Probably the best way anybody has every described my work. My writing is personal and emotional; in order to understand the meaning behind my words you must attempt to understand the individual writing them; how they poems and words fasten together to create this tightly woven individual.
The ailments of wand’ring eyes,
incessantly searching for their
home attached to the lobes of
a brain worthy enough to see
what they have seen. For they
have no place to stay when the
rains of life wash away the lubrication
keeping them greased and hearty
as they trek through the lush forests,
arid deserts, boundless tundras, abysmal
oceans, fortified clouds, and walk across
the surface of stars seeking their
meaning in the bottomless void of a life
bestowed upon them against their wishes.
Burst from the womb
with a rose tucked behind
my ear and a collar kissed
with the lipstick of blonde
dame cast with an iron lung
and a copper dress. My hair
was gray and thin, growing
color and girth as the years
topple upon this heap of
cigarette butts and dashed dreams
staining the glistening fibers of
platinum star dust bundles.
Born with a pen in hand,
wielded as a sword to slay
the gentiles who resist the
word of revolution. From the
day that my lustrous toes
dug their hooves into the sand
of the crust of the earth my
heart has been set on setting
forth the metamorphosis;
man and mortal to plant and portable.
An inter-dimensional spirit
caught in the tendrils of time.
Death sings the tunes
of symphonies of stars
crashing like symbols in
the sky. Marauding the
archaic eardrums of
the infinitesimal birds
chirping about empty
space. Each octave of
revelation numbs the nerves
and purges the life
from words with a simple
tap on the front of a
wooden soul. For the
song of death is foretold
by our fathers when we
jump from the nest into
the chasms of the cosmos.
We are warned from day one;
don’t take your chances
with your ears fixed on
the sounds of silence.
with the thought of
what I never held
firmly enough to
A few screws loose,
a bolt gone missing
the inflammation of a
and lacerations ravaging
I’ve sewn up the perforations in my slowly beating heart
with the chips of bone falling from my spine. Cleaned up
the mess of misconstrued intentions and lapped up the
excess blood and stress with my veil of skin; staining myself
for the shortcomings of others. Now I lay here pumping
fragments of who I was through my derelict veins, praying
that the architecture of my shadow can support the
dead weight of a shattered ego.
I’m vacationing in Budapest and Prague for the next week and a half or so.
I’ll try to post something when I can, but this will be a severe drought from my usual dashboard spam.
Enjoy your week, and leave me a message if you wish to talk. I love you alllllllllllllllllll!
An experience isn’t an experience unless you attribute such a meaning to it, therefore an experience will only have a dull meaning behind it if you choose to find only that. Conversely, we tend to apply ridiculous meanings to random occurrences, i.e. superstitions. Every moment we are breathing, every moment we can be grateful for, is an experience that we can attach a value to. I operate under the assumption that an experience equates to a memory, and a memory equates to a moment in time captured within the fibrous webs of our brain matter.
I don’t find the world to be as pessimistic as you put it; the dullness in meaning that I find is a result of my desperation and personal struggles. In fact, I wrote that bio at a much more desperate time of my life, although that despair seems apt to return.
My eyes wander every which way because my soul has yet to find a home to call its own. They are in search of something but they do not know yet. The ailments are the dreams and thoughts that plague their nerves and dry out their skin as I travel on seeking meaning in what I do not understand.
And when I find that I am alone
I wrap the arms of memories
living and dead, around my chest
and let their thoughts flood my
lungs. Patiently and on my own,
I will die by the hands of my past.
This is the price you pay for loss of control.
This is the vengeance sought for being yourself.
This is the firing squad for reverting back to mortality.
This is what you get when you transcend humanity
and foster a god like form among the masses.
For when you fall away from this image of perfection,
the better half of logic’s misconceptions, you receive
your dues paid in full.
With a fist full of secretive pigeons, straight to the gut.
Batting their spiting wings in the folds of your stomach,
clawing their ignorant little talons into the undersides
of your skin, and hauling you away by the skin of your ears
to a cellar full of rotten feathers and the new pages of an old bible.
This is what you deserve, for doing the right thing at
the wrong time.
for morning dew
thinning out promises on
the cracked lips of
guise of the squandered;
face in piles of
soaked grass and ash.
in the hues of the
sunrise; the crooked nose
of a battered
star. The bittersweet
touch of wasted raindrops
have blown their
last sour kisses his way
My thoughts run deeper
than my wounds, constant streams of
conscious blood within.
Cheekbones like cliffs, jagged
like the piercing glares shot from
the clouds occluding the soul behind
your eyes. Hair draping your face like
a thin veil to cover what lay beneath.
