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.

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.

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.

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 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.

Remedy this.
Believe the wound will close.
Pray the blood will cease its flow.
And when the inevitable happens.
Pray that the shattered remains.
Will find its form one day.
These icy shards feign comfort and warmth.
Contort the mind to reach out.
And paint by numbers.
First encounter.
Second chances.
Third and so on.
Down the list.
Until hands have gone numb and colorless.
A life less than that of which what stood.
Shambles.
And somehow still in motion..
Just as any monument that commemorates the living long since past.

The candle is almost at its end..
A once bouncing flame atop its mountain.
Now sputters for life.
Grasping at anything to just remain.
It seemed the more hands that would come to shield.
The faster the wax walls would cascade down.
Its sad..
To watch something so beautiful.
Turn grotesque.
Monsterous.
Feeding on the life force of anything it came into contact with.
Justifying the actions to build such an elaborate facade.
The creator is held by its deception.
Cultivating flaws as if it needed some appraisal.
But in the end it just lacked approval.
Washing hands in the same water the idea was brought to drown in.
Whispering sweet nothings to sooth a hemoraging mind.
But when it was the same hand that inflicted the wound.
Will this game truly turn rampant.
So long as there is a die to be cast.
The possibility of loaded questions commemorate the stacked odds.
For when the turn comes.
And the die are no longer an option.
Will the board glide away.
game over.

I have lost.
Count.
Or stopped.
Counting..
On others.
I exhale.
To dispell.
Hopeless.
Nights.
As i drag.
Heavy.
Feet.
To.
Ward.
The darkness.
I fall.
Tier after.
Tear.
To tare.
A.
way.
Sadly.
Division wins.
Again.

Tragedy is spectator sport.
No extra fee is needed.
The equipment never changes.
And there always seems to be matches to linger around.
Screams and taunts can be heard from the sidelines.
Almost always is the advice.
Wrong.
Yet no move is made to rid them.
Blood stains the bout in rhythmic circles.
Etched in over time.
For the paces rarely alter.
Blows are exchanged recklessly.
And the crowds lust for suffering elevates.
Slowly as the two cease in a stalemate of self loathing.
The mob moves on to the next victims to sate the everlasting hunger.
A hopeless unanimous decions.
Humanity.
Zero.

Place your hand.
Swear the oath.
Picture exactly where.
It.
Happened.
Words disintegrate definitions.
As images blur by.
The story unhinges a little more.
With every retelling.
Lost into the pool with the rest of the forgotten.
There are some that hook the mind.
Weighing down the subconscious.
With little effort.
As if these...
Afflictions.
Were sentient themselves.
Cunning is the silent killer.
With every new experience.
Comes an equal wound.
Blood has no meaning here.
Yet the cold wraps around like deaths blanket.
It is only when each function is exhausted.
Every seam undone.
Will we finally unravel.
Revealing.
Irony incarnate.
For this choice was never.
Yours to make.

Why does one feel the need to taunt fire.
Dangle just above.
Inticing pain.
Disregarding consequence
As if bathing in such might just scorch away the sins still felt.
From the last searing moments.
Is it hope.
This irrational graspless object.
That most won't leave the house without it.
Tomorrow..
Must be the time in which truth is found.
Even if questioning existence to faceless figments is the requirement.
Over and over does the rabit hole disintegrate the mind.
Until.
The next choice is presented.

Everything was so simple.
The drive was there.
With excess in the tank.
The world would blur by.
Melding.
Faces and hours.
Until time was nonexistent.
A plethora of empty bottles and bags.
Strewn across the vacant sky.
With friends like stars.
Casting a light from so far off.
And as present as such.
Routine restrained me.
Trained me.
Becoming more helpless with every misguided night.
Chasing a freedom that I dreamt up so long ago.
So many left turns.
Sirens chastised the fragile hope I gripped so tight.
And as it turned to sand in my hands.
Watching it all fall away.
I couldn't help but wonder..
Why.
What did it matter.
With anger surging from the deepest part of my blackened soul.
Did living turn into surviving.
Then into apathy.
So I unfastened the harness.
Turned the volume past maximum range.
Flipped the switch to overdrive.
And readied myself for the next collision.
The only constant I could ever rely on.

