Her

She waits.
On him, her ... The next hit - Doesn't matter
She just wants to be far from here.
Tired of broken promises

So she watches.
People come and go;
It's an endless carousel, her life is.
When will it end?

So it's back to waiting.
Except things have changed ...
If someone comes into her life, they exact a higher toll for staying
Till she's given out.

Giving it all for nothing;
They said life isn't fair, but this entire effort is Sisyphean;
What's the point?
Less gained from more effort.

She waits.
Patience turning into painful numbness,
The world has moved on
No fairy tale this - Prince Charming isn't riding in on a golden chariot.

Till she breaks
-The mould
She realizes that she's responsible for her own destiny.
The paradigm shifts.

Her days get brighter,
The smile becomes real -
Daily reminders of how awesome she is;
Like a flame, she brightens everything around her.

She toils, and fixes ...
Herself, her issues.
Hope springs eternal from her bosom;
She is hope.

She watches - the change become real;
She likes what she sees in the mirror,
She is strong.
She is woman.

Destiny

My destination is homeward bound
- Home to me.
Home to mama. Mother earth I mean.
Look around. Wah kinda foolishness dis wi a keep up?

Brother against brother.
Envy. Greed.
Whatever happened to Ubuntu?
Didn't you all hear that it takes a village?

So I'm searching for a new hope.
Something tangible and genuine.
Tired of empty promises - Election or otherwise.
Tired of being given the Bible along with a gun.

Every man for himself got us here;
But to escape this mess we'll need to reestablish that basic link
Just think - of it... Imagine living without fear of losing it all?

So look inward and outward instead of upward
-God helps those who helps themselves
Join mi pan di trod.
We're building a future.

Blood and Ink II

My canticle.
No apologies will be made for who I am
- No fucks were given in the crafting of this poem.

Flirting and laughing come naturally,
Giacomo would be proud-er still if my intellectual pursuits matched my physical ones
But I'm still young - enough not to give a damn - about things like that anyway.

So who writes history?
I want to write my own.
I want to write yours, ours, if there's a you out there.

If not. Then there's nothing wrong with walking alone.
We were born that way.
We ultimately die that way.

So no apologies.
For the truth.
Apologies for the lack of forewarning.

We drink.
We lie ... down with strangers, giving them ourselves.
But to what end?

Boy meets girl.
Boy loves girl. They work. They break up.
To what end?

Till death do us part?
But someone may just leave.
So ... they End.

So we seek an escape.
Drugs. Seclusion. Other people.
No one wants to see their own mistakes.

But you write your history.
Only you can account for every single action you've taken.
Consider this a kick up the ass.

"The only person you control is yourself."

Tame

It started with a look.
I mean, if looks could kill - you'd have been dying with pleasure from the moment I saw you
But enough of that;
Sweet nothings have their place - Just not now.

I want to possess you.
Leave you so well marked that when I'm done people will marvel
... At how well you're getting it, and wonder who you're getting it from.
Pleasure? Check. Desire? Check?
Stamina? Come check me for a day and find out.

It started with a kiss -
Then a touch
Before you know it, we've descended into tangle of arms and legs
The mystery is where your body ends, and where mine begins.

Torn sheets, tears ... in my skin -
Scratches, bite marks ... Rope burns
We take turns
In pleasing each other.

Time pales in-significance to this,
Who counts hours, days, weeks?
Eternity envelops this moment.
We lose ourselves in each other.

VI

Six drops of ink - my personal Rorschach test.
What do I see?
Effort. Joy. Sadness. Strength melding into weakness.
All shades of ... Life.
We're all alive. Right?

Six doves.
An olive branch of sort.
Searching for a sign of life after the storms.
'40 days and nights of rain'

Six days of creation; one of rest.
So 6 + 1 = renewal.
The soul has passed from the earth in peace. No regrets.

Sun shines bright into my eyes
- A welcome respite from the cloudiness of my thoughts.
Looking around there are -
Just so many things worth admiring.