Fingers tapping impatiently the rhythm
of your heartbeat; passion unbridled,
lust unrestrained. Lascivious sweat droplets
dance in the palms of your hand as the
entice my withering soul to enter the
pits of fire surrounded by burning coals
and lacy clothes. As my hands trace
the stars aligned on the undersides
of your skin I uncover the other perspective
of interlocking souls with the vulnerability
of a lecherous man. The carnal desires of
a virtuous man, the ecstasy of touching heart valves.
The hairs lining my spine stand as I enter
the diamond gates of your crowned skin.
Anger searing its name across his forehead,
a burn mark on his legs for each time he
bit his tongue and burst his argument.
In his rage he finds himself trapped,
anguish gripping his core with frigid vines,
strangling the fight from his veins.
A crown of bruises, a rosary of lost teeth;
Falling from reality into the comforting arms
Don’t make go philosophical on your ass.
What defines me to others is what they see and how I present myself. A warm smile, a charming yet obnoxious personality, a straightened back and a keen sense of awareness.
But what defines me to myself is my ability to see beneath the thin layers of skin that separate the surreal from the cerebral. I cannot read the palms of others, but I do pride myself on being able to detect what is manifesting beneath the brunt of reality. If I do not know, I am able to dig it up and pull it out from wherever I need. I am resourceful and objective, talents that I use to continue to do what I love day in and day out. What also defines me are my distinctive flaws. I do not connect in the ways mortals and mice do. I do not release my feelings wholeheartedly to anyone or anything, not even my pillow. I am reticent and rigid, and I can be incredibly stubborn. I usually lead my life with my head dancing among the stars, while my body wanders through the abyss of people surrounding me, therefore I am often disconnected from reality. I am an introvert at heart, and I do not see the need in branching out and partying, or having a grandiose social life, simply because I am easily fulfilled with minimal social interaction.
I am also chronically depressed; constantly jumping in and out of utter despair. This brings severe complications with how my mind works, and my views of the world around me, as well as my ability to maintain and properly function in a relationship.
As for why I write? I write to express those very emotions that I keep buried. Not because I am afraid, but because I simply do not connect or bond by relinquishing my grasp on what I feel and who I am.
What I would give to
simply atone for what I’d
done. But you’ll never
forgive someone for something
they could not possibly stop.
You thought you had it right.
You thought the answers were all there,
you thought yourself too blind to see it.
You thought you were too dumb and in love
to notice what had been looming overhead
and warning you from day one. You thought
you had it made, you thought you were number one.
You thought I was the one. You thought me as
the rising sun emerging from the insecurity
of the morning light. You thought me as the one
for brevity; shedding off the extra pounds just
to keep it simple. You thought I wouldn’t run.
But I did.
Now the hammer falls upon my skull, purging out
the hurt you felt when I decided I could no longer
scrape out the remains from within myself. And when
I decided to restock and repaint the walls I had
torn down, you thought I was a liar. You thought
I had used your bones to surround myself in a
personal death trap of reticence and disrespect for
the bodies of the youth.
Now that we are both alone, gone along our separate paths,
the mistakes you think I’ve made have been leading
an invisible cavalry charge and laying siege to
my barricades. For I have chosen the path of
self preservation, and avoided direct eye contact with
the stars and nebulae you cry. In my desperation,
I’ve left you empty and heartless. Bitter and enraged.
But to what do I owe you the gift of a welcome mat
on the front door of my soul? For what reason do you
believe that you are entitled to wrapping your fingers
around the strings of my heart like a marionette?
You thought you had control. You thought you had
me all figured out. But you forgot to take into account
that I too, have a heart severed and torn. I too,
require the cathartic touch of a caring love.
To better myself, I have destroyed you.
But to better you, I would have eliminated the hopes
of a better tomorrow in favor of a happier past.
I’ve sealed the briefcase, payed the bills, and stuffed
my mouth with as many mismatched socks and love
poems as I could so I could finally prove to you that
if it takes the loss of my voice and the dissolution of
my dreams to prove to you that what I say is what I mean,
then It’s safe to say you’ll find me laying on your bathroom
floor with with a back riddled with bullets shot from your
caustic tongue, spitting insults and scorn like needles to
flood my veins with the poison created from the hurt you feel.
I wish a sorry would suffice.
But then neither of us would be right.
The walls surround me, I close my eyes
I begin to shake, watching my chest rise
Breathing fades, the lights go off
My lungs fill, I start to cough
The blood comes up, trickling down
My fists are clenched, my heart starts to pound
With every scream I become silent
What is the cause of this violence
Pleading now, let me go
Who you are I do not know
Shed mercy I beg of thee
Now dead I fall to my knees
I dig. I dig.