Dream.
Scape.
Escape.
Elevate.
Plunder.
Function.
Reload.
Miss.
N­o order when chaos retaliates so swiftly.
Guiding hands into the venomous pits.
Where a soul once was housed.
supposedly.
Its only in this abyss.
This land was supposed to be...
Anything but what it is.
When did the guidelines for creation becomes so blurry.
Wicked temptations.
Impregnate even the most righteous.
One of the fallen nights has come to take the warmth.
For this son shall never rise.
A slumber that stretches beyond hindsight.
And digresses into.
Paralyzed Resistance.

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.

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.

It tares.
And shrieks.
As sludge oozes from its maw.
A sickeningly sadistic synchronization.
Of self.
An imageless idea.
Yet present.
Semantics says otherwise.
The minds eye can only see so far.
For those circling about.
Have already claimed the categorization.
Regardless.
A demon can only hide for so so long.
Before it too begins to believe.
And act accordingly.

Why does everything begin with a.
Question.
Marking the exact point.
In which any event can be traced back to.
They usually end with more questions than.
Answers.
Even in the times that one comes about.
It doesn't seem to be the answer.
Desired.
A race born of arrogance.
As if we have ever truly had the right to pick and choose.
A voice must be heard.
But why must this voice speak at all.
At what point did we bestow relevance to.
Ourselves.

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.

The past is such an interesting notion.
Events and moments transpire.
Then seemingly.
Vanish.
Yet we collect them.
Hold them close.
Or far.
Attaching some form of meaning to them.
These memoirs can guide.
Inhibit.
Transfix.
Suffocate.
And any number of other descriptions to wield.
In many ways.
The time after.
Are just duplicates of the latter.
With placed meaning that's "different".
Archived seperately.
So much irrelevant information.
What can our history books truly retain when perspective is so...
Objective.
We are a society hell bent on understanding what was.
Constantly walking past what is.
And lamenting what will be.
Making it truly a wonder.
That any of us.
Are present.
At all.

It happens.
Past any point that any would ever.
Imagine.
Through.
Over.
Inside.
Burned.
And bruised.
Broken.
So broken.
But then.
One must break.
To find.
Exactly.
What fits.
In such a way.
In only one way.
Something that doesn't hold with tape.
Or glue.
Nor a day.
Or two.
And once together.
Regardless of the hardships felt.
There is only momentum to gain.
For when all the pain is in the past.
These eyes can finally open.
And these once twisted paths.
Have never been more clear.
For.
I.
Me.
Know which one I am destined to walk.
And I know.
With whom
I will walk it with.
No matter what it was that we thought.
We stand here now.
Atop the mountain.
Ready.
To take this plunge.
And when I wake.
Will this dream.
Be the reality.
That I will forge.
With this hand.
And hammer.
You brought us back from the brink...
....
And I.
I will keep us from it.
Forevermore.

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.

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.

Life is overpopulated with actions.
Misconceptions.
Misunderstandings.
And then miss the real point all together.
Always stepping over each others sentences.
To claim right to a land.
That no one wanted in the first place.
Distasteful means.
To a bittersweet ending.
The victor go the spoils.
Only it is life that spoils.
For if there can only be one to stand at the top.
Then at what point.
Did aiming for such heights.
Define such arbitrary scenery.
How strange to ponder.
Just when exactly did the surroundings grow so.
Desolate.
For there is only blackness below now.
A steep ascention to this final decision.
Has left only sanity to fall.
But One can stall no further.
As the distance has come forth.
And plummet I shall.
Whichever way it may be.

It's suffocating.
This mind.
Reeking here and there.
Gasping for an idea.
To illuminate.
It's ever growing corners.
The claw marks on the walls are ever so..
Apparent.
Given the choice.
The match may never be struck.
For these walls have become the momento..
Walking them daily.
Adding more as each claw digs deeper.
Waiting for the next one has lost its horror.
Just as avoiding the inevitable.
Has.
This gambit.
Must allude to something of value..
Or was the real misfortune.
Believing.
Gluttony seems to favor the fool.
Even if the world..
Sees otherwise.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was so much different then imagined.
It was looked upon from a great distance.
It was admired as such.
Now it has been obtained.
Now it doesn't seem so shiny.
Now here comes the hard part.
That image.
Is still far off.
The battle has just begun.
Casualties were great.
On both sides.
These waves of bitter sweet reality has left a pungent after taste.
Yet we are found wanting.
Intrigued by the simple fact that once tasted.
There can be no substitute.
No replacement of this joyful agony.
The windows are open.
And although the breeze is chilling.
Seeping down beneath the thick layers of trust issues.
Only to find that there is still warmth left to thaw.
Actions must be taken to cater to this glimmer.
For one cannot merely wish for what they want.
It must be earned.
In laughs and tears.
It's truly a wonder.
Just how ignorant one can be..

