I often reiterate my rending in rants, reading the reiteration in a chorus of crazed chants. Crazed and insane I begin my descent into truly the deranged maligning my own mind with millions of multitudes of reiterated regrets, the reiteration being read in this chorus of crazed chants, the chanting continues and I fall forever forward faster and faster freely flowing towards forgetting the ranting reiteration of the millions of multitudes of unforgotten regrets the rant receding back into the reiterated chorus of a thousand crazed chants. The chanting continues crashing into a crushing crescendo of a multitude of minds that hide meandering miserably inside my own mind with rending wretched remorse that returns me to the rant that awful reiteration of my own wretched nature that leads me back to reading the reiteration of my own rending in rants that simply returns to that chorus of crazed chants that marks the beginning of the cycle going from crazed to deranged the circular psychosis perfected in permanence, the rending repeating with each reiteration as the chorus of crazed chants continues to carry on, the crushing crescendo flowing forth faster and faster as I fall forever. I often reiterate my rending in rants, reading the reiteration in a chorus of crazed chants.
I have muses, two, one is kind and bright but weary of life. The other is not born of me, not inside my mind, but within my soul, it is the drag of life, the scars that don’t show. The pain that burns, that sears my mind and poisons me so, it builds and builds until the dams must burst and wounds re-open unless I purge and let it go, fearful of not indulging that poison muse for fear of making the pain worse. A cruel task master, the whip wielded by life, it cracks and sears upon my soul and upon my mind until I take up the pen, the ink my own life blood and jot my pain, my agony upon paper with words and deed, letting the poison out, sewing the seeping wound once more with words for all to see.
Tired of sorrow so I’m sorry I sorrow so, I never meant to worry you, climbing so high I never thought to fall at all.
I’m tired of sorrow so I’ll say one last time I’m sorry I worried you so and now its morning and your mourning for a friend that climbed too high and never thought to think of that fall at all.
Someone who needed to be above the clouds just to feel safe to breath, the press of bodies the swell of souls was to much to bare, to know.
So I climbed higher still and never thought to fall never thought to slip or tumble, or worry towards that at all.
So I’m tired of sorrow, I’m tired of mourning but I’m sorry I brought you to it. The last apology, the sorrow of a sorrowful poet, my tears have dried and my years have gone, and gone without any kind of love or hope, just mourning every morning, and sorrows every night, I couldn’t rest I couldn’t stop so I reached and reached towards those glorious heights but I never meant for you to hurt for my hurt, my inability to stand the press of people and the swell of souls, and that dreadful wound that was the only emotion I was ever to know.
The shadows see and the eyes they bleed the bones do creak and wait for the weak. They stand behind the backs of those the eyes that bleed do watch with intent while the shadows dance to tempt and distract until the claws snatch and drag the hopeless to the bleeding maw within the dark that well of bodies that hold no soul, no sorrow within that well is known for the shadows devoured it all. Their smiles masks for the skeletons, their joy a macabre dance of blood and bones and eyes that stare and seek. Waiting for the sorrow of the poor and pitiful weak, so my advice to you and these darkened nights don’t go by that well of shadows alone for solitude in grief for you’ll find your respite in the bottom of that blighted well quite brief, with only cruel shadows and hungry bones to which to speak.
Bleeding eyes watch me die and breath me last until they grasp my soul in shadow’s home and drag me through the ground to that darkened bleeding throne they grab and dig and steal my sorrow until nothing of grief is left nothing of sorrow nothing of pain the bleeding stopped and I live again to restart the night where it all began. Where bleeding eyes do watch me die and breath my last until they grasp my soul in shadow’s home and drag me through to that darkened and bleeding throne they grab and dig and steal my sorrow until of grief is left nothing of sorrow nothing of pain the bleeding stopped and i live again to restart the night it all began where bleeding eyes do watch me die and breath my last until they grasp my soul in shadow’s home….
I have shadows upon shadows
Inside my head
Wounds upon wounds
That must be bled
Scars upon scars
That aren’t quite closed
And stories upon stories that cry out
That must never be told
Their voices they shatter me
Cacophony and chaos
They haunt me but alas these stories I hold
They are stories that must never be told
For the sake of my sanity and for the sake of my soul
That muse of mine has been silent for a time
But no more
Chained to me, chained to this place I see
She’ll talk for sure
She’ll inspire me
Be it with blood, or glory to come
I’ll have a story from her lips
Something new, nothing old
Or else it’s time to leave her, my old muse
There in that darkness, that bitter cold
If that’s the case I’ll find something new
A muse that will speak, and speak to be heard
Not this weak willed thing that stutters and whispers
Incomplete tales and stories that could never be told