The hesitant hand speaks through the white abyss beyond its dark eye.
Worlds are created here.
Excuses.
And words of love alike.
Men and women have died clutching and wrestling with this enigma.
The need to be understood.
What need is there when what is counveyed.
Was never captured at all.
Forcing more and more blackened guts onto a surface for criticism.
Only to claim the meat bellow grade and tossed away.
It's the output that heals.
That begins its torture like tools to ****** about the mind.
Plastering over more wallpaper with graffiti.
Trample over the art created to assume the role of the next tramplee.
Be humble yet there are no holds bared once the summit is in sight.
This cataclysm has taken enough of me.
And this righteous path.
Can only play granny for so much longer.
Before I too will grow fangs.
And tear this pointless paper to shreds.

These lungs have known.
Breathlessness.
A floating feeling that gives pause to struggles.
Experienced wind leave so quickly.
That space seemed to reject life itself.
Even when retracting the icy stalagtites back into a living cadaver.
Did it seem less horrific when under a microscope.
Focusing on a single point makes the big picture invisible.
Hiding behind layers of memories.
Doesn't ensure the years they promised.
Just more things to add to a collage that.
No one.
Will see.
How does one plead with inevitability.
Fate is supposed to come knocking.
But when home is no longer standing.
It looks more like a wave goodbye.
And so these feet come to the next precipice in which was foretold so many pages ago.
How strangely comforting that knowing a pain lessens it's return.
So now it matters very little because it's not an if anymore.
The sign says stop.
But the road is long.
With room for only one.
At least no one will see the tears.

There was no warning.
No explanation.
Just an empty room.
Yet laughter could still be heard within.
Somehow it brought more pain.
A sting for every shard.
Thousands of needles.
lacerating the insides like a beehive had just imploded.
Each and every one hid a memory.
A slow acting poison.
Paralyzing...
Ongoing.
Days passed and no answer still..
Fear ransacked my mind.
While my body barely held together

The cold steel in my hand.
Gave no reassurance as it once had.
I was surrounded.
Encased in a metaphor.
Yet this one seemed to breathe.
My family needed me.
The one that raised me.
The one that killed me.
The one that buried me.
And so back at the very threshold I pledged to so long ago.
My brothers.
Many of which gave the only thing that they had left.
On that night.
They stood there.
Shoulder to shoulder.
A thunderous night it was.
For blood was not the only thing washed away.
But an existence all together.
A life.
A Debt.
Now paid.

Everything is made from everything else.
The deep oceans of the iris.
To the integration of speech.
It all circles around the finite life people lead.
Regardless of what the self made kings and gods through the ages proclaimed.
Their ashes litter the same earth as the peasants that washed their ignorant feet.
There was no shinigami awaiting to return them to their kingdom.
All that stood before them as the last breathe was drawn were those same peasants.
Waiting for the last rites to be given so the fresh corpse could be taken to rot in a tomb.
Some shallow grave that was neither glorious nor spectacular.
The only thing it accomplished was cementing the cold fact that this life is it.
No bells or horns to guide the spirit.
No animal to hint at something greater.
Just a box.
With a pillow to ensure maximum comfort.
So when the decomposition sets in.
At least the box was pretty.
Pointless.
From one ignorant being to the rest.
Mayday.
Clear the predicted crash site.
And wait.
There will be limbs to collect.
Maybe for once.
All the pieces will be salvaged.
Not likely though.

any one person can withstand pain.
But there is a subtle difference.
When it isn't registered..
Like a dream that alludes the recently awoken.
For the moment is always questioned as fiction when it comes about.
As if building a freeway over the desolation would bypass the isolated incident.
With every pass does it become so.
And yet it is ever so aparrent.
Like a splinter made of ice.
For when the initial trauma fades.
The cold.
Numb.
Aftermath.
Sets in.
Making every other impalement go unnoticed.
Picking at old scars with phantom limbs.
Visible only to other ghouls.
Which have sadly become the only contact available.
And neither the shadow nor the image it belongs to are recognizable.
And this room full of strangers gains an addition to its ever changing painting.
One that will inevitably be painted over.
For it has become not only a constant.
But a certainty.
One that will be upheld.
Regardless if this hand helps it.
Or not...

For what it worth.
Every inch of me.
Aches.
In pain.
And agony...
Yet.
Not in the way you.
Percieve.
I anger.
At all the moments that remain.
Tucked away.
Solemn.
The quiet.
Deafens me.
Torment in the likes of hidden emotions.
Behind pleasant smiles.
I come crawling.
Beaten.
Starving.
I hunt the ever elusive affection.
Most nights it remains just out of reach.
I cannot deny.
This desire.
Regardless of what i have sustained.
Each wound evaporates by morning.
And with each new moon.
Do i become.
A more perfect hunter.