My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Contemplating.
Fumbling on sentences and words to interchange into something worthwhile.
Multiple sighs escape as line after line is deleted from the white abyss.
So much time was spent trying to think of what emotion was present at the time.
And so often was there nothing.
Using emotion was like changing a shirt.
Acting and reacting to things.
Colors and auras  blend and clash.
Its haunting.
Knowing when to execute a laugh.
perfectly.
I was more lost than I dare even dream.
And although being fluid led to here.
I cant help but wonder.
Why I acquired them at all.
Like clockwork I am refreshed with the concept.
For truly understanding sorrow.
Pain.
Despair.
Hatred...
Only then can the latter.
Not only be acknowledged.
But understood

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.

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.

The cavas has been stained.
Numerous times over.
With every stroke.
Every decisive decision.
Remains.
Then it begins to paint itself.
This so called piece of unique art.  
Almost all the white is gone.
Splashed over.
And again.
With more colorful pigments and hues.
Yet covering up the past with a brighter saturation.
Only hides what's underneath.
Until it dries of course.
Making a corroding concoction of congested collisions.
That neither the painter.
Or the art would ever understand.
And so the piece goes on.
In search of a lasting peace.
While forever in limbo.
Awaiting the day when a new sheet of cavas will arrive.

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.

The world.
Is.
Smaller now.
Regardless of how insignificant a life is.
The grand scheme means little.
Is it ignorance..
Or acceptance.
That perpetuates the question.
For those wise enough to answer.
Is the same as those wise enough to not.
This prison of cycles.
Rotates and regulates.
The quality of living shifts gears to auto pilot.
And the low rumble of marching is heard.
In the distance.
As it always is.
Comes chaos.
Pain at its heels.
The weary shall never rest.
Nor should it surprise..

Fragrant rhymes.
Flutter about.
Time.
Coursing through the looking glass.
Altering the it.
That was then.
Unchanging.
Mitigating.
Lines.
Into small.
Razor ridden.
Regrets.
This trial by fire.
Purges not sin.
But innocence.
Welding each mistake together to finally.
Yeild a person.
A mass.
Succumbed to the mass.
Less.
Whole.
In which there is room for little else..

I have always let my direction drift along.
Wafting in any which way.
Weaving by any obstacle presented.
Now within the eye of the storm.
I lay helpless.
Lightning and debris course around me.
Crashing into any that dare obstruct its path.
All I can do is watch.
As everything that I had ever dreamed.
Evaporates.
The rain comes down in droves.
Only there is no redemption.
No everlasting rebirth.
All that is left are scars.
Some so deep.
Not a single soul can fathom.
This hurricane knows well the destruction it wields.
Violently laughing as every wall tumbles to the ground.
How much more must I be dragged along.
A mere witness.
Must I always be the one to tell the tale of those that fell silent.
Or will I too finally be consumed.
Becoming the delirious fool of the next ballad.

Where did simplicity fall away.
With so many cogs in motion.
One can easily overlook and forget.
To the point that rust has set in.
Made immobile by negligence.
Only when the pieces begin to crumble.
Is notice taken.
It always feels as if this clockwork maze.
Never shifts in the favor desired.
Creating more and more pathways.
Only to congest it further.
The air is thick with dissspointment.
And each action seems to disrupt the inner workings more each time.
With little else to do.
And tools in disrepair.
One continues forth.
Regardless of how dark it gets.

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.

Oh what a corroding flavor this is.
A concoction of disregard and lethal words.
The wake of such leaves the mind baron.
The seeds have been sewn.
And with the coming harvest does each pew wreak destruction.
One of many in fact.
Sprouting new yet familiar cringes.
The root is that of hell fire.
And the forge is aflame once more.
A conundrum of gleeful dissonance.
The sear is almost as unbearable as the creation of its last creature.
The howls echo throughout the night.
Branding malicious means deep within the void it had become.
The scent of blood is in the air.
As the lust grows
So does its wretched grin.

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.

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.

