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2. Battery Low
Where else is there to turn,
When your own blood and flesh
are against you?
In the time when one must learn
to grow from being just another
pawn to just another cog.
In an existence of corrupted control,
where each monkey is too
often a slave to another.
Grown and flowing with
a virus of such hate,
the heated emotion has spread
over like the flames within itself.
The waves have come and gone
in this hellish marathon,
over turning almost every effort of advance.
So where else to turn
other than to the bones
that carry the burden of this virus?
How pitiful that the wingless apes
turn on one another rather
than relying on each other.
The foundation, covered like an
inside out tree trunk,
bearing the rings of weary age,
made thin for a coming layer of time.
This pathetic life laid out
across a once perfect foundation,
cut down, cracked and eroded.
Held up with shaky hands
and weak knees by
the exhausted machine,
It's screams are mute through
the blotted out voices of the people,
The very c
Only Time Will Tell
Only time will tell the stories which believe.
The marks of the bottom line are where fate deceive.
The script written as a preemptive strike,
Never read over, improve prevents the rewrite.
Where is she with her smile t light the way through this maze?
Back home, going through her own, counting the days.
With Him above and he below,
My fear to every stepping stone I do bestow.
Only time will tell the stories that I believe!
Only within this fallacy does faith in me not leave.
I beg, I beseech, I plead, I pray for my endless prayer to be heard.
Lest apathy overtakes me without a care...without a word.
The marks on the bottom line are where fate deceive...
So only time will tell me the stories which I believe.
The Madman and His Cellmate
With common tongue out of habitual
rocking back and forth,
In where dark corners become home,
dwell partners in unintentional crime.
Grasping at bottles with the trembling hands
wearing the cloak of cold sweat,
swallowing safety blankets and strain the cords
of rosaries with fists deep in prayer.
Is one longing of endings in sunsets to see self-smothering
as the only alternative route? Desires sprint along the
line between lunacy and resting forever,
Say what you will, I died here in this padded room.
Here I rot in dim light and cold darkness,
where you are my only company,
I know not whether to welcome or curse you.
My attention is more kept on keeping warmth
in my withering veins as the cold takes hostage,
my heart and mind. Speak with me friend,
my thoughts are lonely.
They eye one another like cannibals deserted
in the dead of winter. Only glimpses and moments is
their intellect aimed at
the light piercing the dark.
There is not but silence in your responses...
Tighten the blindfold as you plant mines in
the fields where flowers should go, and be picked.
Tread stumbling under a drunken veil as your rioting
nerves loot the last remnants of reason within you.
Allow your sanity to fall victim to the systematic madness,
that from day one grew within you.
Pity will be that rusted shovel to fills one of
the open graves that already inhabit that dreaded field.
The graves, merely open wholes from the former seats of mines,
from this song and dances history.
What more can be done, past the repetition of returning to square one,
fallen on a sword of false humility?
The con is no longer clothed in deception and stands
naked in one of those accursed graves.
Her voice is putrid, of a terrible act, diving off a devils
tongue shaped like a fork in the road.
Perhaps your final tears will sprout flowers over
the small patch of dirt, as I intend to leave none.
Unbearable, the shame I feel. A crack in the foundation of my perspective discovered,
where through I see that redemption
is nearly impossible at this distance with a cold barrier.
Here I fear that an end is near, where I should starve
and wither behind walls of pessimism and choke on the fumes of self-intolerance.
I take no pity as I avoid the little light flooding through those cracks.
The sun is setting as it seems consumed by clouds of another storm.
Tomorrow is another day that I fear I may not make it to,
as I sit and wait in a room of cracked, cold stone...alone with my thoughts.
It is but the best choice of action at this time...
I await the rescue of what I thought was fixed by love...
that love is tested, in this test that I have so long dreaded.
And here at the crossroads are my choices doubled in their weight
on my shoulders. Each road is cloaked in
a haze deemed only as a phase that could be.
Do I never recall breaking away from the boundaries of my prison?
