I sit quietly to myself.
Making note of each event.
With every passing inscription.
It gets easier to watch.
The world seems between us.
When we promised the stars to one another.
And as they began to fall from that very sky.
We were surprised.
Bewildered.
Devastated.
The bones have healed wrong.
Adding more and more scar tissue ever night.
Some have even gathered to witness this last dying wish.
It seems to dangle in the sea of the forgotten.
We look so much more now that there isn't anything to see.
Hoping that something will revesere.
Grant us a version of some revision that was thought of so many dawns ago.
Except now.
Thoughts of such rarely seem plausible anymore.
I am just a scribe.
One to take note of all that was supposed to be.
Observer what is.
And weep for what will never be.
Spending too much time.
On mismanaging it.
That all I am.
Is another ghoul.
Haunting a stranger's timeline.

Perhaps inspiration is the problem.
I have always danced with words.
Blending syllables and wit
Bending sentences at will.
Firing ink from a loaded pen.
Makes for good imagery.
As I flap the pages of this notebook.
Dropping tiny daggers with this tongue.
Trying to master the craft of symbolism.
With sarcasm.
Playing with these words like hooked on phonics.
Molding them into a scene.
Of play on words.
With less drama.
Maybe even worth less.
Like pay-less.
As we walk in eachothers shoes.
To better understand the roads we travel.

Once in a great while
A spectacular event takes place.
One in which involve two parts.
Like orange and purple.
It just works.
But sometimes the work put in degrades the quality.
Depending how you look at it.
Everything is dying a little every second.
These cycles spin clocks.
turn moments into memories.
You must choose how you involve your presence into others stories.
For some tales aren't meant to be joined.
There are forces beyond comprehension.
Those that make the cosmos dwarf in comparison.
My God have we given praise to so many unworthy things.
Like ourselves.
What could be more selfish than expecting anything from probability..
Take the number of ways you could have come into this world.
Multiply by eviromental factors.
Then add every experience you can.
And somehow it all comes out to who you are right now.
Then finding one that matches this formula..
Near impossible.
Which is the reason those that do find eachother...
Never let go.
The universe willed this moment into existence.
One must have the will to accept.
Lest ye fall into an Oblivion of thy own design.
One on which there is no escape.
True hell.
Is to watch your paradise burn.

You speak of change constantly.
Like Flux capacitors are sold in stores.
Trying to mend past and future selves.
Trusting that they might collide on a single scope.
And STOP.
Is this pleasing.
Easing into planned mediocrity.
Dancing to tunes with broken strings.
Laughing at hardship.
Hoping it's seen as resilience.
Then wake to cold sweat in the night.
Running from a dreamscape.
To escape.
But still commemorate thought.
Making the real.
Less.
Than..
...
I step on forgotten land mines.
In my mind.
Creating a backdraft of emotion.
Spent years putting out these flames.
And even longer letting the brush burn.
Is control then the illusion.
Or am I just.
Constantly.
Waking.

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.

There is so much unaccounted for.
Is it strange to feel so alone.
Yet still feel jumbled around
In some tastless concoction
That is more and more bitter with ever sip.
This worlds populace just smears into little ice cube trays waiting to be misunderstood.
Made to represent a whole while still maintaining some sort of murky sense of self beneath the surface.
And as more time goes on.
One can't help but meld into the weave.
No more than a ripple in a puddle.
And what was just a pond just moments before.
Has morphed into a chasm to rival the steps to hell.
And it's these stone pillars that has conditioned any who pass.
Forever riding this grotesque escalator in the wrong direction.
For even when this body is beyond broken.
An unseen pupeteer tugs at the noiseless chains.
Sheer will is all that's left to keep consciousness.
But then again.
Who's to say this is a choice either.
Demented or dementia...

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.

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.

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.