So I choose.
In choosing I realize the beauty inherent in all things.
My doves return.
Time flies. My eyes - they no longer burn.

Real renewal comes through realization of the need of recompense.

Lazy Days and Sundays

It's that kick off your shoes, walk-around-in-your-socks-or-barefoot kind of day,
The days where even time seems murky -
Sleep, wake, eat - back to bed
Lazy? Maybe. Proud of it? Hell no. Gonna change it? Nah.

We all deserve to break - each other off (that's for another poem)
But sometimes our beds deserve special recognition for our impositions,
The numerous (sleeping) positions we toss and turn into every-night.
So let's make peace.

It's Sunday. Time for the sun to come out (and me to ignore it);
Hug your pillow, close the blinds.
How many hours has it been? Eight? Ten?
- Who cares?

So here's to lazy days.
Hazy lazy days.
Mazy hazy lazy days.
Crazy mazy hazy lazy daysy.
Ladies - save your laughter.

Guess Who?

This is what we were made for ...
What we're made out of bears no resemblance to what we create;
Or disfigure - But wasn't there always beauty in sadness?
Melancholy music. The best kind.

Throwing caution to the wind.
Potential? Exploited.
Doubts? Kept in check.
Desire ... Ruled and ruling in equal measure.

This is what we were made for;
The beautiful eyes and mental manipulation betraying our vampiric ancestry.
It's glorious, don't you see?
That's why they want it.

These cycles begin, wash, repeat, hang
... Yourself. But guess what?
You can't die. Not yet.
Not till you serve your purpose.

This is what we were made for.
From the quiet intensity in our personae,
To the silent strength that our idiosyncrasies project.
The devil didn't know what he created with these ones.

We're the ones that cause addictions,
That inspire, create, seduce and destroy.
"The beautiful ones are not quite human"
-So, you scared yet?

Trod

Walk Foot.
Trod on and on and on and -
Is like more while I don't even know where I trodding to.
I see who I trodding past, who I trod with ...
Those who have trod before I ... Even thought about beginning a trod.
The trod from darkness into light.

Shake hand.
Meet, greet, kiss babies ... But I'm no holy man, don't expect me to pronouncing no blessing.
Unless you want to be blessed by great thoughts
Yes - I man dream, a whole heap.
But how to turn that dream into reality.

Look Round.
We have destroyed mother earth, the worst pickney dem you could ever think of is us.
We hurt each other, we hurt the land.
Out of many, I stand ... Alone.

So Trod.
Walk a path of your own choosing, we not using no excuses.
Those destined for greatness will find it.
Those destined to be content will settle for it.
The pursuers of happiness, will happily pursue ... Till they wear out their shoes.

Rain

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The final warnings before the clouds open.

Healing rain.

It pours ... Into my glass.

Colourless, odourless swirls.

WHAP!

Shards of broken glass as I hurriedly rise to see what's causing the racket on the roof.

(The first rain after drought often makes people giddy)

I see the wind, I feel the rain on my skin - even before I step into it.

Healing rain.

Taking away all traces of darkness in my mind.

Freeing my ... soul. 

Enveloping me.

Ever kissed in the rain?

Better yet ... Ever kissed the rain?

The true children of water experience renewal with each shower.

L'Theatre

Step right up!
Lights! Cameras! Action!
We have a something for everyone here!
Streamers of red velvet ...
The crowd roars for more -
Endless expresssions of life in this theatre of the dead.

Rain. Cleansing.

The crowd goes.

The actors are left alone.

Their grotesque poses possessing no more spectacle.

The paint on their faces draining.

The wind picks up. A chill.

The claptrap selection of boards that the theatre is built on start to fall-

A part ... Of a history long gone.

Virile bodies now stricken with the twist*

Night. Death. Darkness.

Nothing left but the skeletal remains of the actors.

Waiting for another crowd.

More red velvet.

More noises.

Sunshine.

