"Fear is the only way to live. Fear and death and rot and hell."
The silver bird laments and sways
Upon a darkened branch of the twisted shell
Of once a grand tree, now faded grey
Much like the life of the one who lives
Deep within the caves below
Your heart which rotten feeling gives
The only majesty to which you bow.
Hang, hang your soul
And release the gruesome filth
Which clings to you still.
Freedom brings such transparent wealth
But we would never know
Never feel, never hold
Who knows how to change now?
It's too late to break the mold.
"I can't find the light"
The broken wolf howls to the moonless sky
Lost within the compassionless night
One can only wander and pass life by.
Ripples across a shadowed lake
Wishing stillness yet doomed to quiver
With every slight motion and dropping quake
Guilt-laden and thick with frosty shivers
A death from which it can never wake.
"Don't hold me, but don't hold me back."
The fire burns inside to burst apart
Every seam and curling through cracks
The smoke hides the sullen, smothered heart.
The burning bright and gripping dark
Never knew how to ignite
What ever created the original spark?
Now it never stops burning out of twisted spite.
"I never wanted to hurt anyone, no, never."
The cactus sits with saddened eyes
But hurting is all the cactus does, so sever,
Sever the limbs which keep me alive.
"I deserve the pain I would otherwise give"
An individual created which others resent
The essence of which can never fully live
Weight of your judgments, burdened, bent.
"What hell is this I've trapped myself in?"
All I hear is "You're free. Come join us beyond your cage."
But the voices are a distant, mechanical din,
If you care then why do you stand on a stage?
You are too far away to reach me now
Too caught up to watch me drift away
You may want to save me but wonder how,
The answer is, you'll never find a way.
Flailing inside, can't reach beyond the shell
Until crumbling I fall, spill over my small world, and see,
Icy whispers freeze over my hell,
Numb once again, just as well, like it should be.
Broken glass, broken glass,
This pattern remains and who is to say
"You'll be fine at the last"
But through it all, not a one of you will stay.
"How do I keep falling?"
Tumbled and jumbled and crushed,
Bloody tears, cut and broken, not hoping,
Too tired, lips stilled and hushed.
Head crushed against itself,
Heart spiralled in till it knots
Soul so far gone, set upon a lofty shelf,
I only feel whole when taking shots.
With time will the clarity deepen?
Or do the cryptic flourishes shake the mind?
Stars fear being mistaken
So far distant, their truth you'll rarely find.
Weary now, you've traveled to the end,
"Come now, see there is more here"
Don't say it, some things will never mend
The tears are no longer sincere.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Canvases - A Dark Story
"Love me," she said, "just love me, and love me and love me." Each new face she turned to a blank canvas she wished to paint upon the expressions she desired to see; admiration; adoration; acceptance; affection. She turned to each new person and said, "Love me. I'll create a wonderful face for you. Love me, and I'll make you happy." She took her brush and her paint and colored in all her feelings, her hopes, her desires, but as the paint slid upon the blank canvases the edges began to blacken; the blank faced persons turned away; her paint, while lovely, burned through the canvas of their skin, withering the smooth surface to a puckered, smoking crumble. "Oh dear," she said, "I did it wrong... the smile should have been wider and the colours more bright." Then she turned to the next face and said, "Love me..." the person turned and again she saw a canvas of potential, "Love me," she said, "Love me, and love me, and love me, and I will make you happy. Love me, and love me, and love me..."
Stroke, stroke, each color, each bit of wet paint gliding upon the surface, she executed every detail with perfect precision all the while saying, "Love me, love me, love me. Love me, and you will be happy. Love me, I'll show you what happiness is." stroke, stroke, "Love me..." The face reflected what she desired, the canvas filled with all she wanted, but the face, now completed, turned away. She lowered her brush and watched in bewilderment as the person with a wonderful, happy face walked further and further from her. "But wait!" she cried, "I gave you such a wonderful face! Love me...." The face turned back slowly and a smile slid across the surface, "Thank you," the person said, "you are a skilled artist. I will certainly find happiness now, because of what you did for me." then the face turned away once more, and continued walking. "But that's not what I want," she said, "I just want you to love me."
Rain began to fall, conveniently replacing the tears she herself could not shed, "Oh dear," she said, "I did it wrong... next time I will do better."
She turned to yet another face, "Love me," she said, "Love me, and love me, and love me. Only you, only me, just love me and nothing else. Just love me and I will paint a magnificent face for you. Love me, and you will have all you could want. All you want is me, you'll see."
