Monday, April 16, 2012

Can I try?


Each slow, shallow breath I take
Sends me closer towards my fate.
My mind races with my heart, and fails to refrain
From creating a never ending cycle of lustful pain.


I clench this knife with an ambivalent grasp,
Letting it carve into my flesh as I let out a silent gasp.
Desperate for comfort, the silence feigns screams
As the blade reassures me this in not a dream.


I give into each corrupt desire,
I give into my every failure.


Am I dead or alive?
Am I reality deprived?
Can I feel? Can I cry?
Can I simply try?

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Never Fall That Far Again


A whispering gust of verses encircle my ears as your lips somberly dance to the rhythm.  I watch as the darkness drips from your mouth, just as blood leaks from a closing wound. Your eyes wander hastily to catch a glimmer of sunlight, only to halt as it is kisses the lifeless concrete that lie beneath your feet.

Your mouth begins to dance again, “This ground I see,
This ground supports my flesh,
        my burdens,
      my faith.
It keeps me afloat in my sea of woe.
Thru it, I can never fall that far again.”

A Requiem

You bleed waning passion.
We watch it escape every crevasse,
Every pour,
Every crack in your flesh.

You grow hope in your garden of denial.
We watch them bloom into their demise,
As you have no water to sanctify them.

You sleep with cozening shadows.
We watch your every breathe;
With every inhale you let in your demons,
With every exhale you sink deeper in your quietus.

You smile with fear beneath your teeth.
We watch you force every grin,
As you lean to kiss your fear instead of me.

You shuffle off this mortal coil.
We watch you flee with a bullet,
As you give up the ghost and set your soul to eternal rest.

You lay on the lamenting floor.
We stare in dismay at your lifeless body,
I mutter your requiem,
As it shares a melody with the silence.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Inharmonious


We’re both musicians in this world of silence.
We’re both artists in this world of black.
We’re both humans in this world of beasts.

It would seem we match perfectly;
like a match to a fire, like a wave to an ocean,  like a ray to a sun, like a note to a harmony.

Well then, why can’t we harmonize?
We see notes as they fly by,
Yet why can’t we play them right?
Why can’t we play them right?
Why can’t we play them right?
Why?

We never play the same song.


Welcome


Welcome to my inconsistent personality.
Welcome to my chaotic compositions.
Welcome to my perverse sentiments.
Welcome to my literary haven.
Welcome to the tale of my demise.

Monday, April 2, 2012

In My Mind


In the mind of the normal:
A razor is meant to shave with.
A bottle of pills is meant to be stored up high.
A bridge is meant to be walked across.
A bathtub full of water is meant to be jumped into.
A full plate is meant to be eaten.
A passing train in meant to be waved at.
A rope is meant to hold a piƱata.

In the mind of the empty:
A razor is meant to numb the pain.
A bottle of pills is meant to be swallowed.
A bridge is meant to be jumped off of.
A bathtub full of water is meant to hold a breathless body.
A full plate is meant to be thrown away.
A passing train in meant to be walked in front of.
A rope is meant to become a noose.

In the mind of the artist:
A razor is meant to intrigue.
A bottle of pills is meant to numb the mind.
A bridge is meant to be over water.
A bathtub full of water is meant to be still.
A full plate is meant to be overwhelming.
A passing train in meant to be lit up.
A rope is meant to hold up my hope.

I sulk. I sit. I wait.

I sulk. I sit. I wait.
For a day without pain, without regret, without  fear.
For the day when I am no longer isolated within in my own mind.
For that day when my war has been won.

I sulk. I sit. I wait. 
I hope to one day greet this day, for my bleeding heart yearns for this reunion.
The day has still yet to show, and my strength is growing thin.

I sulk. I sit. I wait.
This hope I still hold looks an awful lot like fear. 
                                        When will this day come?
For it looks like that day to never come.

I sulk. I sit. I wait.
For I realize that day is not too far away. 

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Mori Art Ti

To die was an art,
So let me paint.

It's Funny, Isn't It?

It's funny isn't it
How effortlessly one can take a blade
Run it across their skin
Puncture the very thing that keeps them whole
Over and over again 
Until all pain is gone
  Until all the blood is drained
               Until they are numb
                             Until the next time.
It's funny how such a simple action can become
         a dangerous addition
                     A ravenous craving
    An unconscious compulsion;
                                                                                                                 An addiction not easily overcome.
It's funny how such a simple act on oneself can hurt so many others
Cause so much pain to their friends
                To their boyfriend or girlfriend
                                                                                To their family.
It's funny how all of the pain it releases is brought back
not long afterwards.
Funny isn't it.

But I ask,
Is all of this worth it?

They say no.

I say…
I'm sorry.

Oh, Precious Pain

Oh, precious pain,
How you force me down with your everlasting chain.
How I never cease to try to escape your grasp in vain.
How I find your allure ironically addictive;  ‘tis only you I hope to gain.
Oh, precious pain,
How you are surely my bane.
How you will forever be my biggest blood-red stain.
How you are the cause for my lesser hope, ‘tis now on the wane.
How you have surely driven me insane.
Oh, precious pain,
How I beseech you to rid me from my mortal duties, do not refrain.
Just promptly carry me to His anodyne domain.
Oh, precious pain.