"Did I not tell you we have something for everyone?"

The Twist - Another term for rheumatic arthritis.

Art and Poetry. Is Poetry Art?

Here's to you. Her I mean.

Chubby cheeks and all.

Red the colour of your anger -

Better to hide the fact that you were lost as to what happened.

Your initial curiosity highlighted by 'that' spark in your eyes,

The innate inquisitiveness; the force of character

Oh yes! Mama Africa found a worthy daughter in your skin

-Stronger yet than you'd expect.

Trans-planted, formed into something entirely new

Will you ever have a redemption song?

Will it be a shout into silence?

-Or shots ... Vodka. On the rocks. In those sturdy glasses.

Yes! Mama Africa's daughter.

Beauty untold.

Head held high.

Unshakable beliefs. Only a pause now and then to distract those who try to get too close.

Here's to you.

Carnival

It's ... faded
Dull colours, soft music. Everything seems washed-out;
It's probably just the gauze over my eyes,
Temporary blindness.

Vivid memories of brighter, louder times.
Are colours and sound intertwined?
They must be twins... You never have an abundance of one without the colours.
Red, green, blue - This adobe dwelling reminds me of summers past.

Laughter ... stamping feet.
Maybe we danced, I don't remember.
Did we drink? Or was the drunkenness caused by our intoxication in the moment?

I can't forget. Your costume.
We dressed you in feathers. Bright blue.
Times have past ... As the years have drawn nigh
Colours have faded - without even a sigh.

Raison d'être

It all comes back. Solace I mean.
Will history justify those who exist without justifications?
Are we responsible for the beginning, middle, and end of our stories?
-He who holds the pen, holds the world - what of those without hands;
Is their story written for them?

It all comes back ...
The smoky bars, shot after shot. Shit, he's been hit!
Get him a doctor ... Or another drink.
My mind's murky, it hurts to think.

It is how it is ...
Everyday a little more Sisyphean - are we all his children?
Is this fate reserved for those who choose to challenge the gods?

It remains so.
Live. Breathe. Eat. Sleep. Rinse. Repeat.
What comes of this ...
Are we wasting time?

It goes.
Broken glasses. Broken promises. Broken dreams. Broken people.
Tears. Bitter salty reminders that we each contain a little bit of the source of life.
From dust came life. From life, comes dust.
Where did the dust come from?

Acceptance.
I think. Therefore I am.
Well ... I drink, thereforeiam?
I should stop. Before the poison consumes my liver.
-Or my brain cells.

Renewal.
Washing of hands of those who have hurt.
Will they hurt again?
Time will tell.

Forgiveness.
All hurt which was caused must go.
What replaces it?
You chose.

Meditation on Orange [Dedication to ...]

It's funny the thoughts that peeling a mango with your teeth bring to you;
(We all know that a Mango is the most intimate fruit there is, you have to get into it, all sticky and messy to fully enjoy it)
There's protective skin,
Fleshy and juicy insides, and a solid core.

- Not sure if we're talking about mangoes or humans now*

But orange was the light that burnt in your eyes, when you realized that you were in love.
Was it a sunny day? I can't recall
So much like molten gold the feeling was, not yet fully formed
-But we all knew it was there.

Orange ... You're allergic, aren't you?
Always had a reminder to get you your Vitamin C from other sources ...
Sad though ... Cause I myself am addicted to OJ ... Not Simpson, of course.

Orange - the colour of 'that' lady, she not changing course, you know?
But we had to ...
Orange the cousin of red, for stop signs, or danger.
Was it dry like the desert the first time you knew it had to end?
Or did the rays cause water to pool ... And tears to fall?

Orange rind ... I remember discussing the use of it with you one day ...
We still don't know.
Orange was our dawn ... Orange now the sunset.
Let's drink once more from the cup... You know, for old times' sake?

Memento Mori

What will people say about you when you die?

Will they say anything really?
Will it be mum?
Yours I mean... Will she be the only person who has good words to say about you?