It isn't often that the sun refuses to rise.
Lately it seems to need encouragement.
Rising just a little later each day.
And when it is the sole reason that the passing of time is so named.
Everything caters to meet the new requirements.
Disregarding lunar activity.
Heliocentric minds have never felt so embellished.
A chaotic routine indeed.
Favoring those who won the right to stay apexed.
Only when so many fight to stay at the top.
Do all those in the middle lose center.
Compressing the foundation into neat distortions of the past.
Like laughing at irony meant to sting.
Or playing a stringless instrument​ to a deaf audience.
Captivating all the more.
For beauty lies in the only I that matters.

There is a hand in the air.
Even this seems distant.
For the need to trace it to its origin arrives.
And even though.
The limb is your own.
The fact that this surprise.
Doesn't raise alarm.
Isn't surprising.
For not even the cold in the air has come to greet its guest.
To even grasp the concept.
One finds alternate ways to stimulate the so called sensors.
Yet what is found.
Only seems to bring more nothingness.
Questions and answers alike.
Because there can be neither.
If there isn't anyone to present them.    
Having to deal with two minds is company enough.
Sooner or later.
Perspective takes hold.
And the relativity of problems and solutions become one.
Sadly there isn't much else to be done.
When the answer is there.
But its contents.
Are what began this venture.
Give me strength.
Or give me freedom.
Free me from this icy prison so that..
I may wake in the dream.
At least there the picture remains.

The line between opponents.
Drawn in blood.
Stale.
From centuries of spilled tension.
Its a tug of war.
With no spoils.
There is no obvious winner.
Just statistics of lost resources.
From the moment a baby leaves the womb.
Is there just another tally.
A collection of numbers that hold 'value'.
then somewhere along the way this becomes more of an aproximation.
Regardless of who is scoring.
Each red slash mitigates emotion and truth.
And the blurry line gets forgotten all together.
Given time and an abundance of falacies can one begin to entertain any thought.
And once logic gives way to the beast created.
Will any action become malicious in nature.
Regardless of whom the teeth doth shred.

Its neither here nor there.
Always watching.
Seemingly waiting.
But more off to the side.
Like a sibling forced into pickup duty.
Three minutes go by.
And the inevitable call is made.
Anger and impatience swell with every unanswered ring.
No one asked to be apart of this incessant dance.
The beat is always off.
Even the tune is becoming bothersome.
What prize is there for those that acomplish indifference.
When the winner is dragging their feet to the podium.
No one is willing to listen.
Any exchange at this point brings nothing but fire.
A molotov with no fuel.
For in the end.
It all just hangs their in the precious balance.
Like the suit thats a little to big to wear in the corner of the closet.
Sitting there.
Collecting days.
Until the night comes.
Just to be overlooked.

Always just seems to encompass so little now a days. like forced nevers that started out strong but ended up limping out the mouth. making every time after falling short of the finish line, crutchless and wounded. turning the next encounter to reruns that have burned itself into view of the latter. Passively predicting the loop but doing little to alter the fateless. because popcorn needs to eaten just as shows are made to be watched. we are all tuned to the same channel, just in different brightness settings. then given the option to search for the remote control that will remain absent. we're told that the search will bare  the fruit desired. and even though it is common knowledge now as to where the path leads and ends. for it was thine own ****** hand that placed the final stone. a ******* in the making. for the only other word to describe such behavior Is insanity. whether it is a question or a statement is beyond the threshold of what im willing to spend time thinking about. even though my thought process is rarely my own and i wouldnt really call us friends either. for if my thoughts betray me why would i give others a privileged that i am not qualified to give away. was there a day in my in my redacted childhood that wont raise its hand when i do roll call. one that warned me, trained me even to Not react but preemptively parry the blows that i would soon take full force. Pretending that its the smoke caressing and constricting the lungs and not the constant sucker punch to the only blind spot left. at this point, neglect works just as well as chasing an unattainable figment. that in my opinion. is far too real and even less tangible.

Throw it all in.
The ambitious thrive on such weakness.
Dwell not on expectation.
The dim could never haunt such a pristine wreckage.
Wallow not in the temptation vowed to conquer all there will be.
For the distance reaped its own faux reward.
Caustic beats of reckless breathe.
Flare the cavity within.
Down in the darkness.
Sound falling a hair shy of the ear wished for.
And now.
Lingering just above the wretched pool.
Can you see the scatches on the cage.
Crevices upon canyons.
Of profound pain and longing.
Why does the floor seem so inviting.
As the icicles coil through each open vein.
Does skin turn to steel.
The perfect sculpture.
Wound and ready to lie.

