Cracking Creaking No More

Cracking creaking and suffering more, I see no reason, no reason at all as to why I hurt ever more.

The cracking and creaking and ever leaking form suffers and suffers ever more, though the pain shows not on my fading form.

It’s locked inside with these screams of mine as this cracking and creaking mind of mine breaks and shatters more and more, like a hammer to glass my soul falls apart and I hear it cracking and creaking and shattering more.

I wrap my arms around my self, to hold myself together, and simply scream in silent pleas “No more, no more.”


Broken Art/Burning Stars

The pain keeps me grounded, the agony keeps me sane. It stops these wicked thoughts from forming as it kills me all the same.

The aches keep me whole even as I fall apart, the scars hold me together as a broken work of art.

These tatters are my riches, the ragged holes my gold, they leak the inspiration for the words that seem to flow.

When the darkness grows to large and their whispers to great I wrap my tatters close and clutch to this aching scars to let them lead me onward like the burning of the stars.

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 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.

Hey I can write again..and no its not happy. (Poem is untitled)

My soul is maimed, tattered and torn, it is only pain I know, no wish to gain, no drive to know, just a ceaseless void, and empty cold.

I clutch it close, this cold I hold, this life line to existence, the only way I know, the only way to live, to endlessly exist, to hurt and withhold, to be maimed and cold, to exist instead of live, no life to call my own.

My soul is maimed, tattered and torn, it is only pain I know, no wish to gain, no drive to know, just a ceaseless void, and empty cold.

This empty cold, this pain, this tattered soul, this my life, my home. With no love to claim, and no true home, I wander lost, with no wander lust, no drive to continue, no passion to warm my weary soul. I want to stop, I want to cease and end, for this life to be over.

I want to end, I want to stop, to stop the pain and end the cold, to no longer hurt, to no longer be so dreadfully alone.

The empty cold is gone, the pain no more, my life is fleeing, in this barren land, this empty waste, with no home to claim, no drive to wander I lay my head to sleep, to rest and cease, to cease to screaming inside my head, to quiet to pain of my spirit. I wanted to leave it, leave it behind and call it an end, so I stopped, I let my self be carried away, quietly into that dark. To know no more, this pain, this cold, this maimed and tattered soul I could my home, and oh so sadly, called my own.

Shamble On

Scarred, shattered, broken.


Touched by sorrow, shadowed with pain, I shamble on.

Towards some light, towards something.

Some hope to ease this pain

With nothing but sorrow in my heart, and suffering in my soul.

I shamble on.

With nothing obvious to gain, and only yet more to lose.

I continue to push, to press.

I continue to move, refusing to stop, refusing to rest.

For I know.

I know if I stop I lose that light, that wish, that singular goal.

I know, that if I stop, the pain will win, the sorrow consume me.

I will lose the last bastion left.

So, I can not stop, I continue to pull forward.

To carry on.

To crawl over this landscape of broken glass and sharp knives.

Holding on to the one thing I must never lose.