What are you living for?
Some of us chase happiness.
Some chase revenge.
Some ... Alter their lives to fit into expectations put onto them.
Others ... Push life to its limits.

What will be the mark you leave?
... Will it be in the words you speak?
Will it be the thoughts left in the minds of those who you hold in your arms?
Will it be your silence?

"You are going to die, does this worry you?" - Markus Zusak

Make of it what you will.

Convalescence n. "The period of  recovering strength and health after illness"

Not illness this, though.

But recovery needed nonetheless.

Woe be unto the man who deliberately shoots himself.

Why does he do it?

Is it beneficial?

Is it real? As in any of it?

So many unanswerable questions ...

'Guh ask yuh father' - Doesn't apply here.

Hearing sounds, whispers of the universe itself shaking to its foundation.

-It's as lost as I am.

Rally n. 'turn for the better'

Patience.

Selections by Friends

It's funny ... Who we surround ourselves with;
People who we can relate to ...
Members of the other sex we'd never date;
Or time and it's minions never to break the connection.

So what happens when you fall for a friend?
Undeterminable beauty, if you're lucky...
If you aren't ... You lose a friend -
Lose a friend either way ... Just that some losses are beneficial.

So is it worth it?
It was - It ... Is ... Not as it seems on face value.
But instead it's tied into the complications that we innately bring.

-"Sold my blood for money, and I love how it feels."

Echoes

The ongoing drone of silence.
They’ve always said silence is deadly;
Well it’s eating at what’s left of my humanity.
Still – Hope springs eternal, we’re in the Kingdom of Rust
… Revival exists for all that turns to dust.

Waiting on the dawn; not sure I can manage a long night
-Time passes lazily when you can’t sleep
No respite for the dreamless
The house is burnt, What’s left?

-Only to work the fields.

*Let’s be hopeful

The Butterfly Effect

I’ve always believed that life was run off balance;
“Give up something and you’ll get something in return”
So I’m off the pursuit of happiness – for now
I’ll stick to more tangible gains.

See, everything I’ve built was done by my own two hands;
Everything I’ve destroyed done by the same
-So yes, I take responsibility, but there are other worlds than these.
Who knows? It may have worked out otherwise.

Standing at the bottom of the hill – Shouting
“Can you hear me?”
It’s a bittersweet tonic of pain and acceptance that I bring.
Drink of this poisoned chalice …
Poison cures Poison.

Lift once broken wings … Not yet time to fly.
Only time will tell when I’ll ascend again.

It’s 95. It fits.

“In a healthy individual, a broken bone that has healed properly is strongest where it was once broken. You have not lost any life …”
- Yann Martel

The old intensity’s back; except this time I’m unsure from where the fire stems,
I’ll push myself to hell and back – it’s all I’m left to live for.
My next project? Complete subjugation then twinning of mind and body.

But projects take time; in the meanwhile I’ll appreciate the innate weaknesses that humanity brings …
Before the healing and return to strength begins.
Limits? What limits?
I’ll stop when I’m dead.

*Forgive the research, but again, look up the title under numerology.

XCIII

I don’t drink* any-more;
My choice of poison was never strong enough to beat the antidote.
Now the medicine cabinet’s broken
(Or is it that I’ve moved?)
Either way, there’s no cure for where I’m at.

“We each create hell for ourselves, we have no one to blame but ourselves for our demons”
The dying embers of coherent thought provide me with some respite.
Or maybe it’s just … spitefulness; that would lead me to drag my morose body to the dumps.
Repairs? Reparations? What does this represent?

I’d tell you – but I’ve already thought too much; the thinking’s gone and fucked my brain over.
So I’m here. Alert, but comatose
(Think I don’t use enough commas?)
… Only Heaven Knows.

*I don’t drink that much

[You know the drill. The title's 93. Look it up under numerology]

Broken Wings

I’m feeling all too human
-Like just born; clear headed
Just waiting on the slap to clear my lungs …
The cutting of the cord from mother – earthbound.
Wings cut, halo broken.
This is what it’s like when angels fall.