I have done a great deal of things.
In the name of nothing.
Self preservation.
Fickle is thou.
Yet jest through feats of strength.
As this convoluted mirage passes by..
So much blood has been split.
A multitude of coppery pennies in the mouth.
Can one wash out blood.
With more blood..
A question pulled upon.
With every strike of the hammer.
Can there still be salvation.
Redemption..
How is it that one can still look into the eyes of others.
And smile.
Knowing full well of the pollution inside.
Waiting to consume.
And spread.
How much longer can these staples hold.
Before they too will slip.
And unravel.

How.
Will never come close to when.
Because every memory made together.
Swept us into the timelessness that we provided eachother.
It was a fluid river turned rapid.
But somehow ended up in the thinning rings of ours irises.
Cradled by the sincere promises.
Unchained with razor words which cut so deep.
We never thought to mend the wounds that kept bleeding trust.
A termite that would one day bring down the love we built upon such stable foundation.
But the story doesnt end there.
Not because our path remained one.
Not because we don't know we are supposed to be together.
But because of how for a brief period..
We did what so many others will never be able to do.
Looking past all the cheesy...
All the cliché over the top can't get enough of eachother while taking so many pictures.
That one could recount every day for months at a time without missing.
A.
Single.
Frame.
No.
This tale will go on because knowing paradise for just that small amount of time.
Has left a choppy stutter to grow from my throat.
Coating the real.
Into a reanimated rerun of imperfection.
That I have cursed myself to meander upon..
The only thing keeping this tattered mess afloat.
Is the knowledge that maybe one day..
Far into the future.
I might get a chance to rectify my decision.
Maybe one day.
I'll make her smile again.

It is always in the darkest of tombs.
Does a radiant gem shine the brightest.
Among those that found themselves.
Mere stones.
There to steal whatever hue granted.
As if precedence was the one lacking.
But every now and again.
Two would come together.
Illuminating the inner sanctum with their collision.
Only this match was set before it began.
No amount of kindling could stir ash.
Yet the lightning that flashed.
Ignited events.
In whispers.
Sorrow.
Hope.
Persistence.
It's only in this universe.
That existence overlaps itself.
In preservation.
For what else is there.
When death is used as a teaching tool.
Just to educate the mindless into ignorant coma.
A lasting self induced hypocrisy.
One that is always just an instant away.
But forevermore unspoken.

Force.
Nothing.
And naught prospers.
Yet add the slightest amount of anything.
Does everything seem to fall that much.
Faster.
The sacred walls it seems.
Have paper like qualities.
Without the writing.
All the actions used for good.
Only spurred the opposition.
Riding at the coat tails of hope.
Or so one would think.
But it was only misfortune.
Masquerading.
Dazzling sight with flashy distractions.
Reveling in each illusion campaigned.
It would seem it's ploy was discovered some time ago.
But not all parties were aware.
Allowing the innocent means.
To be fooled.
The kind that make others feel sorry for.
Because of how oblivious.
One can truly be.

It was like the first time feeling that burning heat.
shred my abdomen.
knocking the air.
And reason out of me.
Yet this impact riddled me further.
How had it become so mutilated.
deformed.
What moment exactly did people look upon me with such disgust.
That my very humanity was in question.
So much so that even my appearance betrayed my minds eye.
It is strange in a way.
Asking for anything different..
When these hands know well the path they carved before.
And an artisan I have become.
Only now.
Do they construct destruction.
Even as my back is turned.
I have been negligent for far too long.
Allowed my hands to remain shackled.
All for something I was..
Am.
Not going to let go of.
I shall ask for all the pain I have ever felt in my life.
Before I abandon this gift.
I stand eye level now.
Challenging once more.
Not only for dominance.
But for a peace that I have yet to feel.
I may never see it.
But perhaps I have yet to truly open my eyes.
With this second wind.
I shall show just what it means.
To call upon the storm.
And shatter this meaningless mirage that has polluted the air.
Contorted minds.
Nearly even broken wills.
I did not grow fangs to have them go unused.

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...

