#cerebral
Assumption is a curious thing
Of people, places and of other things
You must be old, I think you´re young
Don't go there, its not much fun
I think its bad, I think its good
I wouldn´t if I were you, I think you should
He never comes, He's always here
I think that they all live in fear
The world is bad, and sometimes good
So many rich and not enough food
I think of you, you think of me
Assuming that which we cannot see
And when at last the truth comes out
And banishes all of the doubts
We find that our assumptions
Are just cerebral malfunctions
Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 5:56 AM UTC
Can I tell you my dreams?
Will you stick around long enough to understand what each means?
Should I skip over the nightmare scenes
That flicker through like 8mm on pull down screens
While the essence meanders by like dust through projector beams
Two extremes
Two cerebral regimes
Strange themes
Nothing's as it seems
Importance only found beyond the streams of screams
No, I don't think I will mention my dreams
©2024
Nov 20, 2024
Nov 20, 2024 at 7:13 PM UTC
As school comes to an end, I decide to
spend the summertime with my instrument.
I read music theory for two hours,
but my hands yearn for the touch of six strings.
Fingers position themselves to stroke bliss.
But my phone’s troubled with recurring rings.
**** it was mom telling me I have class!
I raced for my backpack, and I told her:
I will not slack. Papers grew so lonely
without their folder to cuddle them close.
I couldn’t care to organize them cause
usually, I’d lay in my seat repose.
Ionic bonds? What do they even mean?
And what the heck is “double replacement”?
Okay, I should start paying attention.
I grasp the pen. I notice the tension.
As soon as I write, my hands start to shake.
I start over. Now hands begin to ache.
What in the world is happening to me?
Two words: I scream. Head jerks, and my legs shake.
It has to be a dream. It has to be!
Don’t want to move, but I have to take notes.
Why are random words bursting out my throat?
I’ma be real. I need my mommy!
Class is over. I exclaim to mother:
my fingers refuse to stop tremoring.
And I’m getting these tics. What set it off?
First thing I do is reach for my guitar.
I can’t hold it. I can’t ******* grab it.
Eyes of terror stay written on my face.
The next day I was in a wheelchair.
I cannot look straight- straight up to the sky
or look in front and into people’s eyes.
My right-hand curves to the left. A tendon
sinks into my flesh, and my left fingers
cramp up from being intertwined like vines.
They are stiff. Hideous. These are not mine.
But it does get much better with some time.
I can walk again, talk again, and write.
But all good things come with downfalls, don’t they?
My brain disease will come at me with might.
And I refuse to give up on this fight.
There will be a time when I reach stage five.
And I know it won’t be a pretty sight.
I’m ready for what will happen to me.
Dearest guitar, please know you’re my heaven.
Why bother to fret? Cause’ when the time comes
I’ll see you again in a few seconds.
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 4:46 PM UTC
Believe what you know.
And may all
the better angels
follow you
wherever you go
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 8:14 PM UTC
I simply don't believe, and I will not obtain anything from nothingness!
Oh, don't be like the fools you decry with ardor!
I believe I am true to myself.
You lie with illusions, feast on your own brain.
Feeding my beliefs in admittedly macabre manners.
Have you lost your sextant, sailor? Where is the lighthouse of your mind? Who has locked your benevolent gate?
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 9:44 PM UTC
The sky shifted out of excitement, malforming into the menacing child of blue and indigo. It inspired the apex of one’s thoughts, yet promised stoic impotence; a blasé response. Besides a burning Nissan, I was perplexed. Something taught me that I should be emoting, and the glove should be reading into my vortex of encumbrance. If no one acknowledges that I must be freed, shall I retain the visage of a captive? I am but a stifled, trembling man.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
Music gives my eyes a tunnel and my mind the universe. This much I know and recite in verse- or, prose, well. However I may carry my words, they will do all frequencies a severe injustice. That is why I feel no need to describe the ether and the fluids that compose a tune. They simply are, anyone can perceive and dissect for themselves. The words, they serve to underline the story that an ear might not obtain from music. I aim to achieve a functional, symbiotic, conversational existence with these two chaps. One day, it’ll be great fun and my mind will sideflip its merry way through scrolls of papyrus and the speeches of lutes. Until then, it’s apparent and essential, necessary, to be trudging my forlorn way through the badlands of my cranium. Who knows? I may occasionally find myself an ardent hoodoo to comport my thoughts on. I will live for that and die for tomorrow. By increments, of course. I must believe that we’re not all imbeciles, here.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
Page sticks to oneself; indentations upon indentations. Soon, it will all- or perhaps later?- it will all homogenize into a gestalt; a brain. Then, not long after that Exodus of the Neurons ™, the piece of wood will reanimate, shaking my hand and fishing for planets simultaneously, like any other sentient being that remains aware of the dome domain above us (or adjacent to?)
This is no performance, it is mere proof that my stimulant is optimal, that I breathe with vigour in my feet and weight in my fingers. It is a display of my gradual decay, foretelling the prognosis that I dare not utter: what can I do if I fall under Alzheimer’s heel? What then? Will I forget of the paragraph that I had just written beforehand? This pen, will it treat every word as a home to rest its riches in? This vagrant of a fool, he must remember his treads, the soles of the people that have led him to wherever he’s gone. What is the Joker without inspiration? What is a dancer without awareness? What is a figure without substance?
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
I long to fly
Into the sky
But broken wings
Disable me.
I long to play
But here I stay
Wheelchair bound
Still on the ground.
Look in my eyes,
These grey blue skies,
You’re soon to see
Past broken wings.
My body’s bound
But my soul roams round
The sky of my mind
Where you will find
Imagination abounds
My soul roams round
No chains for me
For here I’m free.
So, though I’m o'erlooked
And my wings are all crook’d,
There’s more to me,
I’ve a soul with wings
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
pool swirling deep
surface still
beguiling
glimpsed from afar
caution warned
but you came
aeons spoke true
our hands shook
you held on
time stood still
even breath
paused
seconds stretched
vibrating
eternity
stunned we stood
uncaring for talk
riveted
others filled space
with putty chatter
while we stayed locked
silent cerebral synergy
magnetic dance
exceeding
all thought
numbed in
mindless joy
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC
His face drained with charcoal honey and his bones withered to dust and ash.
Flowing into the lightless black pit of her ruptured lungs
The last of her filling up with swamp water, the angry bees humming in her head.
They've come to tow the bodies,
Toss skipping stones into the emptiness beneath them.
They pulled their hoods off. The raging sand storms greeted their faces as the cloth fell behind their greasy hairs.
They waited.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Either way it is wasting.
Claim your right
to keep copy from pasting,
thereby laden these words beneath stone
where they lie as they rot, still unknown
Or to say
what to speak is sweet tasting,
each frame recite
liberties; terms replaced-
-til the thing
doesn't resonate whatsoever, like it had, let alone
retain echoes of intention from initial undertone.
Incubation of thought from at best a guess of hue...
Distraught by more; eventually confessed
and we implore
what is repressed must we explore,
attest the vast extent this mess was misconstrued.
Til to not adore much, lest
we curse what bless us as we grew.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
They are the parallel lines that meet
In the cerebral heat
All that chatter
Everything that matter
Creates life
Without the power of knife
In the rumble of their feet
It's nonsense that they defeat
They are the parallel lines that meet
In the cerebral heat
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
A multitude of Cerebral Blips
Brought to closure by a
High Priority
Bloop.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC