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.

In the process of living,
life itself is forgotten,
leading many to waste away,
their hours and days passing by,
without much care or notice.

Steel dust filtering through fingers,
that are coated in grease and oil,
too dirty to touch a lover,
without poisoning their body.

We are machine men;
with machine minds,
and machine hearts,
oil pumps inside of us.

August 8, 2009

Marriage A-La-Mode

Why should a foolish marriage vow,
Which long ago was made,
Oblige us to each other now
When passion is decay’d?
We lov’d, and we lov’d, as long as we could,
Till our love was lov’d out in us both:
But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled:
‘Twas pleasure first made it an oath.

If I have pleasures for a friend,
And farther love in store,
What wrong has he whose joys did end,
And who could give no more?
‘Tis a madness that he should be jealous of me,
Or that I should bar him of another:
For all we can gain is to give our selves pain,
When neither can hinder the other.

John Dryden
(Courtesy of poemhunter.com)

Please, remember me,
as the one who shred you apart,
guilty of always knowing where to start,
but never having the courage to shut it down,
when the gloves came off and we were swinging wildly.

Remember me,
for every failure I endured,
and grew stronger because I went through it,
instead of giving up or just turning around and leaving.

Remember me,
as the person who held your heart in my hand,
unwilling to let anybody else near enough to touch it,
and sentencing them to the death of my friendship if they strayed too close.

Remember me,
as the person who would never let you down,
the guiding light in the lives of those who dared to let me in,
and never successfully threw me out in the cold or betrayed me.

Don’t remember me,
as a hero or saint,
because I’m not,
and that’s fake,
not the way I’m living,
or want to live,
all I have is myself to give,
and I don’t need you to help me,
walk this line,
I’ve been fine,
and doing better,
since I walked away,
into that dark room,
the black lagoon,
where my dreams and hopes,
all died within myself;
was reborn then,
feel to scrawl my own design,
of what life should be like,
with or without you,
slammed by the pain of doubt too,
and I rage against it,
dark as night in my heart,
coughing up blood praying for a fresh start,
away from the ghosts and demons,
who dance inside my head,
and tie me down to my bed,
in the best and worst moments,
that blend together in an odd way,
and resurrects my fallen days,
just in time so I don’t have to end,
at least not today,
or in the near future.

I rose up from ashes too many times,
but don’t remember me for my pain,
or the way I cried alone some nights,
afraid to break out and try living.

Remember me,
for the way I am,
and the things I never compromised on,
the good and the bad,
because I’m the light and dark,
smeared together in a way that plays with your eyes,
and makes you wonder which side dominates,
and in truth they both dominate,
they just fluctuate on the timing.

There are many sides to a story,
and many sides to a person,
we’re not just the sum of our parts either.

Sometimes we’re a complicated mess,
a virgin’s desire for you to undress,
a sun-ray reflecting off the moon,
giving it the most gorgeous glow,
guiding you on your lonely walk at night,
where darkness converges to creep into your skull,
and something stirs behind you,
just out of eye-sight.

You know it’s there,
it is always there,
but you have to keep moving,
don’t let it get you now,
you’ve gone too far to fall down,
or be taken over by another.

Stand free,
and stand strong,
at least as strong as you can stand,
when the world is full of fake people,
and over-populated with idiots and liars.

We’re all idiots,
liars,
fakes,
depending on the day,
and on love or lack thereof.

The world should shake us off,
and be ridden of the fleas,
but it’s too mild-mannered,
only killing a few of us now and then,
and usually instantly,
even though we may deserve to suffer,
for all of our failures and sins.

Life tilts over,
the biggest effort is required to straighten it out again,
and the breathing continues,
although the sanity is gone;
maybe momentarily,
but probably forever,
and we live like this,
crawling from gutter to gutter,
bed to bed,
nurturing nipple to nurturing nipple.

August 4, 2009

I dance on a stage built out of the bones of lovers past,
every step grinds another ribcage into dust,
and the fumes suffocate my lungs until I puke,
but they will laugh and cheer, ‘encore!’

This dance is old,
the jokes are plain,
the act falls apart,
under its own weight,
the weight of mediocrity.

Nothing changes;
everybody laughs out loud together,
and cries in the dark alone at night.

Life continues,
the neverending story of loss, heartbreak and death,
with the occasional tale of love, triumph and life,
to keep the audience going,
and stop them from killing themselves outright,
as opposed to the slow deaths we all work towards secretly.

July 25, 2009