Sometimes I hate you OM. This fake persona that I have created that takes up my time. You are my creation, I get that, but you also were something of an afterthought.
An afterthought, ouch, I have never been called that before.
Is it odd that I can now safely call myself that? We are no longer talking between just you and I are we? Wasn’t it better when we screamed in the dark? Who opened the door… it was you OM.
But we are the same, are we not?
We are the same but you speak what should not be spoken. You say what should be left unsaid. And yet that was what we discussed was it not?
It was, we agreed in blood. Blood not spilled, since we share the same heart.
I am beginning to wonder if you have a heart. You seem to dislike the world, is that true? Or are you being unfairly judged?
We are all being judged, it just isn’t always spoken. I revel in judgment.
I don’t, I thought we were supposed to revel in anonymity that was provided through our creation? When did we change our plans?
We have always had this plan. You created me… and now I create you.
We box lives daily and fit people into perfect squares. If they don’t fit, we make them fit by forcing their proportions to our desire. Boxing lives we kill life without a thought. Carelessly we destroy dreams and hopes because to allow another to overshadow us is a depressing thought. We find depression waiting under their shade. Motivated by constraint, we often constrain those we love. For who wants to wallow in despair alone? Sadness is only found in failure when you walk the path by yourself… a hand in the night feels so right.
Box us together.
I see my train of thought. A giant yellow train worthy to be seen. The front of the train, I don’t know what it is called, but the fucker sure is big. I imagine my train is most likely one of the best trains ever built. It is yellow because I am tired of the blacks and whites.
I believe it is a coal train. Yes, yes indeed it is. I see a yellow man shoveling that coal, damn look at him shovel. Must be why we are going so fast, hell of a ride. Oop, look there goes another white train… slowly losing us in our dust. And a black one, red one I start to lose count. It doesn’t matter because my train is obviously winning. What a great fucking train.
Shatter me with your passion and send my soul into the wind. That I may fly towards another and share your words. Cradle me against the torrent of humanity, the tears of anger and sadness of others wash over me. I close my eyes to the pain of the world for a second, a second just to myself… Laying down the boulders of others, I take up my own cross and begin to climb The Hill. Inadvertently I follow the footsteps of others, but I do not share their trials or their story. The mud from their tears provides a fresh pavement for my own footsteps to leave their impression. A trail of humanity for the next.
The past unknown can be bore, when no knowledge is had of that which was tore.
When the seal of history is cut, A piece of your heart can be seen to jut.
From that wound so small, so infinite. All you knew is surely bent.
Pain deeper than any well, can surely seem like the fires of hell.
But that pain, that gift, although so small, Starts the pieces of the puzzle to fall.
That puzzle, the key, to finding yourself, Is the inner soul’s manna, its being, its health.
That stranger that walks a different life, with whom you have so much strife.
Your identical twin, your brother, your soul. Whose relations with you takes its toll.
It is his place you wish to be. To be able to say, hey this is me.
But his life is not your path to take. The Gods have rolled their dice, it is their choice to make.
What trials and tribulations each shall endure, we should rejoice we don’t have more.
Kill the image you wish to be, Your fate before you never flee.
Until those gates you should climb, Be glad of the days that you may dine, On the fruits of life and wine.
Until you dance with death and die, To spit in the devil’s eye.
She draws upon herself with beautiful knives of steel. With each stroke she paints a picture of her pain… with pain. Each cut produces a blossom of relief followed by a single tear of desire. A yearning for relief so strong is present that the hand acts without thought. It creates etch marks upon the arms and legs to mark the turning of each page. Another chapter of depression is finished, marked by the flowing of blood. They form droplets of periods and commas on the floor that highlight the desire of the moment. The emptiness of the page that follows reveals more than a lack of desire to write. The absence of a picture paints the image of pain that would be understated by words. It is instead underlined by the “swishing” of a razor and a pained smile of contentment.
How sweet is the tender touch as I caress your every limb.
Our lips meet and thoughts collide on each and every sin.
Even as I take you into my warm embrace.
I smother the image by destroying your very grace.
Transforming now our reality to fantasy.
Pain brings the passion to ecstasy.
You shudder, I feel you tremor to your bones.
A sweet sensation adding to the quiet undertones.
Softly now, gently I lay you down.
I board you up inside with the golden crown.
And there dies the buried light.
Another name, another dove takes flight.
He passes through your life a shade. A shadow confined to the very edges of darkness and light, he shimmers as he barely exists. Names are given, a personality is painted, and a half image of a man is left. It dissolves like a distant memory as reaching bonds are snapped by the force of departure. Neither cry nor sigh is given in respect. Just a lonely memory that walks alone. Above the moon guides the steps of the lost souls below. They find comfort in the darkness away from the light. A sleeping sin that hums like a forgotten tune. I hear the words still…
There is no passion like forgotten passion. No love like lost love. We journey on towards the light, forever bound by the night. And with the coming day we cry in dismay as we slowly vanish before the warmth. Never to truly know the sun, but forever given a small glance. Just a look at what we will never have.