One thing sticks, the lack of fear -
I’ll cope, fairly well.
After all, I’m made for this …
Aren’t we all, after a fashion?

Fashioned by the universe’s hands – yet none of us can tell time -
Not to take it’s course …
So awaiting new beg-yuh-a-listen-nuh please jibes …
Or maybe just new beginnings.

Letter to a Friend

I’ve eulogised you already, you know -
“It’s often said that the very great die young – Heaven itself mourns their passing;
So here I am, holding your ashes, I know you’d want them scattered;
You taught me much – showed me a whole other side of life.
-Who knows, maybe like a phoenix, you’ll rise from your ashes … Are we still in the time of miracles?”

Then words fail me – You were always
A flawed beauty,
Too delicate for mortal men, it took superhuman understanding to start to see into you,
Man-I’d-pull-it-back-if-I-could … But the world is run off cycles
And ours was finished.

So here I stand – wings extended in one final salute.
You’d always had me; like a dream sometimes…
Goodbye … Friend.

In Pursuit of Greatness

Fallen angels all, we stand -
Reminiscing on the wings we once had,
Biding our time will old wounds heal;
Till we’re great again.

Locked out of heaven, still feared by hell -
The sad beauty of our perfections drives fear into the heart of the imperfect
We’ll fly again (hopefully we don’t meet Icarus’ fate)

Individually we strive, till one day we make the common understanding,
The sharing of minds –
The ascension which defies explanation.

Until then,
We’re just pursuing greatness.

Potion … Portent …

I’ve allowed it to drain my life force – my ethos
Gotten slow, lazy
Work getting sloppy -
Where’s the drive?

It creeps … like any good drug
The high blurs all reality … The crash brings clarity
Seeing life in HD now.
What next? … Recovery.

86

Cut my wrists, watch me bleed out; it’s red
The rage – that bubbles up and projects through our eyes
Like a tornado it spins – leaving us dregs, dead inside, but joined at the rib
-The Eve of our advent is upon us.

Open your hands watch the design;
The intricate lacework of your veins that reflect the bonds that bind us;
Infinitely – Is Eden our Aim?

Kiss my lips, draw a pattern – of your desire;
Wounded but still hungry, we sustain each other -
Your breath, my blood …
We dissolve into the source of life – water

Watch the scars – the crown; a hint of my former glory -
The veil – now black and discarded – your innocence no more.
Here we are – broken – disfigured.
-Perhaps when sun comes up we’ll turn to stone

The Golgotha of pain drains all but those who are already dead inside.

[For the title, look up the meaning under numerology - make of it what you will]

… Thoughts while Taking a Shortcut

Ultimate peace seems one step too far;
-Like that branch I could never leap high enough to grasp properly
So here I am; Winner in most things …
What have I lost? Nothing … yet

The proclivity to talk out of turn may turn victories into losses;
But what of silence; utter meaninglessness –
Or meaning … Full, but in what ways?

The rules of engagement remain thus;
Take all you can. Providence provided for this;
Victory has no meaning if Pyrrhic.

So … What to do?

83

A clown of sorts, if clowns made people sad
Washed out, faded … Picture this in black and white
Black … for the silence, the dead weight. The beauty in sadness of words unsaid
White … for the coldness; stepping into dimensions new.

How does it benefit a man to gain the world and lose his soul?
Well – he gains the world, doesn’t he?
Aren’t we all just soulless… devils and demons eating each other from the inside out?

Silence – the consent to do things unspeakable,
But it’s better than meaningful conversation, isn’t it?
… You decide

Second Lesson [To my unborn son]

Real men give hugs.

That my son, is the best advice you’ll ever get;

I took years to realize that true strength comes through vulnerability,

That’s how you realize who you are, and what you’re capable of.

