Friday, December 28, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
the show you like to put on,
pretending to be something else
than the one thing you are good for.
You stretch the truth with such skill
it's hard to find the edges,
or signs that give you up until
your skyscraper collapses.
You build your lies with little truths
you've morphed into submission
making it hard to find the clues
beyond all recognition.
And in your darkest moments
you're the blind leading the lame
you're your own worst oponent
but you delegate the blame.
It's hard to be responsible
for all your past mistakes
when everyone's disponible
to hide the truth away.
And in the end you'll find the flaw
in your illusion's grand design
that you can't reverse your own law
when you're feeling so inclined.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
we will never make
to those glossy sounds
that give way
to the break
Cross your fingers
close your eyes
There is nothing
so don't wait
I have dug my nails in
too many ways
And my teeth have grated
I have picked apart
all the separate parts
And drawn the music out
as my bitter reward
So here's to every story
we will never make
to those glossy sounds
swallowed up by the break
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
stagnant with unspent relief,
I feel like a nerve:
Exposed and Raw
In each hand,
and no matter how brief,
a choice to make
each leaving me bourgeois.
one is yet exhausted
with nothing but one option.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
(it isn't well known)
on the face of this Earth,
Where the Moss Campion has grown.
There is a lake,
it's waters freezing still,
where once upon a date
I gave up my free will.
And to this day,
where the frozen snow rests
and heavily weighs
upon a violet's chest
There lies the thing
I cherished the most.
With the broken string
of my childhood host.
lies my spirit to fight
next to these peregrine
treasures of mine.
There is a place,
(it isn't well known)
on the face of this Earth
and the Campion still grows
One day when I come back,
will greet me, intact,
and have swallowed them whole.
Monday, April 2, 2012
You have a dime that's worse for wear
You claim the thoughts inside my head
And pull them out into the air
As if a single golden coin
Could be the thing that makes this right
Yeah, to the victor go the spoils
And all my words can spoil the night
They stain my lips, they stain the air
And mark the atmosphere you breathe
They taint the ground on which you walk
Yeah, they can soil your precious streets
You'll never pay me for discretion
You'll never bribe away the truth
I'm so far gone beyond retention
Your efforts are a point that's moot
A dam is loose, a seal is broke
There's nothing now that you could do
No lengths that you could ever go to
That wouldn't perish in the smoke
The Truth will out, the Truth will go
Wherever Truth sees fit to be
And though it have no other place
This Truth will have a place in me
*Dimes are not gold- this is besides the point.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
I thought that it might help if I stayed for a while, just completely still, motionless.
I could feel a set of green eyes glowering in the dusk. I could stay still for a long time but something told me this once, when it was most needed, it couldn’t be long enough.
Movement is change. I felt uncomfortable in the status quo of the moment but my every fiber was screaming against change. I didn’t know what would happen if I dared to change one thing, even something as insignificant as the position of my pinky.
Lights grew dimmer, dusk swathed itself in night, becoming its very essence. The green eyes’ presence was persistent. Others had joined them. I could feel my heart tremble as I lay there in the darkness. They gathered about me silently. We were playing a game: They knew that I knew that they knew- but who would break first and admit to this dangerous knowledge? My resolve was strong, rooted in my survival instinct; I could not lose this battle. They forged on. I could hear the muted sound of their step. Soon I knew that I was fully surrounded, there was no escape. They waited. The silence was only broken by the warm noises of their pleasure. They were winning the battle.
“What will you do to me?!” when I could bare the silence no more. A sound akin to an unsatisfied yawn lingered in the darkness. No answer. I had broken the wall of silence only to be faced with an even thicker one. My skin shivered. I could feel the cold sudor forming in my palms. Once a rule is broken it becomes easier to break another. I moved, slowly reaching with my hand to massage my legs back into being, the blood frozen in my limbs. I listened keenly for any noise. There was none. I dared to look around slowly; I couldn’t see them in the dark, all I could see were flickers of green and yellow lights moving in circles around me in the dark hue of night. They were there and they knew I had broken the rules.
What will you do to me? It niggled in the deepest ridges of my brain, where axons meet somas and everything goes firing away, turning the smallest of stimuli into gelid fear. Cold steel enclosed my heart. I lay still. The wall was broken. There would be consequences and really I knew all that was left was to wait. There was no escaping. Like rivers to the ocean, so do a person’s actions lead to that cardinal moment in their life, a critical blink of the eye…something that is so fleeting it can’t be touched, fathomed or even noticed. I could smell their moist breaths, randomly dotting the cooling air around me, making small concentrated clouds of vapor, like muddy smoke.
What would they do to me? Desperation is a disease that festers, beginning in the gray matter inside of your head. Spreading, not like wildfire, over dry fields and crackling forests but rather the way a thick gruesome porridge begins to bubble slowly only to eventually flood over the rims of its container and spread quicker than you’d imagined possible. Are these demons inside your mind? Do they follow your every move? Is reality very simply slipping away? A loud, screeching, unforgiving noise.
Thoughts race so fast it’s impossible to grasp one that can retain form long enough to be recognizable. It’s impossible to tell whether in the silence, the noise that was heard before has become endless, or has it ceased to be so completely that it is as if it never even began? What did it mean anyway? There are always, always consequences.
Maybe this is the ocean. Maybe the river has run its course. Stillness.
Yet maybe not.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
To me you are a line, refined, of bloody awful poetry
The string of a fiddle, resigned to bloody awful poetry
The climax of a steep decline, like bloody awful poetry
Everyone else’s – only mine, my bloody awful poetry.