At what point does sadness step into depression.
Memories fade to entertaining images.
Yet havent brought a smile for some time now.
The faces that brightened up the days.
Have moved on.
Leaving small keepsakes behind.
But one dares not touch them.
In fear that they too will evaporate.
Erasing their existence all together.
Even now.
Some erode with just the mere thought.
Of what was once held so dear.
What is to become of it all.
Everyday that inches by.
Does an inevitable page tear itself away.
And submission.
Has only brought cold fingers to numb it all.
This transmutation has coiled silently around its unaware prey.
Once was their comfort found in its constricting grasp.
Even now..
Does it not seem the way it is.
For with every precious moment devoured.
Is there one less to look back on.
In melancholy.

How does one measure quality.
Through merits.
Deeds done well.
Maybe even smiles extracted from sour hearts.
Should there be requirements.
Standards..
Beyond those most impose anyway.
Whatever may be the case.
Specific or not.
There wasn't a catagory that was left unexplored.
No wound to small.
Insignificance.
Had no home here.
So many gestures..
Went unnoticed.
But never chastised for.
The world began and ended at our doorstep.
To be shown what form a true blessing takes.
Is a present.
Gifted in both terms.
I would be hard pressed to compare.
The night sky has lost a light this day.
Society goes on.
But a single family mourns.
Dominoes cascade..
Rippling actions and consequence into one...
Validation is key.
While others hinder all else.
And Distractions only work so well..
Even sulking seems so frivolous.
On this day.
Beauty is redefined.
As is bravery.
One can only hope to leave..
With half the grace demonstrated today.

Just how long must one decay.
Before enlightment knocks.
There must be a more sensible way.
Than merely staring at a sign.
"Under Construction".
Filling up the time with duplicates.
Hanging them to corresponding sites.
One for growing up.
A few for responsibilties.
Or just one to cover life In general.
Would it seem too ironic not to even finish the sign..
Or maybe just pesimism.
There are just too many negative adjectives to choose from.
With hands stained red from paint and blood.
One would be hard pressed to touch anything more.
Perhaps this is epifany in the making.
But to reach out to turn the pages
Means the story has yet to conclude.
So does remaining immobile.
Strip away existence.
Or just stall the darkness a bit more..
Either way.
The protagonist still draws breathe.
It is just a matter of how many more pages.
Until the last is drawn.

i light the match.
consume what is now my best friend.
the simple burn.
gives way to complicated thoughts.
a chemical conversation.
one that always leads nowhere.
yet everywhere at once.
i exhale slowly.
he slowly follows suit.
he seems to be the only one ever present.
he seems to be the only constant.
and i seem to be turning to him more than ever.

Always.
Forever.
Incessant.
Words that are taught to never use.
Its never ending.
Seaminglyendlesscircles.
Dark and heavy.
Weighing down logic.
For what is seen.
Is not what is heard.
One must count.
Down.
Raging cryptic cycles.
Even if they aren't uniform.
Any rant will do.
Copy.
Paste.
Repeat.
Regurgitate.
Maybe then.
A meaning can be uncovered.
But for now.
Repitition.
Seems to be the only course allotted.

Wilted leaves overpopulate the ground.
And no tree as far as eyes can perceive.
So far from home.
So close to anywhere.  
But here.
A statement that can be heard any second of any given day.
This moment in time.
A random fraction of the incessant routine.
Dreaming or awake.
It all depends on feel.
Not logic.
And even then the rules of both worlds must be learned regardless.
Who is there to say that one's understanding of the environment  is incorrect.
Everything down to the information that the eyes process reside in the brain.
I think so therefore I am.
And yet even this comes into question regularly.
The longer one stays in this world.
Less and less questions are answered.
But one thing can definitely be found regardless of intention.
One must learn to swim through the viscous muk of disappointment.
To grasp at enlightenment.
Or be insane enough to not care.
For words can never be unseen.
Unheard.
Unspoken.
Sharper than any blade.
Even more blunt than a boulder.
Can the wrong words be.
Sadly.
One cant go through life without first being initiated through pain.  
And even after its not promised that happiness will follow.
With so many eyes weighing down in expectation.
Its hard to focus.
On any point.
Pointless.
It may always seem..

Over extended.
Is a reoccuring theme.
Limits.
Physical or mental.
Plague the race like those that litter the edges with temptation.
To the point that running is no longer an option.
Looking down at the unmoving ground.
Watching the cement dry.
Disorienting the opponent.
Creating a cast of skin that never falls.
Only smiles.
What was the goal.
When some other form finishes.
Words have failed.
Just as fighting did.
And the walk back to the starting line.
Is so crowded.
The gun sounds and reaction takes hold.
Trying to hurdle the gravestones left behind.
Yet one can't help but place flowers at each one.
Nameless they stay.
Remembered they remain.

