying his surroundings and taking mental notes. His thoughts are ***** scribblings on a subway wall. His heart is beating, searching for a band to play in rhythm with. His soul is aching from loneliness and desire. His feet lifelessly surrender their position up on the couch and find the floor, shrieking from the cold of the linoleum. His presence is that of a bird with a broken wing still attempting to fly. He stands up and stares at the ceiling.
The room is small. Four walls of white, one window and one door. The window looks out over the grey city. The door leads into another room - the room most would call a kitchen. In the small room before the kitchen, there is only a couch and a blanket. No lamp. No television. No electricity. No electricity in the entire apartment. The kitchen holds no refrigerator, no oven, no toaster, no pantry. It's called a kitchen because that's what it would be if somebody else was living in the apartment. There are two bananas on the floor along with a box of wheat flake cereal. No milk, no bowl, no spoon. The bananas are almost entirely rotten. The box of cereal is on its side, leaking bits of wheat flake, resembling a dying soldier on a battlefield who's losing all his blood through the wound on his neck rather than a box of the West's favorite morning go-to breakfast.
The man is observing the cracks on the ceiling, along with various stains with no known origin to him. His eyes dart from one corner of the room to another to another to another and back to the first. Spiderwebs. Dust. Decay. A perfect example of life's ability to take care of itself. Biodecomposition. When no one is around to look after a house, over time, Nature will take over it. Vines will grow and overcome the walls. Rain will fall and wear away the roof and general structure. Winds will blow, taking blindshots at the weakened building, eventually cause it to fall. Nothing lasts forever. Everything goes back to where it came from.
The man now steps into the "kitchen", where he begins to study the stains on the ceiling in this room as well. His mind is electric, with no thoughts in the usual sense, but rather just a vague presence of void to help the ceiling stains feel important. He is the space through which everything around him can exist to their fullest potential. After a measureless amount of time, the man walks over to the sad bits of food on the far side of the small room. He picks up one of he bananas and studies it. He feels where it came from. The tropical skies and smells and earth of Costa Rica. There's a little sticker on the banana that says so. Each bit of fruit in the markets nowadays are individually stickered...for prosperity, one can only assume. Though it's best to never assume anything, and instead be open to everything - afterall, anything is possible, at any time. Likelihood and probability are also important factors in the universal constitution of existence. What was the likelihood that this man, when he was a little child, figured he'd be holding a rotten banana from Costa Rica in his hand inside of a kitchenless kitchen? Who knows? The man wouldn't be able to recall his thoughts from early childhood - he barely remembers waking up and experiencing the chilling sensation of early morning linoleum. In any case, everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be, for it wouldn't be if it wasn't meant to be.
He slowly peels open the banana peel to reveal this brown, soft mush of tropical fruit. Just the way he likes it - soft enough to chew with his toothless mouth. He takes his time consuming the fruit, savoring every particle. After a good bit of time, the fruit is gone and all the man is left with is the peel. He takes another good look at the peel, once again imagining where this particular banana came from. Then, in two swift bites, he devours the entire peel - sticker included. He figures the sticker came from Costa Rica as well, and thus must carry that Costa Rican tropical vibe of health and longevity. His eyes then focus on the wheat flake cereal lying next to the other rotting banana. He bends down and picks up the box. The box is upside down when he picks it up and so the cereal spills out all over the area of the "kitchen" floor that seems to be dedicated to eating food. The remaining banana is now covered in wheat cereal.
The man drops the box back onto the floor and takes a seat alongside of it. His fingers hold his face from drooping onto his knees. His knees are keeping his torso from melting onto the floor. He screams with no sound. The pains of existence seep through his hollow eyes and into the receptors of his soul. He screams with no sound. He’s as empty as the American Dream.
The cobwebs are spreading from the corners of the room and are aimed for the human form sitting in the “kitchen” screaming silence with all his might. The cobwebs grow. The commuters of the city highway are commuting. A thousand birthday celebrations are being had. A thousand people sexually uninhibited, joyously seizing the moment in disgusting miraculous unity of mortal physical desire. Junkies are roaming the street for their morning fix. Teaching are teaching their students absolute lies. Governments are stealing the lives of billions and counting. And the cobwebs are growing, encompassing entire walls. The the ceiling. Then the floor. Then they crawl up the lifeless legs of the man who sits screaming in silence and the spiders overtake his body. They stitch his mouth shut and close his eyes with their spun proteinaceous spider silk. The man withers into the wind of time and vanishes from the world without a single soul taking notice. Leaving nothing behind except an empty apartment, overdue rent, and a number in the system of Western Society. His spirit cries sorrowfully as it flees the clutches of molecular existence into the realm of eternity and space. Heaven. He made it. He looks down at the people of the world he just left and sings a pitiful song for them. He’ll see them again. Afterall, they are Him. And He is Them. His Heart, the Sun, burns as the world he left turns. The lessons He left are slowly being learned. One by one. But still, there’s a space between the atoms, between the cells. And that space can never disappear. Without it, there would be no point to the story. All would be one, as it is, and there’s be nothing to overcome. No triumph. Just an endless loop of bizarre beautiful experience and pattern.