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Another For My Dreams
Another for my dreams, I suppose.
The films that haunt my closed down eyes,
like forlorn theaters for the unfit for society.
Five stars to those that
forever plague my memory.
For time and time again shall I return to
those revelations from the depths of my darker mind,
there in the Clockwork Orange where
shall I be force fed
the curses of my toils.
Another for my dreams, I suppose.
I write as no critic but as the lonely viewer,
left only to further rot at the closing of
my eyes to this reality that as of my past,
I have thus suffered
and pleasured myself to fate.
The parallel worlds to my own are too often darker
than this of my current residence.
A vicious reminder of my blessings as it were to seem?
Or not more than the ramblings of my
flourishing insanity, dwelling within.
Another for my dreams, I suppose.
The bane of my insomnia,
the lack of needed rest and atonement
for my wasted efforts to make
better the surrounding lives,
for here does all I know die or kill.
Nightmares are th
The Body Count of Denial
I would rather desire to attempt something new.
Spontaneous to my soul or soon to be lack there of.
My free will, the miracle is
tainted by my self inflicted curses.
Though you only see the monster through
your morally constructed eyes,
I see myself and others in a cracked mirror,
alone in my own dark little world.
A part of me, in the void of sanity perhaps,
or to the side shackled to some fiend of
the Torturous Realm, a part of me in
powerful fragments lives in this desire of mine.
Only thus far in my most welcome dreams, to others nightmares,
have the fairytales for which I smile come
to a fictional life in the mind,
lost and replaced at so young an age.
I am but a son, a daughter, a brother, a sister,
a father, a mother. An individual of no demons
in the light of open eyes,
but demon of my own flesh whilst so alive.
Of Hell am I born, within the world of man,
unknowing until crosses the first thought
in mind to inspire the act in question,
well and fully aware with the catalyst vic
The Far and Wide
The clock sits drowning with
its hands behind its back.
There at the feet of a broken man,
fetal below the essence of life.
A mind lost, staring through gaping
eyes of a catatonic gaze,
awaiting the recoil of recovery as
the soul reaches high and blind.
Past cracked windows of a broken
stare out from where the conflicted
mind tears itself apart,
piece by piece and thought by thought.
Many, a great deal have been
the words I've written as to express
this Hell I've yet to conquer,
as such a Hell is far and wide.
Time only shall tell the tale of roads ahead,
where further hills grow and dwell...
but the hills are nothing new
to the man beneath the essence of life.
Resurrection of the Surpressed
You need only say a word, even in silence
to drain me through my wounds of all recovery.
More than one does more than damage,
such does plant seeds in
the areas of this Hell
I've already known.
For certain is that I am far
gone from holding your name
and portrait in any light,
as a lack of grace accompanies the cold
in which your actions and
lack there of have abandoned me.
Am I so weak as to feel misery as this?
Coursing through my
through every and all gateways whilst
your life goes on as though
never so much as hindered slightly.
To the God has kept my invitation
to Death at a nearby bay,
it is for peace I pray...
I wish only, if only,
the chances and rest that I do not deserve
but require in such abundance, lest with time I perish.
My gracious thanks overflows from me
unto those whose hearts break over my story,
to blanket me in the cold in
which you abandoned me,
my once beloved, here where I
have countless times died for you.
and pray i as well that regret
Blind Dates with Dolor
The eyes are closed now,
Or have they always been?
The man through motions many gone,
a machine of reluctance.
Whilst open the eyes seen only
the dark of reality, in only a literal sense.
It is by luck and misfortune that those
doors are shut by the fumes of a spent mind,
and reopened unto Hell in all of its ancient terror...
there in the realm where only
hatred outnumbers the flames.
They, the images of my creative mind,
are twisted round in defiance of fact and faith.
Spreading wide, the horizon of horrors that
I may witness within this,
my subconscious wonderland.
My truest baggage is beneath my weary eyes,
knowing I am weighed down to the will of adversity.
Here in Hell where my mind is
the devil upon my shoulder,
prod in hand, poking all in reach.
It is when I awaken the sweat
of a labored back
and sickly palms, that reality becomes
a temporary solace from the world within.
But again, the eyes are closed now.
Here are the words I had lost,
Unsung in some heated discourse.
Here lie the feelings in an exhortation gone mad.
A muck they ran in riots through littered
streets aflame in the discord
of what I once knew
as such a realm of wonder.
Like tombstones with legs of air,
the glide in chaotic function
through smoke and dust and ash,
crashing into all with image.