Stroke, stroke, each color, each line, every caress her brush laid across the canvas was inspired, beautiful, falling perfectly in place. "Love me," she said as she painted, "Love me, and love me, and love me." a smooth stroke, a short stroke, "See? See how beautiful your new face is? I will paint exactly what you need. Just love me..." but as she painted the canvas began to dissolve, the paint was too caustic for it. "Maybe I just need glue..." she said, "Don't worry, it will all be perfect. Just love me..." the person began to clutch at their face, shying away from their burning skin, "Shh, shh, hush now," she whispered, pulling their hands gently so she could continue to paint, "Don't worry, it will be beautiful. Just love me. Love me, and love me, and love me..." She pulled out some glue from her pocket and dipped her brush into it, spreading the sticky substance across the surface, pulling the unravelling pieces of the canvased face together, muttering about how perfect it will be. The rain continued to fall, the paint continued to burn through, the edges refused to stay the way she pleased as the person withered and burned, all the while with her saying, "It will be okay. I'll make it okay. Don't worry, I'll make it perfect," until all that was left was a tattered heap. "Oh dear," she said, "I did it wrong... glue doesn't work in the rain, I guess. I'll get it right next time."
She wandered from person to person, each time painting a marvelous face, each time failing to keep it for herself. "Love me..." she said, desperately, "Why won't they love me? Just me? Just me as myself?" As another painted face crumbled in her hands she whispered, "Why can't they love me? I made this face for them..."
She found another face, and another, and with each failure she said, "Oh dear... I will make it better next time." And she would search for a new face once more. Blue paint for comforting their pains, yellow to brighten their day, red - a lot of red - for a loving heart; more colors and more colors, each filled with meaningful intention, each imbued with her burning desire, "Love me. Love me, and love me, and love me. Just love me." Soaked with rain completely through her clothes, her hair dripping, the water running down her cheeks, she walked and painted, searching for the canvas that would love her; searching for when she would reach perfection; and she found a new face. This person was hidden in a shadow, so easy to walk by and miss, but she was an observant girl and noticed the person's faint glimmer in the darkness. She took their hand and pulled them into a patch of light, only to be shocked to see not a blank canvas, but a glistening surface which reflected all around it. She peered at the metallic sheen for clarity, but her breath fogged up the surface as the rain created rivulets through the steam. "What is this face?" she asked herself, "I have never seen such a thing..." she used a soft cloth to gently wipe away the rain and fog, but the person flinched away, "Shh, shh, hush now," she whispered, as she always did, "It will be okay. I will make it okay. Just trust in me, and you will love me." The person stood still as she wiped the moisture from its face, and again she inspected the surface, holding her breath this time. How odd, how strange, the face was so easy to miss in the dark because it looked like everything around it; reflecting all the darkness, reflecting all the blank faces... her eyes roamed across the mirror and saw all the canvases around her reflected within.
"But where is my face?" she asked, "I see all these others, and I see this one in front of you, but where is my face? All I see reflected is a blank canvas..." she used the cloth to wipe away the rain from the face once more, "Maybe I just need to clean it again. Then I'll see my face." she cleaned and looked, cleaned and stared, cleaned and... "Where? Where is my face? Am I invisible? All I see are blank canvases reflected here..." In frustration she almost walked away, but a sly, hopeless grin began to make its way to her lips, "But wait, she said, if this person will love me, won't that mean everyone else will as well?" Her hopes, her dreams, her fears, all her desires seized her and she dipped her paintbrush into the colors once more, applying them to the mirrored face. The person shied away again and she stroked the cold surface gently with her fingertips, "Shh, shh, don't worry. I'll make it perfect. Just love me. Love me, and love me, and love me..." Stroke, stroke, "Love me, and I will make it all beautiful. Love me, and you will have all you've ever wished for."
But there was something wrong with painting this face. The metallic surface didn't soak in her paints, and the rain washed them away. She tried again and again, all the while saying, "Love me. Accept me. Adore me." She painted and painted, using all the skill she had, but it would only wash away. "Love me!" she cried, "Love me and then you'll be happy. I promise." The person stood still as glass as the paint washed away, drizzling down to stain their clothes. "Love me, and love me... just love me." She said over and over, painting and hoping to make it stick. She began to be increasingly frustrated, however, as the paint would not stay, and all that was reflected back at her was a blank canvas face in the mirror. Who was that, anyway? She turned to look behind her, but saw no one there. In paranoia she looked all around, but no one was as close to the mirror face as she. And she began to be afraid... "What if I don't exist?" she thought, "What if there is someone standing here, and I can't see them? Why am I not reflected here? That face can't be me..."
She painted and painted... and ran out of paint.
As the rain washed away the last drop of color from the mirrored face she let the brush and empty tins fall to the ground, "Oh dear..." she said, "I failed... I guess I can't get it right, after all." And then she could see, through the rain rolling down that mirrored face, that the blank canvas reflected before her, was merely her own. She slowly sunk to the ground as she realized, that in her desires to paint beautiful destinies for others to create someone who would love her, she had neglected to paint her own blank face, and now there was no paint left. Of course they could not love her; how could they love something so alien, so different, so blank, so empty...?