The winged beast circle about.
More for presence.  
For pity.
There is no sport in prey that serves itself.
Yet draw blood regardless.
Taking small morsels of flesh with every pass.
And still no restistance.
As if dying slowly was a feat to cherish.
But isn't resilience a defining trait.
The Heros of every story.
Willingly go in search of new ways to destroy the body and mind.
Their deaths are held sacred.
Glory bestowed upon any who would courageously reduce to ash.
From the hellfires surging within a dragons innards.
At what point.
Does suicide.
Become heroism.
The tools are the same.
Fear.
Blades.
Resounding mental capacity.  
Resolve even.
the words and actions may differ every now and then.
But one fact remains.
Blood is blood.
One persons valiant deed.
May just as well be anothers.
Horror.

It's strange to ponder about just what brought this revelation about.
They key now swings silently around my neck.
Lulling the air about into a mirage of sorts.
Yet as I frantically rub my eyes for clarity.
The image stayed vibrant and resilent.
Although it seemed to have aged in the time since I first looked upon it.
Claw like marks gouged the frame.
It seems to have been reforged.
With blood and steel.
Giving it a cold and bitter demeanor.
Yet as I place my hand on the weathered scars.
Am I filled with a roaring zeal.
I bellow a battle cry that reverberates through time itself.
This typhoon of emotion surrounds my senses.
Dizzy from the constant swirling and repetitive motions.
I pray for a salvation that still seems so far off.
But giving up now would bare no fruit.
So I greet it with a smile and a reinvigorated rage.
And await the moment that the calm calls for such renown.

There is s boy.
Always reaching.
For what is just out of reach.
The boy knows he will grow.
Even after the disappointment of not being enough.
Does he cling to the wall.
Patient.
Eyes fixed.
The cadaver bellow.
Grows as well.
Some days it feels as if it will grow limbs.
Just to rip him from crossing the finish line.
Each day is a sacrifice.
A communion with death.
For losing a piece of oneself.
Is a small price.
To be able to...
Live.
Love a day longer.
Only too many days have inched by.
Too many scars have been accumulated to be seen any other way.
All the pain.
Is met with disgust.
No one would dare lock eyes with such a grotesque.
Being..
The cries of agony and sorrow.
Are heard only as rage and hate.
Sadly.
Should the next ledge come into reach.
It is unknown.

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.

I usually begin these rants with a question.
But i find myself lacking in just this instance.
For whom can say.
Anything more
When ash refuses to respond.
No message can be relayed.
Just more things that i silently promise.
As i figuratively toast to a memory that will never do you justice.
Is it disrespectful to take words so literal.
To the point.
That looking down gun barrels and beer bottles.
Turned into a ****** routine that pride would boast.
Only there was no smile in my smile.
Inhaling disappointment.
As the years of missed visits and substance abuse.
Led me here.
At your deathbed.
wishing my words could reach beyond.
Without worry of a certain spectres blade in my shadow.
Then somehow.
I made my word.
The only thing worth asking about.
Because allowing the past to weave around the last routine we shared.
Would force everything that i have come to embody.  
To null
Et fin.
But no.
Your gift was ever changing.
Trading a jack for skills.
While masking scars that only those with them would know of.
And in the darkest moments did i find a crystal.
Clear.
Resolve.
To struggle onward.
Tears wont spell the revisions we seek.
and i was taught to always look my best, no matter the destination.
Everything that i am.
Came from you.
It didn't come from a book nor a Professor.
I can only hope to pass on your wisdom.
Although cryptic at times.
Will remain in my heart.
So even though I will forever be thinking of a new metaphor.
A penny will sit in my pocket.
Until the day that I can place it in your palm.

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..