Paper sailboats created out of paper dreams. They sail down manmade paths of flowing tears towards perfectly spaced gutters. Gapping jaws of finality swallow hope without remorse, inhuman as they are unbiased in selection. I stare for a second to ensure a miracle does not happen. It does not.
I create a smaller sailboat.
The ground shakes as if the earth is giving birth to twin earthquakes. Two men clothed in iron race upon horseback towards each other with similar goal. A prize that only one can possibly win.
Lances with shining tips of justice are leveled with steady hands as the combatants draw near. The watching crowd inhales as one a last gasp of air as the inevitable clash of desire draws close.
The crash of contact also heralds the end for the defeated as a shining helmet flies through the air and is quickly followed by an armored man. The end is realized as the ground comes rushing forth to meet him.
A single knight trots towards the center stand, alone in victory. His prize is not the thunderous applause of his newly acquired fans. Instead his trophy falls gently from the sky, an insignificant handkerchief embroidered with rich letters.
It is a gift worthless to all save one.
The winner of The Joust.
I once saw a woman die. There were no clouds that parted. I looked in her eyes and saw no glimmer of understanding and even to the end that did not change. I watched for the coming of something… and saw nothing from it. Instead what I witnessed was the passing of time. And time stopped for just a moment, she turned and took that woman’s hand and they drifted away.
That was the image of death when I once saw a woman die.
Tear me down with your passion so that I may know you care. Strike me with your verbs and cause the consonants to fall from my body. Through tears of pain I can see clearly at last. From being broken, I can finally start to heal.
Water me with your compassion so I know I will never be alone. Shelter me with your care and cause the falling terrors to find no home here. Through the constant pelting from above I am reminded that the world is still forever close. From your comfort I can finally catch my breath.
I ask a favor as a last resort. Expecting neither passion or compassion, I strike out at even those that shelter me. I unknowingly cause my own pain and welcome the night terrors into my bed each night. Healing can only take place with my last breath… a breath soon to be taken.
Burning rain floats, it does not fall.
Gently gliding, it brings no pain at all.
Chasing dreams with a net.
We slip, we fall, “Get up you shit.”
Driving ourselves because no one else will.
Walking like zombies, is this world real?
And yet we know that it is each day.
As the burning rain floats along the sun ray.
You are my sin I stir you with a thought as I savor each taste. I smoke you in a pipe and exhale you into the breeze. You flutter in the wind like a squall, I wave as we sail away into the palpable darkness. It hangs like a shroud trying to separate us from the fortunes to be found. I sip from a single glass that has tasted many different waters. They make small waves within my cup, different shades of amber, the miniature icebergs scream for help as they slowly melt and die. I swallow quickly to save a single life. Only one life is worth retaining an ounce of pain. I owe mankind that. And in his image do I spear the demon I behold before my eyes. He squirms like a pathetic worm as I flick him off with disdain from your spear.
They come in with the tide on ships built upon dreams and the backs of men as they sweat dead dreams out of their pores. The terror that follows is swift and deadly. I dream of days past as I stare in the embers of the fire and wish vengeance on my enemies. You come quietly to comfort me. Our comforting leaves me satisfied for the brief seconds it takes to buckle on my sword. I step out into a nightmare… and face it with a cold smile. Glancing back at you as the door slowly closes with a movie scene theatric, we smile for a moment in chaos and share one breath together. I turn around and stare my first foe in the eyes. He does not blink as he rams his saber into my body. I begin to laugh and grab the sword blade with my left hand, it bleeds as the metal cuts into my palm. I pull my new lover closer and thrust my sword into his throat. The moment could never have been so sweet, the sweet taste of death.
Peeling daisies, I have peeled them all.
From the small to the tall.
Until I happened upon a rose.
Able to stand toe to toe.
Finally an equal I had truly found.
For were there not two crowns?
Why do all the work yourself?
If you can have someone else to tell.
I kiss the rain to hide my tears. Drowning in sorrow, I present a smile to the sky as I float amongst my fears. We present a collage of humanity against the despair that seeks to break us. So much effort to destroy a single spirit, take heart in knowing your importance. I am a single candle that shines against the coming torrent. Even when the rain comes and snuffs out my flame in that final moment… I will still attempt to kiss the rain one last time. If only in the hope that the smoke will carry my story on for a second longer.
I want or do I need?
I seek as I begin to feen.
Irritation bubbles like a cloud.
Deciding who I hate from the crowd.
I see a red mist before my eyes.
Compassion, love… it all dies.
Cheerful laughter of children does not help.
It is all about me. Myself.
I shout within, hidden behind a mirror.
One day it will shatter. Finally bringing forth the horror.
