My Mind – not sure which part this is

Hurting, hurting, hunting the scar and seeing the sound as I travels to the ground and Me goes away once more.

We has returned only to go to Their grave and They have yet to be seen again, and Us remains unsure.

I knows not the Me that came nor recognize the We that went once more I lost Myself to Them the only ones I once let in before.

The ones that broke Me and left Us sad, that crippled They and sent the others to Their grave but most of all they shattered I when they broke Me and We have never been the same.

I recognize not the shadows of We or this crazed cursed Me, the ones with scars and pain and its all I see. So all cry and scream and laugh because even shattered, even broken.

I and We and Me and They go to Their grave and sit and carouse and watch as the moon glowers down and the roses blossom tulip flowers, for even mad and even crazed All can speak as one.

“Least We’re not alone.”


A Laughing Warning (Please, listen not)

Laughing and scratching just at your door, hear the quiet steps.

See them scurry from out the light and into the dark, in which they keep their foul delight.

There is no fear to be had, of these spirits here, the owns that make them selves known, those that thrive on fear.

But truly, beware the silent home, fear the quiet dark, hear them plodding in silence and feel the ghastly breath upon that chilled nape of your neck.

Rest not the weary in a house of the dead for you’ll not waken again, this I fear my friend.

They come to take your breath, they come to take your warmth and in it’s place they leave only a chill embrace that has not a single bit of worth.

So fear the silence and rest not the weary but waken the wary and fear for thy soul for they come to claim it and the life you know.

This is the risk and the warning from the wary to the weary, and the words of the restless dead. I warn you not from goodness, but for myself and my own plans.

For I hope you laugh and shake your head, and then take yourself, your weary bones, to your untroubled bed resting in that corner of this home I know so well, this home in which I died, where I am dead.

And where I hope to live again.

A Return and Recognition

Shuddering shaking and shivering in fear, the tapping, tapping that I hear so near.

The fear has returned, my bloodied muse at my back, her tortured hands upon my neck as her twisted  face a broken smile  of recognition.

Such a saddened thing at the return of my grim fate.

Lashed to the page, chained to the well, my pen drips the black ink, the color of my soul that I know so, so well.

My form ephemeral, my purpose not set, I am the writer, to my muse, a fond pet.

She neither cares for me, nor clothes me, or sees to my feed, for she devours not but fear and twisted dreams, and it seems, to me, expects myself to do the same.

Tipping, Tapping, Don’t be Caught Napping

Tipping, tapping, tipping, tapping, don’t be the one that is caught napping.

They’ll snatch you up and eat your soul. Slough off your flesh and devour you whole.

Then you’ll awake and wipe a sweat drenched brow and think to your self just a dream nothing more, nothing less, just idle thoughts tipping, tapping at my minds door nothing more, nothing less.

Tell me my friend, how does that comfort sit when you pull your hand back and see the blood on your clenched fist?

How does it rest with a throat torn raw from the screams of hell,  that idea that whilst you were napping it was only just nightmares  tipping, tapping, at your minds door?

I’ll say it again and I’ll speak no more, I’ll not be the one napping as they tip and tap upon my door. It’s never just a dream, or at least that’s my fear.

Because quite truly friend, while it is a dream, and it might be less.

There is a chance, a slim belief, that those tipping and tapping at your mind’s open door, might indeed be something, not less.

But quite dreadfully more.

My (In)Stability

Writing without wanting, writing without will, I turn out another piece of garbage, another piece for burning-I can’t rhyme, I can’t reason, I don’t know why. Why do I bother? Why even try?

I feel it shouting, screaming, taunting laughing “YOU CAN’T! YOU CAN’T!” as it shouts in glee and tries to hand another razor blade to me. “You’re worthless and weak and won’t amount to much, look how many you’ll help if only you put a little touch, a tiny bit of red across that pale wrist, they’ll hardly notice you’re gone, you’re really not one to miss.”

I hear it shouting and screaming and laughing at me, this doubt that I live with, every damning day, every day it screams and screams, waiting for me to see. Waiting for me to know as it does, my purpose is nothing, I’ll never amount to much, a little bit of red really should be the final touch. It’s not very poetic, it’s not my best work, but really my response is short and simple and something that works.

Fuck off.

A Sad State of Affairs

This isn’t going to be one of my normal poems, or stories. I just wanted to get this off my chest, and that’s my perception of a complete lack of ethics in today’s journalism. Between the attempts of journalism to get people censored at work or in society because of something they said, they might consider to be disagreeable, or an idea they hold to be wrong. In addition to this is the seeking of a story, regardless of who it might damage, or benefit.

It seems, to me, that this sad state of affairs is because of two things, people don’t understand the responsibility one has when one writes journalistic articles, and people know all too well the power of the pen. Between this and the falling back on the reputation of the name of a publication, it seems many people prefer the glory of “Breaking a story” than they do anything else. A good example is the reaction of the writers of the scandal behind both the YouTube advertisement problem and the pewdiepie issue not long before it. Neither time did they go to the party the information was about,  they did not approach pewdiepie or YouTube with their findings, and ask them “What’s this?” they instead approached the subject in such a way to be intentionally damaging, to provide a bigger story. There are comments on twitter (Which I’ve seen and can find if needed) that support this, granted I’ll admit some ability to be wrong, I’m not a journalist, and this is just a blog.

Meaning this is an opinion, not something I’m stating as fact, but the way I’ve seen things happen it’s pretty supported here.

I know I risk losing followers and what not for saying this but I feel not saying that I’m saddened by, would be dishonest. By not mentioning that what I consider a misuse of journalistic power is a sad state of affairs would simply not be right by my standards. If anyone has any information or facts behind this, that they were indeed reporting the news, not making it, please by all means share it. I still can’t help but think that regardless the story itself could have been handled better than having the current going ons that are happening on YouTube because of it.

This mind you doesn’t just apply to just the YouTube affair, there are a myriad of things, people fired because of off color comments outside of work, due to social media and a number of other things that are just wrong. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should and most certainly media and journalism is not there to act as some bully boy, censoring people for society because the government isn’t allowed to.

Note: This isn’t tagged as journalism or anything of the sort, because it’s not. This is simply an opinion on what I’ve seen so far on and the goings on in certain outlets of journalism and media today.