There are so many different ways to describe.
Things.
Yet there are so many..
That never find them.
Express them.
An abundant ocean of withheld apologies.
Silent screams.
If emotions could ****.
The streets would run black.
Darker than any night the world has yet to see.
And those left to witness this verbal massacre.
Stand as their tombstones.
A shadow of what was.
With little to say.
And not an inch of explanation.
So this tango of tenaciousness ensues.
Flailing about.
Wanting.
Wishing.
Accepting..
How useless.
Meager.
To think that at any given moment.
The answer would come.
So the questions continue thus.
Like any other day.
The only difference.
Is that the disappointment of not knowing the question.
has left.

There are so many things one wishes to.
Simply.
Do.
Yet it is that word that destroys mentalities.
Or more so.
A lack in ability.
Leading to such.
Simple.
Ends.
As it always is in the aftermath.
But fall short even then.
For it was not your own hand that tipped the scale.
Or even knew of its presence to begin with.
Even if time has served no other purpose.
But to sharpen reaction time.
Coming about in the most ambiguous of ways.
Then reaching the destination might have just been as simple.
As forgetting the word entirely.

What is this.
Eyes strain to see anything in the soulless room.
Yet there are no walls to feel.
No comforting scrape of shoes as each leg is dragged to the next position.
So many questions float about.
Just out of hands reach.
It's raining now
Attempting to make this mangled carcuss anew.
Yet pieces fall away with each new storm.
Even a drizzle seems to steal what it can.
And although it reassembled with a little time.
Is it apparent that there was so much more some time ago.
Rendering all opposition useless.
Why must one fight if memory can serve no enemy.
So many..
Questions.
There can be nothing more precious.
Than the answer sought for so long.
Through a wasteland filled with the meaningless.
To come to a pitful hill.
And stare at the answer.
But for one so nearsighted.
The wasteland has just begun.

Hidden among the many.
Slightly.
Similar faux expressions.
Is there a dystopia brewing.
Reanimated by body language.
To unravel the mysteries lurking behind the meaning.
An analytical catastrophe.
Set in a form neither parties will truly.
Understand.
Tare at each ambiguous statement.
And may the lines.
Be read where they are.
For between them.
Hold the keys to enlightenment.
But this unheard of sacrifice.
Cannot hold the minds eye at bay for long.
For time simultaneously deteriorates.
And fortifies the logic set in so called stone.
Only the dust may cry.
A tear for every single solemn remnant left behind.
Misinterpreted.
And alone.

A catalyst.
One who blurs the lines.
Between.
All and everything.
What is there left to defend.
Wandering the battlefield.
Bare chested.
Awaiting the next barrage.
What else is there to do.
But keep stumbling forward.
Even after all the blood escapes the body.
Punishment is a prerequisite.
For not a soul can say they traversed this realm.
Unscathed.
Watching as the horror breaks proximity.
Yielding at the last moment.
To let the decimation.
pass on by.
In smoldering ash.
Does one grin.
Regretfully so.

These many days have gone by.
Not since any particular time.
For any one person need only one in mind.
Feeling the weight of humanity come.
Forcing the knees down.
Demanding compliance.
Expecting it no less.
But this weight is no stranger
Nor is the very realistic events that occur when people unknowingly chain themselves to it.
Now that is the riddle.
For we all are stricken by it.
Handed the key to lock them down.
and a choice....
Remain and live in servitude.
Or leave and let the cards fall where they may.
Yet so many fail to hear the words to even begin the quest.
And slowly whither like the forgotten orchids in the back room.
Some even believe themselves above this in some dream existence.
But only the dreamscape fades some time later
Leaving behind carbon copies of other after images.
Be it the day that these miniscule words and beliefs find an ear.
Will treacherous paths will be made undone.
One can only hope.
Sadly
That was stripped away in a forgotten time.
Like catching a scent of something sweet in the air for a brief moment.
There is only one directive now.
If there was ever a time that it could be nurtured.
The call will be answered.
And here yesterday has ended and the new day breaks.
With no bells or whistles.
For the campaign is not over.
And the enemy is afoot.
With what little trust left.
And possibly an over abundance of will.
There is no quiet to be had.
Life never happened in such ways.
Why should.
I.
Be.

Wavering.
Seems to be stuck in the sidecar.
With doubt in in back.  
And fear spilling out of every pocket.
Where can anything else fit.
It always seems like the only option is to floor it.
And hope.
The next experience isn't.
A wreckage.
Time seems to slow in this moment.
As if to give you one last replay.
Of what can never change.
Tumbling end.
Over beginning.
Through logic.
And past the last chance.
Lementing choices and decisions.
Hate flowing through burning veins.
Igniting the very air.
Causing a caustic reaction that seems to backdraft the entirety of it all.
Leaving only the ash to tell the tale.
And then there are those who see this very disturbance.
And find something within themselves never before used.
Touched.
Or seen.
And alter the very fabric of repetition.
With nothing more than a smile and.
Willingness.
Fear knot the emotions that entangle others.
For it only takes one to wade through the murky echoes of the past.
To ensure.
That The insanity will recede.
There are no shackles.
Only encumbering thoughts.
The only impass.
Is the very reflection staring back.