As her fingers sunk into the mud created from the rain and dirt she almost lost herself to tears, "But wait," she thought, "I can make it work. I can MAKE it perfect!" She looked up at the mirror face once more to see the person still standing, standing still, and in a last, panicked try she grasped a handful of mud and stood, "If I can't paint a face on you, then I will paint a face FOR you!" she exclaimed, "Then you will love me!" Still missing the point, the reason for existence, she stared at her blank face reflected back in the mirror and began to paint with the mud. It was not a colorful piece of art, it was not full of delicacy and beauty, but she painted. "Here is your face," she said to the mirror person, "This is for you, from me. Just love me." Thick strokes of brown, stylized and full of grit, swirled and straight, curved and looped, until her face was blank no more.
She cleaned her hands on her clothes and used the soft cloth to wipe the rain off the mirror person's face once more. She stood closer, closer, so that only her face was reflected in the mirror and said, "Here, this face is for you. It is not my most delicate piece of art, nor is it the most colorful, but I made it with all I have. I made it for you. So, love me. Just love me, and love me, and love me..." As her arms slipped around the mirror person's shoulders, embracing them to be close, she fell through... the person's body was made of mist, and as she looked back at them, to her horror the mirror fell to the ground and shattered.
"Oh dear!" she cried, falling to her knees and desperately scooping up the shards of metallic glass, "No, oh no... but you have to love me!" The jagged edges sliced her fingers, spilling red blood.
"Maybe that's what I need," she said, bemused, "maybe there wasn't enough red... love is red, isn't it?" Placing together the larger mirror pieces, she looked at her broken reflection and painted red swirls on her face, between the thick streaks of mud, "See?" she asked the shattered face, "I painted it for you! It has color now, and it is beautiful. See how I made this face for you? Just love me! Please, love me." But there was no answer from the broken pieces.
The rain continued to fall, mixing with the mud and blood painted on her face, smudging the lines and running the colors together. She held the largest piece of mirror as blood dripped from her fingers and watched as her face became muddled, the designs now unrecognizable.
"Oh dear..." she said, "I did it wrong..." Her heart now hopeless and numb, she stood once more and shambled on to the next blank canvas, "Love me..." she said, now listless and cold, "Love me... and I will make it all better... Love me... Love me, and love me, and love me." and reaching out, she painted a face for them in blood.
Stroke, stroke, each color, each bit of wet paint gliding upon the surface, she executed every detail with perfect precision all the while saying, "Love me, love me, love me. Love me, and you will be happy. Love me, I'll show you what happiness is." stroke, stroke, "Love me..." The face reflected what she desired, the canvas filled with all she wanted, but the face, now completed, turned away. She lowered her brush and watched in bewilderment as the person with a wonderful, happy face walked further and further from her. "But wait!" she cried, "I gave you such a wonderful face! Love me...." The face turned back slowly and a smile slid across the surface, "Thank you," the person said, "you are a skilled artist. I will certainly find happiness now, because of what you did for me." then the face turned away once more, and continued walking. "But that's not what I want," she said, "I just want you to love me."
Rain began to fall, conveniently replacing the tears she herself could not shed, "Oh dear," she said, "I did it wrong... next time I will do better."
She turned to yet another face, "Love me," she said, "Love me, and love me, and love me. Only you, only me, just love me and nothing else. Just love me and I will paint a magnificent face for you. Love me, and you will have all you could want. All you want is me, you'll see."
Stroke, stroke, each color, each line, every caress her brush laid across the canvas was inspired, beautiful, falling perfectly in place. "Love me," she said as she painted, "Love me, and love me, and love me." a smooth stroke, a short stroke, "See? See how beautiful your new face is? I will paint exactly what you need. Just love me..." but as she painted the canvas began to dissolve, the paint was too caustic for it. "Maybe I just need glue..." she said, "Don't worry, it will all be perfect. Just love me..." the person began to clutch at their face, shying away from their burning skin, "Shh, shh, hush now," she whispered, pulling their hands gently so she could continue to paint, "Don't worry, it will be beautiful. Just love me. Love me, and love me, and love me..." She pulled out some glue from her pocket and dipped her brush into it, spreading the sticky substance across the surface, pulling the unravelling pieces of the canvased face together, muttering about how perfect it will be. The rain continued to fall, the paint continued to burn through, the edges refused to stay the way she pleased as the person withered and burned, all the while with her saying, "It will be okay. I'll make it okay. Don't worry, I'll make it perfect," until all that was left was a tattered heap. "Oh dear," she said, "I did it wrong... glue doesn't work in the rain, I guess. I'll get it right next time."