Here they are, without chains
to bind them in a book being
written by broken hands and a blind
set of eyes that still have seen nightmares.
Insomnia is but the air of their lungs,
pumping through them the processes of powers
that be within the open
tomb of a catatonic skull.
Strain, in a dead language,
is carved at their eroded heads,
as my tombstones fly in
the marathon of exhortation gone mad.
The Bane of my Reflection
The process of shedding skin is by my many directors
on my own Truman show
by hands of omnipotence.
Reasonable has become the act of abandoning my post
for another, taking a different form out of
the many from which I can choose.
I will condone such a selfish act to inflict murder
to my reflection, with malice and forethought,
the deed long time coming.
I chose to watch my coffins burn whilst shards of
that disgusting mirror burn within them,
screaming the name of my soul in animus.
Though I see nothing, a hand embraces my shoulder
upon my broken body, a warm breathe
flows over, pushing my sighs of relief.
I have killed the man of my face and name many times, and
until my final hour, I intend to be
the bane of that man's existence.
My Writer has written this plot twist in the
scriptures of my flawed name, to mark new chapters
in my history in the making...
CringeA man sat alone in a room. He was in the heart of nowhere, in an comfortable old chair at the time of night that one’s eyes are meant to see the impossible. His breath was like gentle smoke in the minuscule amount of moonlight that pierced the cracks of the blacked-out windows.
The shack was small, with only one room, one table and that God awful wooden chair. A single candle had be lit and placed in the center of the table, accompanied by only the folded hands of the man as he waited. He knew so little what for, only that he needed to be at this very place, at this very time...sound was absent aside from the jackal of man and his pounding heart, pulsating in anticipation. Deep breathes only did so much as he shook violently in the freezing grasp of the dead room.
Hours had passed since his arrival, and dried blood had become a crusted vermilion through and through the fabric of his clothing, forming a layer over his otherwise untouched flesh beneath, blood atop fle
A Stubborn Faith and Warped Insomnia
I can watch the sun rise,and a weeping moon fall.
Not caring in the slightest with passing seconds
in and out of the narrow span of my damaged attention.
Mine are the eyes that will close but hardly sleep
with my dreams whilst they are so abusive in their relationship.
My dreams are awake and warped, and I shall die and die again.
Why is it that I care so little, that apathy replaces
the voids of open wounds? These are but leeches on my Light,
as I become lost with Virgil and Dante.
Hunger sets in from a skipped feast, past an ignored sleep cycle.
A fable becomes my story to be a lesson learned to children
of a lesser future where apathy is the life blood of the world.
Here I will watch with reluctance, the falling moon and rising sun,
night after night, alone with my Light until
one day some day, I live again and again.
Soul MatesBetween dream and moon tides,
The light weaves a new day.
A first glimmer lights the darkness,
Where even still a shadow lay.
For ages swings a song
From star guardians into the world
And first diamonds glitter,
Where luminosity falls on the water.
The young morning is still hesitating,
Promising us hardly the return.
Still the night wraps up the life
And silently breathes the great sea.
Then … finally, the golden time calls.
Water marries to the light.
And shining our heart sways
Where sunshine breaks through waves.
The wind carries my soul
On its wings away from here
To green valleys, ocean lights,
To blue lakes, to you.
You are the life, you are the dream.
You are my soul and my light.
And when the day draws to a close again,
I will not forget you.
Still WorshipBetter or worse I will still worship
Flat on my face or smiling into the heavens; I will still worship
When my world feels like it's crumbling, I will still worship
When my heart starts to grow cold, I will still worship
When I have a nightmare of the future, I will still worship
When I have the feeling to scream in blind rage, I will still worship
I will still worship You when the tides start to rise and the thunder roars on
I will still worship You when Willy Pete of the world starts to burn my skin
I will still worship You when my own parents tell me to shush
I will still worship You when the sky starts to open up with Your mercy
I will still worship You when my heart cries for You
I will still worship You my King; You understand and love me
I will still worship You when I cry when I remember the pain I caused
I will still worship You when I cry with everlasting joy that You have brought me
I will still worship You when I cry after seeing the blood You shed for me
I will still worsh
THE HAUNTINGVeils of sadness seemed so becoming
beckoning and crying for needs which appeared to be running
to rivers of hopes gone astray
pooling at shores of her shallow bay
quelled hatreds there were broiling
beneath still waters slathering like an oiling
to his outstretched arms and into his pores as the liquid leaked
till he was saturated with her summer fragrance that almost reeked
of despair and the thoughts that washed up there
and in his veins pulsed a sense of her eyes,
of her hair...