The ache begins where it left off.
Time to search the forest of wounds this body has amassed.
As they are looked upon.
Some meager.
Others.
Still flow from that distant beating.  
Does recounting them seem.
frivolous.
Yet the task goes on regardless of want.
A lasting tenacity.
Encumbered by every last choice made.
As this chest takes in breath.
Does regret put that jagged dagger straight to the jugular.
Crying out would make no difference.
Time has made that so.
A vow kept sacred.
For deterioration has stayed true to its words.
So must I make good on mine...
Or embrace the lasting corrosion that living so lovingly bestowed.
If only.
Time was a friend.
Then deciding wouldn't seem so..
Final.

Smile.
For all the times we reminisce of the hill.
Laugh.
In the moments that we swear we are going to hell for an ill timed joke.
Cherish.
Every second my eyes find their way to yours.
Hate.
All the miscommunication that lead us so far astray for so long.
Disregard.
Each sarcastic comment that seems to cut so deep.
Cradle.
What you never thought you would have.
Rise.
And take my hand.
Stand.
For what you thought you didn't want.
Fight.
All that may come to drag you down
Feel.
As I tell you I love you.
Trust.
That every single kiss is true.
Hope.
For all that is left to explore with each other.

And I will surely do the same.

What has changed.
Surely it must be plain to see.
Rooting oneself in anything but this moment.
Is one way to certainly spell disappointment.
Too many days spent autographing pages.
Like a name makes the man.
Or perhaps.
So that the past can only condemn its owner.
Destined to be a heretic of life itself.
A hidden transgression cant hurt those it does not reach.
Then why is it chained through the bone.
Chasing daylight like the moon.
Slowly the wound festers deep and driven.
Don't you know.
These ailments take on a mind for themselves.
why else would we create them if not to one day speak.
It is the stone that shatters a paradigm.
The avalanche brought down by a whisper.
Or rather a whimper.
Yet there can be no tears here.
Not when this creations time was set.
Don't be fooled by negligence wearing the mask of ignorance.
But first its time to put down the blame.
For there is no one else in the room....
...And that laughing was beginning to irritate.

Laughter can be heard.
So loud it comes from all directions.
Pointed fingers and dripping nostrils.
Exploding stomachs as the heavy aching thunder rolls from below.
It used to be just a trickle.
Only triggering occasionally.
But now.
Every move that's made succumbs to it.
For truly in the mind they belong right here.
And for just a few heavenly moments can paradise be felt.
Thus what follows is accepted.
For one to believe that those tiny specs of preciousness are worth.
Anything.
Everything.
Because soon they will be gone.
The days are made brighter and easier to maneuver.
But its like having a rusted cart to push for miles.
With only drops of oil left to get it there.
When nothing is wanted more than to just cross into the prosperous lands.
Focusing too much on any point but the one that these boots do tread.
Always leads the traveler and his belongings astray.
Although as time has came and went.
His precious things slowly fell away to the ages.
Maybe one day it will fill again.
But its best just to keep the eyes trained on the horizon.
Storms tend to betray those that fail to give lady fate proper respect.

how does one take part in promises.
Long since past.
Like riding a roller coaster that never seems to cease its desent.
or finding a seat.
In an empty theatre.
When will conversation start in I and not Us.
Everyone in this life is a stranger.
Passing on a cross walk.
Regardless of what side they began.
Eventually they walk away.
Until death do us remain apart.
For living adrift.
With a crooked rudder.
Has established the circles to be repeated.
And as this new revolution comes to the end.
A hand slips and gives control to the tides.
Removing any facade that hinted that there was any control to be had.
With no map.
No navigator.
No urge to go much of anywhere.
For the sea has already stripped away any feature that could be used to identify the once grand vessel.
Even the fish below keep their nourishment to themselves.
Granting a mild pyschosis.
But these mirages turn too real.
And waiting on bruises to heal.
Do not make the gashes bleed less.
Just causes the shock to over take this shell of a body.
In which no move against its advance is made.
For it is the only thing that wishes to.
Leaving humanity in the distance.
As the arms of oblivion surround the fractured soul.

How many wish their days were different.
Just how far would one force the wheel back.
How many hours and seconds feel wasted.
On people.
Phone calls that last into the a.m.
Sleepless nights.
Wakeless days.
We call them day dreams.
Because when night falls.
Only nightmares await.
What is it called when the terror recedes due to repetition.
So many ache for a life less frightening.
Constantly swerving to avoid shadows.
Disregarding the dotted lines left by those that embrace an unknown.
That will never be traversed again.
Creating a fear of mistakes.
That only feed the ever growing mass which ironically will never know growth.  
It is too​ perpetual to be called stagnant.
And we have yet to see just how much will be consumed.
It's only when a distinction can be made.
That will cause such a drastic shift in paradigm.
Sending tremors of enlightenment and damnation alike back to the epicenter.
Just to shake down what meager sandcastle stand.
Can one breathe life.
When so many forget to inhale.
Then ****** themselves into an endless void.
which should never have been undertaken to begin with.
Like trying to start a car without first getting out of bed.
Then realize only a tire-less bicycle is all that sits in the drive way.
One Should fear.
For sometimes it is the only drive that can be counted on.

