Stealing Summer's Breath

I am the beast beneath the waves,

the scourge of the plagues,

the king of inked blades.

I have exhaled the scorched breath

of misery, painting the landscape 

I have so skillfully crafted with 

perdition’s tongue of rage;

pushing ire and flames between

the fissures in my hollow teeth.

I have slaughtered my sheep,

led them unto darkness, from which

they shall never return to the kingdom

I once preserved. I have lost the faith

of myself and my confidants and I

now suffer from the scales emerging

from my back. My talons grow with each

putrid act of mine, my horns curl and shoot

from the lobes of my dilapidated mind.

I am the behemoth I sought to destroy,

the monster I’d hoped to conquer.

I’ve done nothing but hurt and embarrass.

Through stress and carelessness, this is

who I’ve become. Everything I’ve devoted 

my life to avoiding.

My mind is vacant,

my eyes devoid of the beauty

they once immersed themselves in.

Inspiration, fleeting and infrequent,

escaping my control with each 

exhalation of despair.

The sorrow, shallow and blind,

emerges from the depths of my soul.

My tongue is crushed between 

two sets of bickering teeth,

and all I speak is the blood leaking

from between rampant thoughts on repeat.

We waste our time to find a moment where time isn’t wasted.

But what moment will that be? 

Her scent stapled to my skin,

fishing through the fissures in my fingertips

for an ounce of sincerity in the bloody lips

I’ve kissed her dreams with. My sins staining

her support structures with an overdose 

of over-exaggerated obduration; I am only

as tough as my trembling teeth will allow.

I’ve left her hanging, heart wrenched and

humbled as she wrings out her wrists

after soaking up the spilled love with a 

stoic smile. But she sticks to me like history,

dead leaves hanging from the my hinged branches.

I swing them shut, but she remains within;

her scent stuck to my sorrows.

You’re the best

nightmare I’ve never

escaped. As clever

as I fancy myself to be,

I will never 

find the

will to outwit everything you’ve

wanted us to

be. 

The sounds of thunder

comfort me, they speak the tongues

of the skies above;

for there too can be droplets

of hell in our paradise.

Funny, corporate media won’t acknowledge the Wall Street protests because the masses and supporters finally aren’t paid more than them. Isn’t it strange how national media only appeals to the people who are willing to pay them to support their message? Gee, I thought this country was founded on freedom of press, not legalized extortion of news channels. 

It seems that Karma’s best weapon is death

for even when the stresses of life can’t seem

to silence the weight of sorrow in your breath,

a strange order shall do its best to at least

lay the wrongs you’ve done to rest.

For Karma has no rule over the minds of the bold

they are the exception to the laws of the earth,

their souls of oak their hearts of gold. 

I am but a restless man

with clamoring bones 

rattling together like the

keys to the front door

of the home I’ve never known.

Spend my waking moments

finding different ways to

escape what little reality

I grasp between a firm clench of

jaws as I rip off the letterhead 

of mental health’s eviction notice.

I am but a sorrowful fool

with my screams buried in a pile

of feathers left behind by the

albatross that sails beside my

lonesome strides unto oblivion.

I await my lackadaisical departure

from a conscious state of being;

to lay my weary head to rest in

the chasms between barely holding on

and willfully letting go.

A life I see fleeting, dashing away before me.

An existence as something more than just

a pile of rotting meat with a few maggots

for flair is simply something I will never

quite get right. 

For I am but an impatient lover

in search of his muse by night.

A fire burns 

beneath my skin, its redolence

emanating from my pores. 

Plumes of viscous smoke emerge

from behind the cracks in my armor,

engulfing all those around me in

a heavy cloud of flattery.

As I melt my skin away and my

bones are barren and exposed,

the world sees me for what 

I was never known to be;

a man with a heart of wicker

burning steadily in the warmth

of a smile. Affection sets me alight,

to turn to dust and fade with the wind,

but a kiss could end the night.

Wait below

the columns of clouds

spiral down from the heavens.

Embrace their nebulous fingers

reaching out to swallow you whole.

For you are born of the sky,

and all its glory. 

Reach out you arms to be enveloped

by the invisible coils of airy chalk.

Lacing my boots with broken fingers

to tread through the pools of blood

to be spilled by the generations of 

shattered dreams and shallow means

to attain what little worth they wish

to receive.

The age of entitlement 

draws to a close, their greedy palms 

empty in the blistering heat of change.

Avaricious mockingbirds chirping the 

same songs of solace to the wind;

a fate they’ve written

in the ashes of their ancestors. 

The cycle is doomed to repeat;

but with less support for archaic

morals etched into platinum bones.

We’ve all the replacement parts to

make something new; for 

the Age of entitlement has brought 

us but one thing, an end to all we thought

we knew.

The eyes of October 

stare earnestly into the 

morning mist; peering through

the droplets of dew as

a magnifying glass to melt

away the rigid blades of grass

so keen to being hostile to

the brisk air of autumn’s discontent.

They flutter in contempt for

the dawn’s remorse, rising again

from what fires settled the night before.

They seek to garner the praise of

the young sun’s peers, to drive

its very allies against the warmth

of its rays. 

The eyes of October, seek to 

swallow the land in darkness,

to pit the sun against itself

so it may rest its head upon

the burdened shoulders of death;

winter cometh as the dawn’s 

last breath escapes its lips,

The eyes of October have inhaled

the last of the summers vigor. 

I would consider myself lucky

to know that I am loved

by none other than myself.

The only approval

I will ever seek; the utmost respect

and admiration of my being

by my flesh and the spirit within.

You’re all so trite and overused

desensitized vagrants digging up graves 

for glory; looking to the success of others

for the pride of yourselves.

You’re all just one massive conglomerate cliche;

the stutter of the textbooks scripting your fate

in the bibliography. 

You’re all just a pile of maggots rifling through

the remains of your fathers for an ounce of 

truth in what you’ve yet to say.

Maybe I’m just bitter, or maybe,

maybe you’re all wrong.

Maybe I’m the only person left,

or maybe, maybe I’m as dumb as the rest.

I’m interested to hear how depressed people think I am. hahahahha

I once met a man who was buried in his palms, seated haughtily at a bar. Tears of diamonds trickled down his cheeks as he swallowed the devil’s breath from a shot glass. I politely pulled a stool out beside him and sat down. He slowly turned the gears jutting from his neck and cocked his eyes towards my soul. His stare silently traveled from the tattered shoes on my feet to my matted hair, and it was as if he saw my past through my skin.

I asked him if he had ever watched the rain seep from the clouds, as opposed to hitting the ground. He responded tritely, explaining that he can only see so far away when his eyes are this tired. His English was broken but his tone was sincere, his powerful jaw seemed to bite the ends off of each word as an act of conserving his thoughts.

He raised his left hand and lightly placed it upon my brow. 

“Son, if there is something you must know. Know this and know this be truer than all truths you have ever been told before. You will walk and keep on walking until the end of the earth, regardless of how big or small your footprint may be. You have no time to look up or down for your destination. Only forward past the stars, can you find where you belong.” 

And with that he swallowed another shot of death and hobbled away from the bar. I followed him out of the dingy place, and watched him drag his feed down the sidewalk. It started to rain, but he didn’t care. He didn’t quite know where he was going, but he knew how to get there. His head was pointed forward, his weight balanced in the rear. Not once did he look up to justify what he had feared.