in his mind he'd heard her sighs,
knowing not who she was as he lingered at those shores
but sensing that these willows had once witnessed much more
no one had been present to ease that horror
but perhaps the screams of a heart bleeding through him into the moist
had led her to know that to someone she had a voice
had led her to move beyond this place
God My Constant CompanionPain is constant
Sickness is normal
Joy and happiness a burden
Ordeal of becoming old
Life became a misery
Through the pain and suffering I became closer to God
My thirst for His knowledge grows
My thoughts revolve around God and me
I fear not because God is with me
Only God, my constant companion, understands my plight
Only God comforts me with love,
knowledge and understanding
Only God, through Jesus’ blood sacrifice,
can free my soul and give me eternal peace
I praise God for all the blessings He has given me
Thank You GOD for the love You have given me
by E. W. Rantala/RocksRose - December 7, 2013
Wings Of ChangeProgress marched upon them,
New weapons and new skills,
And so a boy, terrified, ran
To keep away their ills.
To a far off city,
He slowly found his way,
When lanterns like stars guided him
Unto a brand new day.
On the night he met her,
He told her of the change,
For he felt he was drowning
And she’d keep things the same.
She said she would not help him,
For to obstruct all progress was
To never learn to fly.
But drowning he still was,
In changes uncontrolled,
Until some fins and gills he grew
And swam into the gold.
TithingGod went on tour
visiting the different denominations.
They didn’t know He was on tour,
except maybe the one or
two parishioners that looked at Him funny
when He emptied His entire
wallet into the collection plate.
That which nature had perceivedThe surrender was a dream
that sends her
searching for a single sire, to lead of her
among the trees, that which nature
as these brandishing leaves
which bequeathed, what these branches
as from a seed to these advances.
wondering, What nature'd tongues
was more then what one glances, to believe.
what is beauty, if not for what these learnt eyes,
Renewed in the silence, what spoke of its nature'd
was a resonating smile, yet spread upon these lips.
Bring the RainI run, I fight, I lived and I died
For the love of this girl
My whole world
Yet I run far away off to my deep dark days
When I was something truly different
As I was a soldier, a beast
Fighting as my heart bleeds
Waiting for the day
When all the pain will fade away
Far out of sight
As I come to know the light
No longer fighting for me
But for my father and king
The cause that brought the rain
To wash away all within my past
And this broken heart at last
After so many days too far away
From the light that washed the night away
Torn from The Paradise: 1.The Garden of Eden1. The Garden of Eden
Nitimur in vetitum
“Subdued to the glary light,
To The Paradise, the land of bliss,
I’m bound in this endless rite,
Magnificent, sheer wings have been given to me,
Simultaneously, incapable of flight…
O Lord, rusted chains you have wrapped around my fragile wings,
Enslaved by you, almighty God,
Kneeling I confess, by the freedom I am awed,
Father, by the knowledge I am mystified!”
Damnant quod non intelligent
His limpid blue eyes are filled with hope,
Gleaming folded wings awaiting the ethereal break away,
The silence conquers as his wish starts to decay,
Dismayed he waits,
Blood is dripping from the dreams that had led him astray.
“My glistening winged son,
Shallow words had reached my ears,
Let them hollow wishes shun;
My broken creation, you shall repent,
Blot out the thoughts intended your rank to descent”
Angel with the scabbed wings kneels for the last time,
By the stream of sorrow he has been taken away,
Sharp words infi
A Walk With the Poet- Canto 2- The Ink of Exile
From behind me came voice and word...
Both new, and friendly to my ears.
In a sense did I now feel safe presence.
"A descendant of Cerberus was he...
So vile are those beasts.
Though shall you fear not, as you are protected."
I turned to find, through a doorway
bursting through with light in abundance...
The poet of Florence, in form of spirit.
Dressed the white and red of his portraits.
With upon his head, a crown of leaves,
Whose veins were black with ink.
"Poet before me, I beseech from thee, answers,
For once I had many, and now I have none!
Assist me, as I lost more than ever."
My head hung in shame,
like some criminal on the gallows...
I knew not the true reasons for my shame.
"I have many times prayed,
and my faith have I kept!
But once more, I am adrift...
Like a ship is my being, lost at sea...
My body, the temple...crumbling with erosions.
My soul fears the twists and turns of time."
"Hold thy tongue," he commanded, "And worry not!
Sent to you is the guide before thee,
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