There are just too many things that were supposed to have happened.
Arguements lurked behind every door.
Playing hide and seek with sarcasm and distrust.
A recipe to end the book titled Forever.
And even though love was still begging for attention.
The path has ended.
Most have already left the theatre.
Except for those wandering.
Wondering if there will be a tiny clip after the credits.
But the budget has long since dried up.
And the explosives took a lot of the show.
Sadly they are what hilight its runtime.
It's dark now.
The reel just looping black and white.
Waiting for the next show to replace the old.
But there will not be another.
The building has been deemed condemned..
Due to lack of upkeep.
It will remain a historic land mark.
Untouchable.
For there is little else one can do.

At long last.
The cement has dried.
Casting a laughable hue on this decrepit hill.
Has the air always been this thick.
Gravity seems to want more than I can stand.
I wish not to instill this image in my mind.
Yet as I gaze upon the casted hand.
There is no real explanation.
For this miniscule action to have even..
Come to be.
But thus it has.
Formulated in the very consciousness that guided these dreaded feet forth.
A relic of old it is.
Glory.
And now simply a need to be remembered.
As i search my desolate suroundings.
Does one begin to truly understand.
Meaning to such action.
Loses its definition.
With every lingering moment that eternity allows.
What a distorted rendition this constant reel has made.
Yet this came from nowhere also.
Right?
Loathing the next pace.
Yet comforted in knowing.
That imprint will one day fade.
Ghastly remnants of failure.
Remodeled bone.
The sight from these very eyes.
What comes of the endless.
endurance of fame.
A life in search of the meaning it never had.
Detest.
Expectation.
Inhibition.
The compass supposedly zeroed at due society.
Let the rise and fall of this chest be testement.
A moment.
Is just a moment.
There is only one key.
Choose.
What may.
Enter.

Aimless.
Can thought run.
To nowhere.
Neither leading or following.
A stalemate has become the  norm.
What is real.
Inspecting that strange figure in the mirror.
Has grown tiresome.
For if there was any resemblance at one time.
What would be the point of validation.
Creating.
Driving.
Movement in general.
Is now a chore.
Does one keep smiling..
Even as these words come out.
Darkening the mind of each new reader.
Muscles move to form the desired action.
Each pair of eyes that look upon.
This mangled form.
Can see.
exactly.
what isn't.
Because of what was.
The stigma was born through the devious means projected.
Branded.
With pain and nostalgia.
Then in an instant.
It all fits grotesquely.
Perfect together.
What need is there for inspiration.
For all that was ever truly needed was imbued into the very soul.
Tempered solid through the years with torment and grief.
Sealed every crack and fracture that would come with anger and self preservation.
Weapons that were kept sharp and ready to use.
And now.
They etch their existence in any corner of the mind available.
Ready to take the next victim.
With.
Or without consent..

Words are all that I have now.
My possessions.
Keepsakes.
Somehow just melded into the backdrop.
Almost to tease at how I can not touch them anymore.
Connections and romances that sputtered and died out.
Seem less painful now.
But its hard to say when this numbing reality takes hold.
Things used to be..
Exciting.
And With each year under the belt.
The world becomes less enticing.
Shrinking the grand dream into a childish fairytale.
One that doesn't end with Happily Ever After.
But with Fin.
Its almost Ironic.
Spending ever waking moment trying to please people.
Doesn't equal a happy soul.
But making the self happy that isn't diluted with every single alteration society provides.
Well.
I have yet to see what peace is and I don't believe it takes bombs to prove a point.
In conversations or otherwise.
A slap in the face can turn heads and fracture minds.
Maybe I need to revisit myself.
Sadly there are doors even I can not open.
Nor perceive.
When all that I am.
and will be.
Is wasted on words.

Silence the whimpers.
There is nothing to mourn.
Some can still remember what the empty lot held 0nce.
Colors and excitement clashed with such vigor.
Someone should have caught how quickly it would go up in smoke.
Like a leaf in the Sahara.
Smothered and withered.
Every time one would pick up the remains.
More would fall away.
As if the attempt at repair only invited more distance.
Arguing is useless.
For there are new toys on the playing field.
Some that trample down others while playing the only card received.
The haze over the land has become thick with regret.
And even though the pain sparks from every corner of the wasteland.
Not a single flower has bloomed
Just years of weeds and insecticides to populate the once beautiful surroundings.
Now the barren plain whispers as if there were ears to listen.
More or less to be validated.
It's sad to see ships leave the harbor withouts sails.
And weird to think back with such wide smiles.
When the only expression left.
Is a sigh.