Or is that haze
Black Hole Perspective
A growing tensity finds my flesh in the process of fear well known to me,
born unto endless theories that quake my nerves from the core of my mind.
Where from these ideas come, my senses all point to fire & brimstone,
and the smell of sulfur alarms my soul.
I can hear them off in a distance behind a supernatural two-way mirror,
laughing as I melt beneath the friction of my trembling body.
Only at a short distance are they kept
by the angels I have yet to meet.
Yet still does the unnerving sense overcome me,
by the unneeded work ethic of my thought process,
where thinking only wears me thin and keeps me guessing,
at the very Gates of my personal Hell in mind, which reluctantly I forged.
There is a darkness in me, to my sight among perception...
where my glass is neither empty nor full,
but full of names and voices and blessing and curses and
memories that only drown me in what appears to be a black hole within my glass...
I write and I pray, remaining ever patient on the other side of t
Damnation is near to me it seems...
the heat of Hell, grows in a sweat on my brow.
I close my eyes, only to hear my chains
sing the song of my enslavement.
The motions that through I go,
Know me by the long face, And baggy eyes.
The walk to my Father, through a cold and endless storm,
rusting over the iron of my chains.
I fill the cup that in hand I carry, with the constant down pour,
quenching what thirst I can, only to carry on.
Only in the dark of the storm do I weep so that the tears will blend with the rain,
and the sniffing is blended by my shuffling feet.
The walk home in the rain, The dragging of my feet,
enslaved by their own motions...I am set up to be tested.
I don't even recall when the sun was consumed by this storm,
I have walked for as long as I can remember....
Good God, my Lord, my King so kind! Is this path where men do perish,
the path on which my chains are dragged?!
I mean no blasphemy to a pair of all hearing ears,
but I can only do so much to make hidden my obvio
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
The Queen and The Fading Storm
Loosen the sickly grip of the false reality,
where broken promises grow abundant in ash laced fields.
The ashes of chances gone by.
Disgusting is but a single title in the series I could bestow to you.
Our relatives of the jungle, living in filth and cannibalism,
Do fine compared to the beast with countless faces I know by your name.
A game long ended by the pawn now a queen,
the master of her own free will,
shattered many times by rules created as gone along.
You disgrace all, dragging your self-proclaimed
passions down to the hole you've been digging, where the sulfur levels have only
risen with all motions of the rusted shovel...
it is only by miracle that you breathe like the rest of us...
The obliteration of illusions and conquering of the ash
laced fields has remade that queen out of
the broken down state of mind and being.
How pathetic that you should be called out by one you've endlessly judged,
and another that you've only used and taken for granted.
Flesh & blood should only
Don't Compare yourself to a FlowerNever compare yourself
To a dainty flower,
Who dies young .
Think of yourself as a tree—
A great, wooden tower
Living under layers
‘Tis only when
That you’re a flower.
That Cali-PunctualityCrutch'd up on animus vaccines
until your vein protrudes the poison
and your shilly-shally cali-punctuality
punctures a hole through your ego.
Sure, that nectar throat of sympathy
plays well in long, harmonic strides.
But, honey -
Glimpse of FaithI have battled through enough tomorrows
Without any reassurance that matters would get better.
I have walked in the ashes of the deceased
In all of the yesterdays that I have no remembrance of.
I have hoped when darkness was the answer;
When life had given up on me like today.
I have loved when I have lost
Like the repetitive years that kill me daily.
I have given up and made a bloody mess of myself
As a light of faith had finally been seen.
I have continued to live even when Death was behind me,
For I saw a glimpse of my deepest wish be true.
…a hint of happiness is all I ask for…
… but not just for me…
… for others that have seen enough deadly tomorrows…
… give them that glimpse of faith that tomorrow will soon be the past
and it will be a faded story inside a dusty book…
because no one told me it would be
If I Were The Devil...What would I do if I were the devil?
Well, where do I start?
