I live within the arsonists choir, singing praises for raging fire.
We see it burn, we hear its call, we sing the fire’s blazing song.
I live within the arsonists choir and I am next, the chosen pyre.
Hear my song, sing my praise, until I am gone and only ash remains.
I do burn, I do rage, I am fire, the eternal blaze.
Burnt to ash, blackened dust, my praises sang by the arsonist choir.
That congregation of those waiting to embrace conflagration.
Feel the rage, feed the fire, embrace the pain, hold the flame.
Until not remains but ash and praise, in this…
The arsonist’s choir, our funeral pyre.
So The Foo Fighters caused this one, as it was inspired by their song “Something From Nothing” so figured I’d mention that one. Good song that one.
Oddly fitting this airy flitting, this flowing floating flowering I find inside my mind.
Waving, wavering thoughts of fleeting smiles and cheerful chuckles floating on floundering ground a strangely sinking happiness I never thought to be found.
A sense of ease at these oddly fitting flitting fleeting ephemeral thoughts of ease that do indeed please, leave me a smile and a thought that in this moment I am indeed grateful to be.
Happy to exist, a pleasure to see, and while I’m happy, for this floating fleeting moment I’ll say with a smile and a wave “Happy to meet you!” with a nod and a quickly added “Good day!”
It’ll not last, that I’m sad to say. But instead I’ll smile and remember, the sad days that stay too long are the ones that make this fleeting floating an ephemeral dream, something that echoes long after its gone.
So I go to smoke, and make my words do such a dance,
Perhaps the drifting curls of heat will put me in a trance,
Seeing the wind take the remnants of burning breath away
Might put some light inside my mind, renew some hope for the day.
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 and We dislike that Me that decides to cry when We decide to go and try to do something that I will like but We despise and that Me at that time inside my mind took that knife to that I that made the We and left Us alone with only that shuddering shaken shattered Me that made mistaken miserable miscalcuations that led to monotonous misery and an indentured imagination lacking intellectual stimulus and emotional support so the I and We are gone and Me is sitting and standing while stalking and crawling and sitting in that corner rocking cutting their arms with a blade that doesn’t have an edge while edging closer to the edge staring in stupified satisfaction for surviving without living, simply persisting in painful permenance and stymied stagnation without proceeding and exceeding just falling behind, lacklust and lacking
I take a shuddering breath in an attempt to fill my shaking form.
The words they gnaw and bite, a raging storm.
It dwells inside, a burning hole with in my chest.
I don’t hurt because I’m empty, I realize as I burn and twist and writhe.
I hurt because the words most surge forth, the stories must be told.
That which dwells with in, the thoughts and worlds created by the muse inside my soul.
So much within and only so much room to use, the words are to heavy to carry too many to hold.
They bite and gnaw at my chest, beasts I’m unable to hold at bay.
It rips me apart in a visceral way, the blood and gore there for me to see as my dark imagination holds sway.
I see now I was never really empty, but rather over full, filled to the brim with the words that I carry, the stories that I hold.
Some things simply must be told.
Two steps forward three steps back the cracks in my mind are the knives in my back. My smile breaks apart my legs won’t bear my weight, the cracks in my mind riddle this rotten form of mine. The knives find my back and leave it riddled with tracks of scars, the pain I knew has once more come home to roost, my smile cracks apart, my skull no longer whole, the cracks in my mind begin to show true.