Symphony of Self

Maybe the burning in my skull would stop and the words would pause for a time.

The strings that pulls my soul apart would grow lax and then my life would once again be mine.

This stained painted glass of a fragmented self, colored to mix the matching pains. To fit with pieces beside and not a single one the same.

A convoluted cacophony of violence and agony, a chorus of a broken soul, rendered still and un-moving, a symphony of self, a song of me,  these words are what they show, in all my hubris and twisted glory.



There is an image in my head that sears my blood and veins. It colors my thoughts as it shadows my words and bubbles to the surface but never to close. I seek this image in all I do but it never is clear it never shows through.

Again, again again again again.

Never showing, never clearing I can’t let it go, I have no choice in this I have to find the thought, that one I think I forgot.

Seeking, seeking, seeking

Searching for this story this one thing that lets me be. It’s the meaning of all I am and it’s bloody red and death’s good friend yet I know not what it is and I’ve found it all but once. Never finding it again.

Burning (All is Flame)

I slam my head against the wall that I built before my fall I can’t stop this burning.

This flame inside my mind, that tells me I am nothing, that all I am is dust and envy with nothing to show and nothing to gain.

Still, I slam my head into this wall and bleed and bleed with nothing to show for it but pain and rage.

And yet, I still exist, I still reside, in this empty life with this empty smile of mine.

Burning, burning, burning, I can’t seem to stop this incessant yearning.

Fingers moving across the letters, fingers moving and dripping red blood.

The ink drained from my soul, writing out my life and letting go the flood.

I empty myself out, pour it onto the page and all I ever get is filled with more and more rage.

I exist and I bleed and I cut with these words, cutting out the blood to silence the scream I need to release more and more.

This endless rage, this endless seething, leaking blood red fury in a sea of green envy.

Too foolish to admit, to kind to blame, all I am is alone, and everything is bright red flames.


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.