I would share humans' depraved thoughts openly
And trick them by calling it "art"
I would corrupt the music industry
So it pours out words so vile
On movie screens I'd recite perverted jokes
And make their minds so numb, they'll smile
I'd infect the internet with my work
That abolishes what's pure and leaves them awed
I'd have them blame their creation on science alone
And make them scoff at the name of God
These things will become everyday life
And evil will no longer be bizarre
Basically I guess, if I were the devil
I would leave things exactly as they are
Rebellious FireCoals as white as snow
Burn within my darkest veins
As I watch the world...
Burst into flames.
Father GodI created people to need and love one another. That never changed, even when sin entered into the world. Yet in spite of my desire for loving harmony, families often make a mess of their relationship.
I warned David that his sin would cause problems within his family. Ultimately, after simmering and planning for two years, one of David's son killed the other in vengeance for their sister. If only they had sought me in the process...I love to help families secure and strengthen their bonds.
I believe in family. I believe in family so much that I'm building an eternal home for mine. Meanwhile, I'm right here in the midst of your earthly family-and my heart's desire is to help you come together in peace and mutual love. Just call on me for guidance. After all, I'm a Father. I want to help my children.
Stockholm's DollI'm so superficial and vain,
I glisten like plastic in the rain,
I tic and toc,
Just like a clock,
I move were you say,
So I am not in the way,
Orders move my gears,
You take away my fears,
When they look they see your doll,
There's no real me left at all,
I was broken a long time ago,
Stuffed in a box six feet below,
Beneath your harsh words and harsher fists,
Days tied up with rope burned wrists,
Nights I'd cry myself to sleep,
Now I obey without a peep,
I'm so perfect and vain,
My eyes glisten without the rain.
Her Ice Blue EyesShe breathes snowflakes,
Her frosty breath
Freezing him in his steps.
For what greater beauty
Than is that
Of the winter-born girl?
Gentle CannibalWithout a breeze to soothe my body,
or salvage a mind
from the dripping tide of cicadas,
the midnight of summer begins to
lift its mantle from where you crouch,
and comes to honor me.
My gentle cannibal,
with eyes of hemorrhaging iris,
the jaundice of your nakedness,
translucent from the moon rings
your lips pulled as if in pain.
The fever of your touch traces
every rung of dappled trellis
from the faux shadings of a lunar day.
Give me my sweet plunder of ripe figs
as you bend me like a bow that will snap,
or have you already bitten me to the bone.
Older Than Babylon
I sat there, at the edge of the peak of the growing mountain,
seeking the patience I had always lacked.
My dreams were older than Babylon,
Yet in the time that is now, I age.
I had walked the dashed line unaware of where it may lead.
Even it knew not the future with each added dash.
The naivety I know, cannot be undone, for where lies the knowledge I unknowingly seek out?
The tangent of my life's journey, irrelevant to the road once laid before my soul.
It is in the sleepless nights that my dreams find me most maliciously...
interrogating me as to my lack of persistence and pursuit.
And in my screams of the loss of sanity,
shot out the words of accusation to that accursed dashed line.
For it had found it's end here at the edge of the peak of my growing mountain.
It grew into the abyss of a night sky, and ominous was my anticipation.
The stars that as a child I had wished upon were closer than ever,
and they burned bright with suspicion.
Red Letter Day - Prologue
So here I am, writing.
I’m writing, I’m writing – just as you told me to.
I’m writing, I’m writing, I’m writing.
Have you ever noticed that when the sun goes down, this flat changes? It does. The walls are white during the day and lingering brown at night. During the day, I’m with you and the light from outside paints the walls that heavenly color. But when that sun goes down, the demons wake and I’m alone again, even though you’re just a room away.
Somehow it seems less threatening tonight, and I think it’s because you’ve given me an assignment to try and fight off the darkness. You gave me a stack of papers and a pen and told me to write everything that comes to mind.
It’s a strange feeling to have complete freedom. These empty pages are mine to do whatever I please – I could even wipe my ass with them – but they’re also terribly intimidating. The blank page has always been a nemesis of man. It&
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