wreck me

if only skeletons were skeletons
then closets would be closets
if only addiction was addicted to me
then maybe falling in love wouldn’t be as flimsy as falling out  of it.

i’m choking in the black smokes of forgotten loves
clutching eagerly to the limbs of failed dreams
glancing pensively into the mirror of my insanity with you
this is the funny side of my death;
i fear i’ll love dying for you.

you must know; bleeding isn’t enough euphoria anymore
i need to lurch these deeper into my bones
then i’ll watch the effervescence of this darkness erupt into art
an iceberg of violent thoughts sinking my titanic

a cacophony of giddy butterflies
nudging me closer to your door
mocking how controless i am to you
your house; a terminal to my haunted thoughts

and then is it enough?
this colossal drop into the abyss
you see, i’m fading out slowly
and you’re just there watching nothing
i’m fluttering to my last emotions
bear me up- my heart don’t twitch no more
please, femme fatale; wreck me!

A Ballad to Nihilism

there is no sun

to shade your scars

there is no  glue

to bind your past

 

there is no beauty

to make you fall in love

there is no sea

to drown your shame

 

there is no art

to excuse your misery

there is no war

to embrace your ruin

 

there is no void

to plot your escape

there is no edge

to tempt your end

 

there is no death

to defy

there is no world

to save.

A murder has happened

i feel like im fading

The world is now in shadowy existence

I am not real

At least not as real as the dead cigarettes on the table

Today is the 15th day of this horror

There will be a murder

Someone is knocking

I wonder who it is

As i wall to the day

I realize my legs have started falling off

As i turn the door knob

The winds rushes at my face

And behold she is there

The murderer. And i the murderee is looking at her..

This is the murder.

It had happened already..

This is just the story of how it did..

 

the Little Trader

i looked into his hungry eyes

and saw the curse.

the curse his grand parents passed down to his parents

and his parents to him

i saw his dusty swarthy skin,

and his scarred finger weaving straws beside his sleeping sister

i fought the urge to question him,

to ask where his mother was

was she thinking about them?

i looked into his eyes

and saw his world,

how primal and scarred it was.

i will never forget his feeble voice

when he asked what i wanted.

how his hands were

when i gave him the money.

how desperately happy he was

that he has sold a bottle of coke

to a stranger..

 

Not Always At Night

waltbox

I had almost forgotten about the ghost. I hadn’t seen her since Moving In With Her, and I’d stopped worrying about her. I could come in from the garage late at night without needing to glance up at the window above the back door to see if she was peeking out. But in the back of my mind, she was still there.

Of course it was at night. It’s always at night. My daughters were in bed behind closed doors, my wife was asleep downstairs. I was reading in the spare bedroom, the dog was sprawled across the bed, and a little girl was singing in the hallway. Three distinct notes. Sounded playful. Like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

I thought one of our girls had gotten up. I put my book down and poked my head into the hallway, expecting to see one. That would…

View original post 532 more words

MOPING OWL

i wept for the moping owl

that had blood dripping form her eyes

then at midnight she’ll always cry

“your demons are out why don’t you follow suit”

 

I’ve always known this night-bird

for the darkness she and i shared

my shows had also known her

together darkness was our only scar

 

i loved the dark scribbling of poe

that demons may come and demons may go

on the illusive road of Eldorado

like blood melted in December’s snow

 

no one is ever there youosee

behind the garment of your lovely fear

whatever you think is whatever will be

Goodbye Owl, for dawn is near.

Trance!!!

as i walk through the pages of the revolutionary past,

i ponder on the nature of man and his world

i think of his desire to be freedom

i think of the violence created in his worldly mind,

i think of his rationality to this creation.

as i read through the darkness of night

losing sense of time and the the world outside the walls of my room

i am being drawn into a trance where the words i read are soaked in meaning.

i am numb like the dead to the pricks of life.

i am not myself

i have allowed myself to be something else..