So love my son, love those you meet, love them for who they are

-Not what they do

-Not what they’ve achieved

-Not whatever title they have

True love is unconditional. Don’t bother wasting time with subterfuge.

(You may need to look that up)

There’s no crime in being yourself;

There are those who will love you,

Those who won’t

At the end of the day, who needs to be in your life will be.

So smile, lad. I’m making my mistakes so you don’t have to.

So live every moment meaningfully,

Live without prejudice

-You’ll never know why someone is the way they are.

And at the end of the day remember.

REAL men give hugs.

Coma

Crisp, dead auburn leaves,
A chill in the air,
Sadness.

Change of Direction

It’s time. Time to stop wishing for more and just doing more.

Thoughts become actions, actions become legacy. Legacy is what goes down in history books;

Book upon book, thousands of pages turn. Pages of life, pages of those who no longer walk among us.

What mark will be left when you no longer walk of this earth?

Will it be blank; a whimper of an exit?

Will it be flashy? Or will it just be an exit? Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s time. Time to tell a story, a Iliad, a novel; maybe just a Haiku …

You decide; delve into your deepest desires to decipher your direction.

We all make the trod;

But where will I go?

Where will you go?

Will we go together?

Or is it a solo journey?

Read, Write… Speak.

In all of these, always remember your story.

Only you can tell it.

Afterburn [Unfinished]

Cigarette smoke;

Our bodies move in tune to the beat of our hearts; punctuated by the sharp intakes of breath

We die in each other, over and over again … till there’s no more left to give.

Hormones, her moans; raging- desire swelling up, to release in one giant wave.

We die a little at the end.

Climax; climb … back on- it’s round two … Wednesday night at the fights,

No boxers, just us; as nature intended; avant garde, au naturalle

Experiencing the divine-ss, which is inside you…r mind,

Your body ambrosia.

Internal Battles

Searching for ultimate peace, if even for a moment;

-Locked away from the world, as if the answers are all inside.

Fighting epic battles with the mental ghouls…

This won’t be a fight decide-

d; in a day, a week, a month – it’s an eternal fight

Sleep is as elusive as peace is, stretching the sinews of my being,

-Ripping the fabric of my mind to shreds;

Questioning the truth of what i’m seeing,

… What is reality?

Too many questions; not enough time to answer them all.

Is this how life was meant to be?

Are we destined to live incomplete?

-Do we find completeness in another? Or is it a journey trod alone?

The mind eats itself, dies, and eats itself again.

… A Contemplation on Darkness

Solitude.

The voices inside fuck with my head, magnifying every doubt

-They pull me into the abyss; the darkness where my soul once was.

‘You hurt everyone who cares about you, you selfish ungrateful ass’

-Have you not a brain?

This intense self-examination; the product of practiced mental cruelty…

It’s morbidly morose; the masochism which defines my being.

-I am my only critic.

Change needs to come, and quick; before I lose all I hold dear.

Where the fuck do I go from this?

First Lesson

History is written by the victors;

Remember those words my son, they’ll guide your path.

Win … but not at all costs, the man with too much success loses himself,

Knowing only the desire for more.

I’ve seen a lot my son; forgotten more than you may ever learn.

I’ve loved, I’ve lost, I’ve walked away from many things;

-A lesser man would have regrets. Regard disappointments as lessons learnt.

In all your dealings be an honest man; be as good as your word.

Love truly, but not freely. It’s a gift too valuable to waste.

Son, you shall be everything I wasn’t, or couldn’t be;

-Let no one trample on your dreams.

Live on your own terms.

Dry

-It’s days of summer, when hearts quicken with the heat,

When lips of friends and strangers alike meet.

The time for flings, Spring’s …

Departed, leaving us with the harsh realities that the sun brings.

All of this temperamental, transient … it can all end in a heartbeat,

So we bask in the moment, adorned in blissful ignorance.

Seeing life with the eyes of babes, hope springing eternal;

We are most alive when we are in each other.

