in lonely disdain,
a pulsating bitterness;
utters a bad word.

I open my eyes, look up at the clock,
which now, unbeknownst to me,
ticks backwards.

I sigh, gazing at the window,
only to be met with the sun
setting like a stranger,
unwilling to share its grief
as it had done before,
with its awry, dark clouds
and tear-streaked face.

The flower pressed
between the pages of a book I once read,
now lay wilted.

It was, I reckon
too late to realize,
the stars that once graced the nights,
now were lifeless and forgotten.

Glancing down at my bloodstained hands,
and the hollow shell of a person
that once bore my name,
my piteous heart dripped
with forlorn anticipation.

It was then,
when I heard the whispered hums of a dirge,
the very disdain coating my guilt,
That I had once vowed to purge.

From the start,
it wasn’t the wilted flower,
or the lifeless stars,
that were dead--
it was me,
the person who I was before.

What path in this warren of life,
made you go from affection
in everything you said,
to disdain in your nostalgic eyes?

The promises we uttered,
expecting to keep them for eternity and after;
now dissolved in the acid of your treachery.

Was it just me who had that intention
of never leaving until the end of time
or, were they merely just a game of your deceit?

The mirage of your trust and insistence
of partly carrying my burdens,
as I did for you,
now reduced to ashes
from which an ember lowly emits in its wake.

The very envisage of us being,
that would hush me too a deep repose
on sleepless nights;
now keeping me up until dawn.

Perhaps,
it was my fault
for expecting so much.

For assuming you were
the one friend I'd needed,
in this deep, hollow concept of living.

I suppose what I'm better off with
is a barren version
of the shallow expectations concerning
human existence.

Often times, I reckon,
what would be of us
if we hadn't strayed apart to divergent voyages.

It is as though,
due to the circumstances uncalled
or our fraying nexus of connection,
we just weren't meant to be.

Time heals, they say,
but have you ever noticed
how every word you breathe is a sharp, unrelenting sting?

How you choose to speak them anyway,
no matter the agony they bring?

Have you ever noticed
the way I pick at every bruised scab
on the depths of my frayed heart,
that I once allowed you to hold?

Maybe it was my fault,
how I needed you to stay,
even though all my efforts
were nothing but in vain.

And as the blue-painted skies
slowly start to turn grey,
I still can’t find it in me
to look at you with disdain.

Although you might prefer to give up
on everything and leave
than watch wet paint dry;
I’m the one who's left to grieve,
over every truth and lie.

Try your best
To remain unfazed
The world will test
You, leave you dazed
But you don’t have to change
In order to be free
Compromise or rearrange,
Who you want to be
Wear your heart on your sleeve
And embrace the pain
Dream a dream, make-believe,
And cast away disdain

if you talk
about it
they'll tell you
its just a case
of centring yourself
before
it builds up;
placing yourself
in the moment
and understanding
what cannot be changed

except
there is
no progression
no steady curve
it goes from
a carefully traced line
to a scratched
scrawling scribble
that tears
through leaf
after leaf
of paper
whether the message
is legible
or not

apparently
        its simple;
in that split second
between empathy
        and apathy
before the destruction
of everything
outweighs
the strength
of all
that has been
accomplished
i simply need
to breath deep
and
count
           to
                ten

i'm still waiting
to be told
what to do
when my count
reaches ten
and
i'm still
angry

My life has been a downward spiral
The path is full of disdain and misery
The motion makes me sick
The darkness makes me sicker
And I’m afraid I’m on my way to my own destruction

Were I to dwell a day

in the den of my enemies.



What would we say

of the corpses they ******

and threw in the corner?



Their history torn to ribbons

and chained to the same toilets

from which they garner

their greatest thoughts and values.



How many burning crosses

would dawn their books?



How many hoods for the wash?



Who-


pray-tell



does the washing?



The husks of flesh cut into pounds

festering on a shelf somewhere.


Once colored and cultured,

now decaying,

both in smell and in sight.



All by design.



At an oaken feasting table.



I see them eat the termites

as appetizers.



So many holes, it looks like dry split bone.



Some monstrous creature

that never had blood to spill.



From the corner of their slack jawed mouths

I see the wine swish
and drip
and drench.



They talk about Andrew Jackson
 and the Civil War.



As I fight the urge

to light myself on fire.