The river seems to have calmed.
This bend.
Fragrant and alluring.
Has made me a part of its course.
The demon inside is becoming.
Restless.
This harmony.
Must desire destruction.
What being doesn't want havoc to come.
Raze over the bright colorful paint.
With knives and bullets.
Leaving behind hatred and sarcasm.
I tremble.
Through fear.
Not of what I knew what was.
But because I.
Didn't want to cast a single rock into the reflective surface.
Not even move.
For a single motion would surely cause this peace.
To ripple away.
I must die to myself.
Find the balance needed.
I have overcome the rapids that ****** me into disarray.
Shredded here and there from the blade like stones that lined the shore.
What is a little pain.
To truly gain what is wanted.
When the torrent of agony and distress was never.
Wanted.
So I lie my weary head back.
Close my eyes for the first time in years.
And listen.
For trying to steer has done nothing thus far.
Maybe it was time.
To let the river guide me.
So.
I smile.
And exhale.
As the sun kisses my body with its warmth.
Another first..

Things come and go.
Like people I suppose.
We play games to pass the time.
Roll dice on gambles.
Take chances with our lives.
Only there is no collecting when coming full circle.
That's called a mistake.
So we jump to other boards.
Hoping we aren't sorry.
Realizing there is no perfection.
Trying to balance every risk.
Like we ever had a clue.
Some try so hard.
While others scoff at effort.
What is the right combo that will lead to the end game.
It's like an ever changing rubix cube.
So many patterns to memorize.
But doing the same thing.
Over.
And over.
Is that living.
Or insanity.
Whatever it's called.
One thing is certain.
We shall never get bored.
Playing with our demons.

Gears continuously grind.
Bit by bit.
More is chiseled away.
A steady.
Screeching pace.
But it is the silence that must be feared.
When the cranking continues.
And no momentum gained.
The beast moves just for that point alone.
Out of routine.
With insides rusted.
And oiled.
Progress seems relevant.
Sought for even.
But this robotic organism is hard.
To face.
Alone.
Is a constant.
Talk.
Sick.
A rampaging viral plague.
Calculated they say.
Must this faux dance recital.
Go on.
Only until it all.
Comes down

A wanderer I have become.
Traversing all forms of thought.
I am not the first.
Nor anywhere close to being the last.
at what point does the this hurdle.
Evolve into an obsticle.
Am I doomed to hit the plated steel at full sprint.
Or find solace in the knowledge that nothing can hinder this momentum.
Is this the peace that is sought after so viciously.
The acceptance of all that was bounded over to lead to this point.
Or is it just a lie to manipulate my mind from another truth.
Drawing figures in the sand as the other contestants rush by.
Who was I to assume praise would come.
And as I laugh at myself and all the foolish ploys I have created.
Does the simple.
Irrelevant.
Illusion come forth.
Winning was never an option.
One must eradicate any notion of the sort.
I must learn to fail.
Review and revise it's delicate tools.
For I have never thought that I would ever fail.
At failing..

A smile can mean so many different things.
Or mean something and then add a twist at the end.
To prove no one really understands the maelstrom that resides within.
being a unique snow flake still means one of a kind.
and these 4 walls as friends is getting too loud.
each direction is a new black hole to search for insanity.
it wasn't always like this.
they got darker with every sentence scrawled from broken and ****** fingers.
the scent still lingers the darkest places but having learned to evade some treacherous acts.
even if its only from walking into it dumbfounded so many times.
it seems like repetition is the theme branded on this life.
sadly there is no limit to failure.
or pain.
and all the pleasantries are so finite.
its hard not to ask the question.
but stupid is.
as stupid ******* does.
so may the next land mine be the last.
for punishment is the only gluttonous act to truly gorge.
it will get much worse, this fate can attest to.
so should this smile fade before then.
will the dark be everlasting.

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..

It isn't always an imperfect meaning.
Nor never as flawless as we wish it to be.
These constant cycles are in place to keep the masses sane.
Distracted from the fact that they will live and die in the same fashion.
In small.
Insignificant.
Boxes.
Much like the time Punch cards that enslave them.
Even with evolution of time the average worker is still.
Just binary..
Infinitly encoded to mediocrity which sadly.
Has no bottom.
Nor was one programed.
But by the sweat of our forefathers did they carve a place.
For the next generation to pick up and sew the seeds for the next.
And so on.
And so on..
And so on...
Until some one with more wit than grit comes along.
To dissolve the mundane routine.
And possibly shake free from the chains of old.
But with so many ready to turn the other cheek.
That time.
could be some time away.

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.