A lonely little insect,
scurrying through sewers,
with the stench of waste,
but mostly decay.

A little insect,
I hear the sound of others;
occasionally an echo,
or a glimpse of life,
but mostly the dying,
and the broken.

The echoes toss hope at me,
bouncing it off the damp brick walls,
and I feel I may not be alone,
as another stops by my side,
only to move on momentarily.

Sometimes they smile,
sometimes they talk,
sometimes they even care;
but sometimes is never always,
and sometimes is not my home.

And in the sewers of sometimes,
we are the gliding seeds of dandelions,
forever stuck in an endless loop,
trying not to stick to the walls,
or be eaten by a river of shit and piss,
before we can reproduce more dandelions.

Our existence is rare,
and many never make it into the sewer,
and they may be better off,
never having to choke on the fumes,
or drown in the darkness,
alone.

Sometimes we’ll float on the river,
before it hops up and engulfs us,
a quickly fleeting moment of comfort,
before our flame is snuffed out forever.

This holy creator of brick,
is nothing more than a builder,
whose only work is an alleyway,
where sewage flows freely,
along with pain and loneliness.

Never stare at mortality,
not directly in the eyes,
unless you’re prepared,
to have your soul shattered,
because it comes for all of us,
in lightning fashion.

Death claims another,
with it’s metronome march;
I hear his laughter,
invading everything,
bordering all that I love,
in an unbreakable layer,
slowly restricting their life,
and suffocating another soul.

Role models and mentors,
dropping like meteors;
the stars that once shone bright,
burning through the atmosphere,
being buried in the earth.

The minerals left behind,
enrich our hearts and souls,
with titanium-plated strength,
and once the toxic shock fades,
we become a bit more metal;
harder and stronger,
and more ready to grieve,
as we lose more and more,
of the people and things we love,
until we walk through life,
with loud iron steps,
and are to be avoided at all costs,
by the true living.

All atrophied metal, and blood gone cold,
as we creak through life,
oxidizing bit by bit,
until we’re a cancerous mess,
ready to collapse,
in a heroic pose,
not caring whether they,
remember us or not.

Don’t become the deaths,
let them fuel you.

Let them pick you up from the dirt,
and wipe your tears away,
leaving warpaint behind,
as you stand up,
the phoenix risen,
ready to burn through life,
and all it’s toxic aftermath.

Become a phoenix my friend,
burning off the metals,
to make your flame beautiful,
and capable of awe,
not a pathetic person of iron.

It’s one of those weird emotions,
between sadness and hatred,
but not really either of them;
a limbo emotion.

The aftermath of relationships,
often brings it along,
sometimes even months later.

Honesty mixes with contempt,
and the world overflows with acid,
eroding the remains of all you’ve loved.

Drudge on with your heels digging deep,
strive to succeed and be superior;
hope is oftentimes a fool’s burden,
but passion is the fuel of the brave.

My optimism and hope are as sand through fingers;
the slow development of a soul-draining loneliness,
never seems to leave my side on nights such as these.

Loneliness gathers, one event at a time;
a combination of faceless memories and blurry recollections,
the significance of which died in their infancy, if they ever mattered.

Everything collides in slow-motion,
a mash-up of particles of hatred and guilt,
that form an ever-growing monster of destruction,
which threatens to tear my heart from my chest at any moment.

The weeping guitars and voices,
don’t fully capture the misery of this,
a combination of feelings set casually in motion,
by a series of indifferent factors with no relevance.

And nobody hears you,
not now, and not ever,
as the silent majority,
weeps alone,
untouched,
unloved,
and unheard.

We are getting old,
time will not forgive,
all our wasted moments,
even if we redeem ourselves,
because salvation is for fools,
and time marches on without a pause,
over our bones and the dust they will become,
with a great apathy and a general sense of progress,
whose inhumanity is only matched by the society we live in.

November 16, 2009

She asked me to unleash on her,
but it didn’t feel safe.

There’s a beast that waits inside,
and it’s ready to make you bleed,
to trade your blood for my pleasure.

I can’t shake off the chains,
because I am the animal,
controlling the beast,
who would destroy you,
and anything else,
it’s ever loved.

whatever you do, don’t feed him,
and keep your hands away from the cage,
the animal inside can only be seen,
from a distance in safe conditions,
lest it breaks you apart,
shreds apart my sanity,
and feasts on my soul.

I used to sell pieces of my soul for sex,
and a form of love only understood by the lonely,
which is to say everybody.

I no longer sell pieces of my soul,
too consumed with re-creating it from scratch,
sacrificing my sanity instead,
lonely piece by broken piece.

Life marches onward,
some fall upon the path,
few gracefully bound through,
and far more goosestep over them,
grinding the rotting bodies to dust.

The stench of this reality is enough,
to choke those who can smell it but are helpless.
Some wear their government-issued gas masks,
and walk blissfully through hell,
whereas others take off their masks,
only to put them on again so they fit back in.

Reality in raw form has a way of choking you,
until it lobotomizes you with brain damage,
or your body rejects it in violent fits of vomit,
every once and awhile.

Some people don’t handle it at all,
and find themselves dead in the gutters,
from their own hands,
or the hands of another,
when all anybody ever wants,
is to be in the arms of another.