Starlit Jaunt

I walk amongst the distant stars while I rest apace alone.

I see that blessed dark call to me while I wander on my own.

Drawn to wonder, forced to doubt I march alone and forever without.

A place to call my own.


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 pitiful pittance, a poor little portion,

Doubly damned and definitely doubting,

Faltering, floundering, assuredly a failure.

Damned and doubting and defiantly deplorable,

Just drowning in despair.

Please help me I’m drowning I cry and none can hear

I’m faltering and failing, falling ever faster

Drowning in the open air.

Thoughts on Doubt – Reasons for Lack

Granted, I’ll admit lately I’ve been wondering about the quality of my works, looking at my previous works and wondering if they weren’t childish in some way or shape, and debating if that doesn’t mean that anything I make will seem as such, as if written by a child in crayon attempting to pretend its really the black ink of a fine tipped pen. Doubt, I find, is such an insidious thing that comes from the most unlikely, and rather odd places. Comments from friends, meant to be friendly or somehow just, rather than doubting a word of advice can twist in the shadows of ones mind, causing that leviathan to rise up from inside one’s self, only to gnaw and feast on what little confidence one might have as it whispers spiteful phrases and points to all those things you’ve done wrong, all those things you’ve noticed yourself, and then points to those that say you’re good, and reminds you, that perhaps they simply feel obligated to say as much, to say such empty praise to a friend to make sure they don’t feel, wronged, in some way. The empty polite words offered in a misguided kindness rather than in bright, painful truth.

Perhaps this simply means I should write more, write of the slaying of my own demons, those twisted things that whisper of horror and violence, the same things that grant me inspiration but cause me to feel that my stories, my poems and words lack the emotion needed to carry a true tale along. You see, I’ve debated on trying to submit some of my shorter stories, or writing new ones for submission, to those publications that might find them as I do, but I can’t help but fear that shadowed leviathan that dwells within me, that voice that tells me to doubt for I’ve no reason to believe. However, again, I’ve no recourse but to believe, but to proceed and walk forward for going back is not an option and well, if one story fails for a time I suppose one might say that failure is limited, it is not the fault of the publisher not finding it worthy, it something flawed that simply must be polished more I suppose.

True failure is not found in the lack of success, but in the lack of any attempt to succeed at all, and in the face of that knowledge, I suppose doubt is nothing more than a shadowed whisper upon the wind, barely there and nothing to pay heed to past the acknowledgment of knowing ones flaws, and attempting as best one may to correct these.


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.