Define the emotion OK interprets.
And when exactly people understood the comings and goings of feelings in general.
How can one understand others.
When an emotional war is being fought on two fronts.
Each bleeding ammo and supplies.
Wasting away.
Just slow enough to have the coroner turn it away.
Nearly dead isn't applicable.
And somehow managed to feel guilty for wasting your death warrant signatures time.
As if the words would change the angle on how others viewed your life.
Only pretending others care enough to pay any mind.
Stiffles the rest of any opposition.
To make sure the dark flames imbued regret correctly..
A magician of sorts.
Only falling on swords for too long leaves little room eventually.
A reverse porcupine that crys blood when forced into moving.
But makes not a sound.
Even this can feel like nothing.
It only takes a little imagination and a dash of humanity.
And when playing god loses its hype.
Will the mob desperse.
Retreat into that in which the torches were burning just moments ago.
Only they don't extinguish.
Just remain awhile for the next hand to lift the taunting relic.
So that repetition can further solidify the obvious.
Shoudnt be long now.
As the oddly familar jester sits to watch.
Death is always a spectacle.
Whispered so softly it was hard to decide if it happened at all.
But it matters little.
For silence is all that follows.
Indifference is a disease.
Stricken with such paralyzing apathy.
That A.D.D. becomes a standard.
Take two before human interaction.
Call in the morning if the guilt remains.
Only remembering to forget can get so.... Confusing.

The use of the word "it".
To personify.
This.
Is indeed a boast to say the least.
For not every piece of writing can take on attributes.
Not every poem will breathe.
Only a select few will grow strength.
To have the ability to move.
Now that is what we poets strive for.
Because there is a beast.
Constantly tearing away at our hearts.
Sadly.
Spewing a story of such does not sate this very real phenomenon.
Yet those that tap into its growing power learn to maneuver..
Guide the outlet.
And in so many ways give it a new face for other to look at.
Giving others a chance to gaze into a new darkness that...
Maybe they haven't yet.
But the darkness is only there to show how precious certain lights can be.
So not only is it kept around.
It is cultivated.
Allowed to walk the streets to grip someone else.
Possibly to loosen the noose around a suffocating soul.
Long enough to bring a tear.
Or a slightly longer sigh.
Something.
For if this is just for some common blink.
Ill save my copper for the boatman.
And ask him to tell me a tale for a change.

Where exactly.
To what end.
For whom.
Rhetorical or not.
The questions stand like.
Like the rest of the monotonous.
In lines.
Guided by carpet and cards alike.
Strung about the strung out.
As if the norm.
Was within the crystal ball.
Answers that seemed to ring from nowhere.
Cascaded through the crowd about.
Faster than one would realize.
Before.
Less of what was.
Emerged into a plague of sorts.
Where sense and logic seemed more seance than the latter.
If only emptiness.
Knew pain.
Pity.
The world found another,
to consume.

It's all relative.
A reoccurring measure.
The same hellos and goodbyes.
A rose.
Red now only through the daggers they wield.
A pedal for each their own.
And as they fall away.
Saturated.
Lifelessly performing.
Arrogantly consuming beyond its means.
Just to resemble what will always be remnant.
For that's all there is left.
A perfected parody to a lesson lost among these..
Adamant followers.
Distraction leads to complacancy.
Which inevitably resorts to a persona of pain.
Wander lust envokes the soul.
Calamity is assured.
Waste not the effort to react.
For there will be no natural to this disaster.
Only a faint whisper.
Beyond that.
I will not say.

There are infinite reactions.
So many that it clouds the mind in ways.
Not depicted in myths and lore.
And fret over the loss of sight.
When our most powerful telescope.
Only perceives a fraction of its vastness.
There are rules and guidelines to follow.
Yet even these are given room to manipulate.
The species greatest asset is choice..
And in just as many ways is also it's bane.
Groups and squads are formed by likeness.
Then set out to erase change.
As if remaining stagnant was progress.
Even when the battlefield reeks of regret churned in blood does one find solace.
For after the rage dissipates.
Fear rises from the reverse graveyard with the sun.
Sometimes.
It's better to leave things unseen.
And unspoken.
Praise be to the righteous man.
Writing history since birth B.C.
Long after the ink runs dry

At what point do all these words.
Meld together.
Into some skewed finger painting.
When what was spoken.
Intended to relay something much more grand.
Action is desired..
Yet there can be no movement.
When the cataclysm has grown so vast.
Metaphor or not.
Ignorance has ceased to be blissful.
Just as life did.
This poor fool.
Never believed in a tomorrow.
The eyes can only witness so much.
Before they stop seeing all together.
Either from knowledge or the latter.
The only option one would wish for.
Is a warning.
Some form of flash or siren in great magnitude.
For I have missed so much...
I fear.
That I am the one lacking.