Still … the sun brings unexpected clarity,

Shattering all preconceived notions of my platonic conception.

Magnifying all faults, highlighting all fears… the whole man is as yet scarce made up.

There is a journey to be made; I trod on with alacrity.

Wordplay

The complex contemplations of a concave mind,

The latest set of alliterative allegorical assumptions to be written on paper.

The mind wanders, then eats itself; regurgitating its constituent compounds,

The bile of understated, underused knowledge.

Visionless visages stumble along; the consquences of mind consumption.

The poet pauses at the paucity of hope, the perennial poverty which passes over once-green pastures,

The reaper is near, the reaping has come; time stands still, grimy grimness overcomes all.

Searching for the silver lining in this struggle.

Aluta Continua

The Gift

We are the chosen,

Chillun’ of god,

And all god’s chillun’ got shoes.

So we walk.

We are the chosen, the gifted few who push-

Ourselves, others, the fabric of the universe itself,

Far past it’s limits

Always seeking, searching, yearning- To be the best.

We are the chosen,

You pass us by every day, not realizing the greatness within,

The greatness without which the world would not be where it is,

-The greatness waiting to explode … Into a talent, a skill, PASSION;

It defines us. The chosen.

La Casa

The smell of fresh sheets, waking up next to the same face, your face, every morning-

The sharp scent of freshly ground coffee, the taste of your lips as I receive the first real kiss for the day-

No goodbyes, not between us- Only laters.

Your touch lingers as I start my day

Thinking about you- wondering if you’re doing the same,

Looking forward to nothing but seeing you, feeling you in my arms at the end of the day,

To look into your eyes, lit as they are with your boundless passion

-Lovestruck? Lovesick?; Or is it simply what lovers do?

The rustle of leaves hit me as I walk towards home,

Nature and I one, at peace … The day coming to it’s logical conclusion

Ending as it began- In bed with you.

"I'm a dreamer, but i'm not the only one" - John Lennon

The Return

Pause. Think. Allow for the sharp outtake of breath.

She creeps up behind me and draws me into her toxic embrace.

Dark kisses, of nothingness and pleasure.

Just when I think my fantasy will continue, she whispers in my ear

“The World Does Not Revolve Around You”

Left pondering- she disappears after she says this,

Karma is indeed a bitch-and i’ve ended up on the tail-end of her latest joke;

Sweet seduction disappearing into the cold truth,

-Her voice echoes in my mind.

“The World Does Not Revolve Around You”

The world, once my oyster, has closed in,

Encapsulated me in a bubble of my thoughts,

A protective prison of my own construction.

-It reverberates through my soul

“The World Does Not Revolve Around You”

Humbled now. Stronger Even.

Made whole by my defeat.

I know the world doesn’t revolve around me, and I don’t mind it.

But for you, remember

“The World Does Not Revolve Around You”

Embracing the darkness,

Being captivated by my every thought,

Every fear magnified, swelling to a crescendo.

A swelling wave that threatens to wash away me and all I stand for.

The embrace brings final peace,

Coming through the turmoil of my inner being has made me stronger,

-Darker, more cynical.

The cold slap of reality results in a changed man.

Emblazoned on my chest are the signs of the struggle,

Battle scars- Fighting the ultimate enemy,

Myself.

The battle is won. But this WAR continues.

The Glass

Often used as a metaphor for life- Is it half full?

Is it half empty?

No one ever asks ‘What’s in it?’

We just assume to assuage our fears that the aperitif that is present may not be pleasant.

So I ask- What’s your choice of poison?

Does it burn as it goes down?

Or does it mellow you out? Molding you into the immaterial?

My drink is literal poison, tearing down inhibitions;

Then eventually tearing away at vital organs.

1 shot becomes 2, two become twenty-

Until i’m a mass of what could have been great.

White Blank Page

Trapped in my own apathy- a prison of my own construction,

This is where death and the Doomsters lie-

They destroy any thought of beauty, of light, of love.

