I can’t think for all the silence yet can’t talk for all the shouting, this constant echo ends with only myself that is doubting. Rounding the corners of the mortal coil it doubts my own existence, unable to shake the apathy it breeds with a rather cursed persistence.
It scratches it gouges it wounds my very mind, causing the coils of thought and sanity to become disturbed, unwind. I feel myself unmade, i see myself undone, and I have to wonder in the first place, when this even begun. When did I exist? Was it ever real? The doubt inside spirals away, disbelief shadows everything, all that I see and feel.

Don’t Call it Survival

Don’t call it survival

That’s not what I aim for, that’s not for what I wish

I want a revival, I want something more, I want the lights and the bells and all the whistles, I want the glitter, and the glisten and I want all of you to lend your ears to listen.

Don’t call it survival, that’s not what I aim for, it’s not for what I wish

Survival is empty, a thing of meeting needs, never wants, and it never ends and never gets better, it only gets worse. There is no dreams, no lights, no bells but the funeral bell that tolls, at the end that is forever and always foretold and known.

No, what I want is not survival, I want a life, a meaning, something more then an endless meeting of needs, of simply surviving, never truly doing, not striving.

Don’t call it survival, it’s not all that we should aim for, aim higher, and see the light, don’t call it survival.

It’s so much more than that, so don’t call it survival, don’t aim so low, remember your dreams, those stories you told that you would one day be, and look around, look at your now, and ask yourself, did I ever live? Did I try to strive to thrive?

Or did I simply try to survive?

A Writer’s Woes and Sorrows Told

There was once a writer who thought themselves weak, a worthless wastrel of wasted intentions, a person of pitiful poetic pain and who hated their own reflection and what they world wanted of them, to waste and fade.

However this writer that still exists, found some companions with which they did share their pain, their hurts and bruises, they told of their sorrows their inner woes, even if they could not put them in simple words, in ideas that could truly be told, that one could hold and examine and see the problem and the answer right there, exactly what it was and where it could be.

These pains, these woes and sorrows they held, couldn’t be told in words like that, in ways simple and easy to hold, their language was cryptic and their message bleak, however in releasing that weight, that burden so dear, they found they no longer carried that horrible feeling, that dreaded fear, they breathe the air, no longer toxic yet not quite so clear, and more importantly yet, they could feel the water that leaked from their eyes, letting themselves cry, each time, for what was to them the very first time.

I Scream

I scream and rant and try to cry, and yet, no tears will come, my soul is gone dry. I scream and rant and wail my pain, my rage unending due to knowing what should be. What was meant, but its gone to dust, nothing is left, and so I scream and rant, and try to cry, cry for what was lost, and yet no matter what I do no tears will fall, for my soul is dry.

Cracked and broken and riddled with holes, and so still I scream, I scream and scream until no breath is left, and then I try to wail, my throat dry and torn, my wails turn to coughs, blood upon my hands. Yet, still I scream my rage, unable to grieve, unable to despair, I wail my outrage, my pain, my horror, that what was lost was my happiness, and I will never recover.

The Poet and The Flame

There was once a poet, though few would know it, kept their hurt inside, with in an iron cage was a fire of shadow, and frozen pain that did rage and rage for endless days. The key to this was hidden away, never to be seen by the light of day, for with love it could be extinguished, the pain vanquished and the demon sent away. The poet though, they feared this day, with all their heart, for they feared with the flame extinguished, so would go the poet’s art.

Maybe through that darkness a light they’ll see, with out the darkness that blighted that endless sea, the depths inside their soul hidden away by corrupt flame and vile fear, of any and all they might indeed hold dear. However without hope could come no relief, no way to cleanse that shadowed spark, tainted and cruel, however it was their soul and all they ever knew, so they clung to pain, like it was their lover’s last breath, and never let go, not even in death.

A Devil On My Shoulder

I’ve got a devil on my shoulder, it stands right beside my ear. It never moves you see, standing there through out the year.

Oh it fidgets, and fidgets, crack a knuckle, a few digits, but that’s when its quiet,

when its thinking what to say, oh it just told me something now,

do you want to know what I heard this day?

Poem yes, a song of sorts, a special madness I guess I court,

he talks I listen, though I do not always do, for screams

him are not the same they are for me or for you.

Creepy is as creepy does, it disturbs and disarms,

the alarm of the unsettling shadowed by a lack of possible harm,

perhaps, perhaps, perhaps

its nothing at all, just a creak on the steps, a movement of the air, but maybe…

You should check, check that darkness, maybe you’ll see whats really there.

He’s the one that told, and he often tells true but be careful of you check or his advice will what you rue

For in that darkness does wait something old, forgotten and hungry, and it whispers you see

It whispers to be found by someone like you or like me

But that devil on shoulder,he was an angel once and that thing neither of them wish to meet

No, it’s supposed to be gone, locked away for good but in the darkness it calls, for the curious to come to see

Then, I suppose it tears them apart, a snap of bone, the of flesh, the last beat of a heat

It’s over in a second, I didn’t even realize when it did start, but alas what was done to me

Is about to be done to you

Close your eyes, and take a breath

The lights will dim, your computer will seem to slow as the darkness around does grow

It’s ok, you’ll be fine, thats what you say

But you know its a lie

What was done to me, is about to be done to you

That devil on my shoulder?

He was really here for you.

Early halloween post, enjoy!