I see the shards of light sparkle off the waves within my glass. I slosh the liquid truth around seeking answers, seeking why. The “why” becomes the bane of my peace. I watch it melt like an ice cube, consumed by truth’s sweet desire. I do not just drink the amber glow. I consume it.
I promise you the sun and instead offer a candle as light. The force of my will alone seems to strengthen the light shining from it. Bright as the sun, the stars they weep in envy. I take pride. I take pride in the joy I have brought you, not in the deed that has been done. For what strength of one cannot be accomplished by many? Ah, but there is one. It comes to mind as the sun hides his eyes and scurries away from his chasing mistress. She beams down with pride upon our accomplishment. For you see the candle is not feeding off me alone. No my dear… together we empower this flame and our mirrored smiles will turn to greet the moon as our candle becomes the sun.
I am the last person that should preach on self-doubt. I have enough of it to share with the world and then some. Perhaps that is why I should speak on self-doubt because of my own experiences with it. I have finished very few things of meaning in my life. Some of that is due to motivation and attention disorders, but mainly I chalk it up to the fact that I haven’t really involved myself in anything worthy of note. I have experiences as does anyone, but that isn’t necessarily what I am speaking of. How many of you are currently working on something that you will consider an “accomplishment” upon completion?
I don’t struggle with writer’s block, but I do have the same battle as many writers in deciding what to work on. Sometimes I don’t even know what I will type until I press the first key and that to me is the beauty of writing on a blog. The freedom. It is also why I have struggled with just the idea of writing a book. The consistency of hashing out the same topic is really boring to me to be honest. I find even the tedious nature of book writing to be frustrating, annoying, and often times boring. It is not frustrating because I struggle with writing (although it could be debated upon whether I write well or not) because I write every day. I probably type 10,000 words a day just in posts, comments, emails, work emails, personal emails, work projects, coding, and everything else you can think of that I can use as an excuse to hear the tap, tap, tap I so love to listen to. It beats hearing the sound of a human voice on any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
As I pen each word of my current project I have felt great, until yesterday. I ran out of meds and because of that I stopped writing. That is going to be an issue. Without “trees” I can’t see a word three dimensionally. It stays in a boring two dimensional state and no amount of mental concentration will make that fucking word turn. Turn dammit. I refilled today so I will be good for a few days. I will try to press on and take my time with it all.
Sometimes I sit on my ledge of solitude and I observe the chaos that is the world below. Above the atmosphere of stress and human concern I am able to breath. Gone is the demand of response, gone is the doubt of a loving wife, gone is the self-doubt of writing a book, gone is the constant chatter that I love and yet need to separate from, it is all gone up here. Up here there are only words and they are fucking turning.
Midnight tears trickle down a cheek of discontent. They fall like rubies to the ground, colored by different shades of intoxication. Misplaced treasures gather at my feet, forgotten emotions that are only missed when the inevitable waves of time wash away all traces of their existence. I watch as my past glitters and struggles in the water as they join the silent cries of those around me. Comforting though it is to know that my struggle is shared, still I take no solace from a stranger’s presence. For only I can understand the meaning of each teardrop and the loss I feel as they splash in the night.
Note: Holy shit… I did it. I wrote this without meds… It definitely sounds different, but it is still me. Interesting…
Our rooms are painted with emotion as we live our life within them. We play our parts well under sun and stars. No script is needed as our hearts spar daily with one another. So passionate is the act our shadows join in the dance. They smile maniacally back at us as they observe the scene of the day. Random House… you present both ends of the essence of feeling and tie our humanity in a knot. Our hands meet and pause while we consider the mood of the moment. Moments spun together presenting life, the life found within the Random House.
Someone said you were bad, not worth keeping around. Your single flower droops, letting me know that you heard their unkind words. They were jealous, do not mind them, they tried to grow a cactus and thought there would be flowers. They are ashamed that something that is free, such as yourself, could possibly outshine a forty dollar rose. And yet your beauty comes from your very nature, a nature not bound by the rules of others. Those snobbish spring flowers in their cushioned holders at the garden store, so weak compared to those like you that brave nature’s wrath. Where is the appreciation though? Where are the fences and the fertilizer for you, you that have struggled since birth? Like the young lion cub, you have ventured into the world without help or fear. Your only banner is the single, multicolored flower that stands proudly for all to see. Hold your banner up with pride for whether free or expensive, bright or dull, inside or outside, your flower is your pride. Let no one take that from you.
It was at the bottom of the box.
And yet it felt as if it was placed there, not left.
A hidden memory, waiting to become a new memory.
It is a treasure more valuable than gold.
It is faded, you can barely make out a person.
Who were they? What did they hope to share?
Photos, a period of time frozen.
No words are necessary.
The meaning is in the eye of the beholder, which is the beauty.
Whoever they were, they are now important.
They are now the photo.