Only darkness remains.

Flashes of cold hard steel, glimpses of blood,

Some of it my own, some of it the all i've cared for,

Images of desolation and utter destruction surround me,

Yet I stay calm- Unmoved.

The darkness breaks for a moment- the sun,

Tearing down illusions created.

Yearning to immortalize these visions, by putting them on paper,

But the page stays blank.

Femme Fatale

You live your life trying to forget,

Pretending not to care, when the hurt burns you to the core,

I see you throwing yourself wholeheartedly into causes,

Living on the wild side of life,

How hard is it to keep up the pretense?

To make the world feel like everything is fine?

How many nights do you try to forget, but can't?

How many drinks have you taken?

How many bottles has it been?

Have you found a cure to your broken heart? That brokenness?

Or are you still searching?

Carelessness will never fill the void, neither will false enthusiasm.

See, I see right through you, femme fatale.

I'm the match that started the flame.

Wanderlust

Making tracks on this old country road,

Sentimentality behind me, the future ahead of me,

No time for regrets, time exists only to walk,

Lonely- Maybe, but not alone.

'Love will not betray you, dismay or enslave you, it will set you free'

The Walk [Also known as the mirror...]

Dead inside, as it is now,

Embracing the macabre, gaining strength from it…

Tell me, what do you fear most?

Is it the Doomsters that slowly take your soul away?

Is it the cold reality of death?

Have you truly embraced your inner reality? The beast that inhabits all man?

It is almost ghastly when we begin to realize our true nature,

The fact that none of us are as good or as pure as the public sees us.

-Have you seen the Others that go through this world with us?

Or do you stand blind?

Home is where the heart is, so are the heartless doomed to wander forever? Lost to the rest of humanity?

Nomad, Noman, Everyman. Who are YOU behind the facade? What are your TRUE desires?

-Do you pretend to have faith?

Do YOU even understand it?

We may all see the day where everyone embraces his inner man.

Maybe.

Hiatus.

-I’m tired. And not regular tired,

I mean worn down physically, emotionally, mentally.

The fatigued feeling that comes from your body saying that you’ve had enough…

I get it now. It probably stems from thinking too much, but I doubt that.

Now it’s ME time.

-I’m gone.

Death of A Dreamer

“One day, i’m gonna be the richest man in the world”, 

He was just a boy, but he already had big aspirations…

The dream moved to being a doctor, until he realized he couldn’t stomach blood.

So it continued, his dream continued to be malleable and hopeful.

Time passed, years in fact … The desire to have larger than reality dreams remained,

The difference was that this time he dreamt of love,

-Perfect and true love

It was the beginning of the demise of the dreamer

He gave all he had to this dream, some would even say the dream changed him.

Until reality struck, and he woke up.

Realizing that dreams only exist when one’s eyes are closed.

Now he dreams no more, preferring to stay in the tangible world,
-Scarred by what he once believed in.

The dream is dead, and so is the dreamer.

… Le Changement

Hazel eyes, once compassionate, now tinged with the steely gaze of a misanthrope.

His faith in humanity gone.

Blame him not, as his experiences have made him who he his.

Complete only in his imperfect vision of himself.

He walks a lonely path, the only path he knows now.

Take it all and give nothing back…

Hence he uses those who present themselves to him,

Stealing hearts, affection, loyalty

-It never occurs to him to reciprocate this…

After all, would they really deserve it?

Blame him not, he was not born this way…

Blame him not, they who created this, this monster know themselves.

-Redemption only an empty dream for the faithless.

… [Untitled]

No distractions. Just me, my pen, and my thoughts.

This melting pot of ideas and desires,

Those are the prisoners of my mind.

-Daring to be set free, but will I let them?

 Uncountable words, said and unsaid, but devoid of meaning

We’re so caught up in trying to say ‘the right thing’ that we forget to speak our minds

-Take a step back. Let’s be real …

Let me be real with you.

Be real with me.

What’s in it to lose?