Got me a dose of my own medicine and I can't stomach the taste.
I spit it out and let the virus run a muck throughout the place.
My mix-tapes are an act of meditation. A phonetic compilation. An auditory trepanation.  
With a couple screws loose I'm beginning to know the drill,
And already the hole is on its way to being filled.
Though the void keeps my brain pulsing, still, as my self trepidation is yet to be fulfilled.
Winter is a stone-cold killer. I can feel its icy fingers groping the back of my skull.
Numbing the occipital lobe.  Static. Gray. Snow.  A visual forebode.  
Neurotic overload.
Sparks flying and dying.
Light to dark.
Good to bad.
Duality deceased.
Appoint the next fad.

Mental halitosis
My mind stinks
Because I can't scrape off memories of you.
Trepanation is the only solution
Drill out my old life
And stuff it full of molded silver
Then my thoughts
Will sparkle
In the soft sunlight
Of forgetting.

I'd rather stand valiantly, vigilantly, vehemently opposed
And leave myself exposed and abhorred by men as some sort of abomination
Among the nations of the wicked, the violent, the oppressing,
Those obsessing, resting rather than confessing,

Sitting on thrones of plush and velvet, comforts among one another,
Transgressing and pressing, stepping further into a heading of course,
A course plotted, addressing to the south,
Lower than any city, any suggestion, below pity and question,

Lord, forgive me, for I am stacked with bricks of hate, not wont to overcome evil with good,
And free from admission, sin's apparition, the unfortunate linger of lust, lies, respect to persons, and superstition,
Where my heart should be freedom from all sin, and my mind should be blades,
Cutting vain vines growing from the millstone seeds of silence cast.

I'd rather stand and have my face plagued and beaten,
Sandstone after sandstone from the deserts of accusation and trial,
Than sit and participate in the forced trepanation
Where some cadaver formerly called the mind sits, and God was removed.

I'd rather stand.
On the salvation of God, love, and unity,
I'd rather stand.

This hushed wind brings about a smaller piece of perpetual silence
Swayed by the similarities of tree leaves and people
Life ahead of a dawn regarded to wake nonentities
Reminded not of the deafening undertones inside a mind
Forlorn versifier levy the elegiac deterioration
A trepanation of dreary memoirs too sore
to cull a pain so congenial.

Life seems a responsible suicide.

© 2012

What a beautiful bottle of
black haired poison she was,
a perfect shade of night.

I slipped in beneath her skin
plunging deeper and deeper inside;
Until her mind consumed mine,
till her needs became mine.

She ripped her wings
and I bled from my shoulder blades.

She scratched her eyes out
and I wept long thin lines
of pungent red wine.

Without any hesitation
She performed a trepanation
so she could shed
the glass that scraped
the insides of her head
and I died instead,

so when her phoenix fire
threatened to consume the world
I flew like a ****** angel
raining wet red roses into her ashes

A skill learned through practice, breeds arrogance.

None, more so than art, where pauper becomes knight in his subjective.

And writers start to lose objective, of which they strived to make that night.
When sleeplessness drove sacrifice, less they may not wake up.

Let echo then these words in blind directive.
Unread, unfathomed, but still satisfied.

And let annoyance and revulsion play it's strings.
For a skull scraped by a saw, still sings.

My words are filled with promise
Promise I will soon forget
To keep the Weight of commitment
Far from my consciousness
And far from compunction

Distractions are my new friend
A friend I might resent
For keeping my will repressed
And building habits
That are so hard to break

Blaming is like breathing
The remedy to my illness
Similar to lobotomies
Bloodletting
And trepanation

I take quiet footsteps
Past all my mistakes
Can't let them wake up
Last time that happened
I never talked to him again

Doubt chases me
When I am not moving
Especially when I'm feeling tired
When my hands are shaking
And it's Sunday night