There comes a time..
Just as there is a slot for everything.
When leaving means more.
Not to you.
Or even to whom the action is directed.
Pushing past to just understanding.
That fighting more isnt going to get extra rounds.
Nor are there any tears to dry.
Words sting but only the ones that escape the catacombs behind grated teeth.
Long sighs mean nothing.
You watched it eat at me from the inside out.
Then when it finally consumed all there was did you just turn your back.
Digusted at how weak spirited the remains were..
Ignoring the fact that it was your pet that was constantly hungry.
Starving it a little so when finally it got out.
No one could even slow the death toll.
So now the medium is even tainted.
And sadly brings solace no longer.
I would want to wish you all the best.
But my words won't change anything.
Not here.
Or anywhere.

Why is it so troublesome to assist the sun.
Each new day one must gauge the distance.
For a step too close and the flames whip at my face.
Ready to devour any advance.
Every route is riddled with worry.
Regardless of when or how.
It's about understanding why we wade through muck and grime.
That defines just what comes up for air.
For better.
Or worse.
For each will always be hand in hand.
So I ask you to take mine.
These weapons at my side have protected me through the most dire of times.
So fear not the edges.
And trust that nothing shall split us in two.
We have come so far.
It would be a shame.
To disregard the light when the darkness is kissing our cheeks.
So sing your song.
And surrender to nothing.
We have taken hills before.
So what's one more..

There are words spoken of weapons.
Armor.
Forging steal.
And pathways.
A multitude of metaphors.
Depicting ignorance in force.
The odds continued to stack higher than my eyes could count.
As I used any and all tools at hand to resist the constant pressure.
Only with each randomly reckless swing.
Did the collateral damage become ever so apparent.
It was only when I let it all fall.
The mountain of mistakes.
And the pointless armor I foolishly wielded.
The very one I had constructed to fend of the darkness.
Blighted my existence.
Fused my already dim soul with its malice.
It's was only when her arms gently wrapped around my monsterous figure.
Did the hatred recide.
Tears of sorrow anointed me anew.
Trembling.
The will to stand and face my demons builds.
But it's her hand on the small my back that rejuvenates me fully.
Her presence which drives me
Surrounds.
And guides me.
I must be forever vigelent.
For the dark whispers beckon all the more.
A war of two worlds.
And so called single mind.
I accept the demon within.

These words that I write.
And the pain that I feel.
Remain stained upon this page.
But just as this page will deteriorate.
In time.
So will this anguish.
There may be times.
When the ink in the pen is not enough.
We must demonstrate our anger and hate upon the world.
But we realize.
That our actions scream louder than lungs capacity.
And even our bodies cannot hold the strain and punishment that we put it through.
So now we come back to the white paper.
And the ink in the pen.
To blacken our thoughts over again.

its all so mad.
eerie even.
truly knowing what it feels like.
to just.
waste away.
watching as the skin turns white as ash.
hearing bones creak like an old oak ship.
sailing its last league.
All the inner workings clash and mangle about.
seize and burn with every blinkless second.
after all the usefulness is emptied from the tanks.
it is left.
not even taken to a final resting place.
just.
left.
not even forgotten.
and as this ship that once carried many.
formed trust.
never faltered.
is now rotten with decay.
a disease of lasting raw hatred.
transmuting this once renown vessel.
into nothing more.
than a distant memory.

There are times that lack.
the most crucial of components.
Little cogs that seem to have been misplaced.
Or all together disappeared.
It only takes one Forgotten brick.
To watch it all tumble down.
And an encore of pain and sorrow is sure to follow.
This is nothing special.
The entire world.
has felt this.
seen precisely this.
Made mistakes far more grave then those that lie in the deepest tomb.
One cant help but look back on previous lives.
For that is what they truly are.
The person a year ago.
Is not that person that will be walking around today.
That being has ceased to be.
And with every reincarnation does a choice become apparent.
Stay the course.
One that will continue to gush life in the worst of ways.
Or.
Turn away from the path.
Remove thoughts of roads.
And Highways.
For thus far they have only led to ruin.
It is in these moments.
that define the future.
So let it come.
Let the the beast bare its claws and fangs.
Let come what may.
Let it be known.
Fear has no presence here.
And neither will doubt.

We all have those that ground us.
Make us tangible.
There to remind that the blood that sometimes.
Spills.
Is infinitely finite.
And when they fall away.
Leaving you.
Floating.
Anchorless.
Inches from the ground.
But having neglected certain skills for so long.
Finding meaning to make landfall.
Is not a destination at all.
Nor searching for things that fiegn permanence.
The air has become frigid over the years.
One must adjust.
Or lose more than imagination.
Ever dared.