A routine has been formed.
One that crippled what smile is left.
Leaving a bad taste.
On a worse mood.
It is said.
Willpower.
Exceeds the minds threshold.
But it can only keep those standing.
For so long after the tank read empty.
Rims bare..
Tires nonexistent.
Was this once a vehicle?
The bells and whistle have long since fallen away.
Negligence can ****.
Even the most relient.
Patience into anger.
Understanding to woe.
There are just to many excuses..
Reasons.
To why.
Justification is required
In the end.
Breaking down.
Seems to be the only solution left.
For little else matters.
As apathy sets in.
Slowly the light from the eyes fade.
And...
Motivation..
May soon follow suit

Potential.
It is always said to be right there...
Hidden behind the disproportionate layers of.
filth.
That had collected over the years.
Incessantly knocking.
******.
As a new layer begins to dry.
Yet the sound reverberates through.
Chipping away at what little security was left.
Taunting
Tainting.
One could grow mad.
With little else to distract the mind.
For with every strike.
Would there be an equal.
Fall.
just as expected.
Demanding a new sacrifice each time.
With blood and sorrow.
Only the well has long since been dry.
And for whatever reason.
The bucket is sent down.
To retrieve more of this.
Nothingness.
For insanity.
Is the only thing in abundance.
Here.

I look back on the years spent.
Like cheap coupons.
Cutting out sections of my life.
Living between black and white lines.
Expectations paper thin.
Hoping the change I had.
Would cover the difference I needed.
The dark unknown hiding fees.
Banking on the fact.
That I never check my blind spot.
Blindsided by percentages.
Sideswiped by statistics.
Its a numbers game.
What are you willing to waste.
On trying to make a life worth living
Throwing away moments like singles at a *******.
But only the ones unneeded.
Needless to say..
One could go broke.
Arguing semantics.

My compass can’t decide on a point.
And neither can my mind.
The list goes on as far back as the paces remain in the sand.
There was a time I would let the wind take me anywhere.
But these chains are ever so cumbersome.
Reality seems to want me right here.
There is no forcing the paradigm this time.
No amount of meditation can cleanse this sin.
For one can only ask for forgiveness so many times.
And now.
The tattoo remains.
Coiling about.
Ushering those dormant thoughts and urges.
Right to the very surface.
Only the seal.
Was lost some time ago.
Or rather thrown away.
But semantics will get us nowhere.
And neither will indifference.
Choice.
Follow the white rabbit.
Or believe.
That we forge our own luck.
Only there isn’t a single master about.
For all we truly do.
Is fumble with the tools.
And expect.
A masterpiece.

By every stitch awkwardly placed.
Does there linger a sting.
A colorless.
Vastness.
Of nothing.
A space.
Larger than any ravine.
Boundless.
Where even the brightest smile.
Drowned.
It was here.
In this same collection of wavering resolve.
A new smile was born.
Of lust.
And piercing wales.
One that fit ever so perfectly.
Tears and pain cascade through.
Yet it remained.
Begging.
Wretching.
Playing with this notion of spite.
And torture.
The blade driven by ones own hand.
Is the very one that knows this darkness all to well.
Hiltless.
Does it dive deeper.
And the black ooze finds a home.
In the abyss beyond.
For this.
Is the viciousness desired.
A circle of ridicule.
And tumble end over end.
Smile intact.
Mind.
Shambles..

The trees sway soothingly
Dancing about to silent music.
You can almost feel the static.
The vibrations in the air.
Wrapping its distant arms around every sense present.
what an intriguing notion.
Laughing at nothing.
Crying.
As the imaginary knife slides into flesh.
Deeper.
What a distraut wind to be stumbled upon.
Pushing everything further away.
Without thought.
Nor care..
With the flavor of blood convoluting the atmosphere.
Does it begin to make sense.
Tare and wilt.
Each leaf does know.
For the new season is upon us.
Ready to waste.
Another melodic year.

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.

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.

Lasting is the haunting lament in the wind.
Gripping the muscles in spasms.
And hate.
The tourniquet is holding the viscous demon at bay.
Only the rabid nature beckons all the more.
This smile is one of pain.
Casting a redundant image into the film reel.
Called perception.
Just as the mirage fades.
Does walking in circles make sense.
Only to find the room is so much smaller now.
Stripped of valor.
Can one sense what always seemed to lurk right behind the eyes.
And just as the ringing attains piercing volumes.
Splintering the very ground.
Shattering the existence that was said to be so precious.
Ironically the only one dancing is my shadow.
A jester in the fading mist of memory.