She wandered from person to person, each time painting a marvelous face, each time failing to keep it for herself. "Love me..." she said, desperately, "Why won't they love me? Just me? Just me as myself?" As another painted face crumbled in her hands she whispered, "Why can't they love me? I made this face for them..."
She found another face, and another, and with each failure she said, "Oh dear... I will make it better next time." And she would search for a new face once more. Blue paint for comforting their pains, yellow to brighten their day, red - a lot of red - for a loving heart; more colors and more colors, each filled with meaningful intention, each imbued with her burning desire, "Love me. Love me, and love me, and love me. Just love me." Soaked with rain completely through her clothes, her hair dripping, the water running down her cheeks, she walked and painted, searching for the canvas that would love her; searching for when she would reach perfection; and she found a new face. This person was hidden in a shadow, so easy to walk by and miss, but she was an observant girl and noticed the person's faint glimmer in the darkness. She took their hand and pulled them into a patch of light, only to be shocked to see not a blank canvas, but a glistening surface which reflected all around it. She peered at the metallic sheen for clarity, but her breath fogged up the surface as the rain created rivulets through the steam. "What is this face?" she asked herself, "I have never seen such a thing..." she used a soft cloth to gently wipe away the rain and fog, but the person flinched away, "Shh, shh, hush now," she whispered, as she always did, "It will be okay. I will make it okay. Just trust in me, and you will love me." The person stood still as she wiped the moisture from its face, and again she inspected the surface, holding her breath this time. How odd, how strange, the face was so easy to miss in the dark because it looked like everything around it; reflecting all the darkness, reflecting all the blank faces... her eyes roamed across the mirror and saw all the canvases around her reflected within.
"But where is my face?" she asked, "I see all these others, and I see this one in front of you, but where is my face? All I see reflected is a blank canvas..." she used the cloth to wipe away the rain from the face once more, "Maybe I just need to clean it again. Then I'll see my face." she cleaned and looked, cleaned and stared, cleaned and... "Where? Where is my face? Am I invisible? All I see are blank canvases reflected here..." In frustration she almost walked away, but a sly, hopeless grin began to make its way to her lips, "But wait, she said, if this person will love me, won't that mean everyone else will as well?" Her hopes, her dreams, her fears, all her desires seized her and she dipped her paintbrush into the colors once more, applying them to the mirrored face. The person shied away again and she stroked the cold surface gently with her fingertips, "Shh, shh, don't worry. I'll make it perfect. Just love me. Love me, and love me, and love me..." Stroke, stroke, "Love me, and I will make it all beautiful. Love me, and you will have all you've ever wished for."
But there was something wrong with painting this face. The metallic surface didn't soak in her paints, and the rain washed them away. She tried again and again, all the while saying, "Love me. Accept me. Adore me." She painted and painted, using all the skill she had, but it would only wash away. "Love me!" she cried, "Love me and then you'll be happy. I promise." The person stood still as glass as the paint washed away, drizzling down to stain their clothes. "Love me, and love me... just love me." She said over and over, painting and hoping to make it stick. She began to be increasingly frustrated, however, as the paint would not stay, and all that was reflected back at her was a blank canvas face in the mirror. Who was that, anyway? She turned to look behind her, but saw no one there. In paranoia she looked all around, but no one was as close to the mirror face as she. And she began to be afraid... "What if I don't exist?" she thought, "What if there is someone standing here, and I can't see them? Why am I not reflected here? That face can't be me..."
She painted and painted... and ran out of paint.
As the rain washed away the last drop of color from the mirrored face she let the brush and empty tins fall to the ground, "Oh dear..." she said, "I failed... I guess I can't get it right, after all." And then she could see, through the rain rolling down that mirrored face, that the blank canvas reflected before her, was merely her own. She slowly sunk to the ground as she realized, that in her desires to paint beautiful destinies for others to create someone who would love her, she had neglected to paint her own blank face, and now there was no paint left. Of course they could not love her; how could they love something so alien, so different, so blank, so empty...?
As her fingers sunk into the mud created from the rain and dirt she almost lost herself to tears, "But wait," she thought, "I can make it work. I can MAKE it perfect!" She looked up at the mirror face once more to see the person still standing, standing still, and in a last, panicked try she grasped a handful of mud and stood, "If I can't paint a face on you, then I will paint a face FOR you!" she exclaimed, "Then you will love me!" Still missing the point, the reason for existence, she stared at her blank face reflected back in the mirror and began to paint with the mud. It was not a colorful piece of art, it was not full of delicacy and beauty, but she painted. "Here is your face," she said to the mirror person, "This is for you, from me. Just love me." Thick strokes of brown, stylized and full of grit, swirled and straight, curved and looped, until her face was blank no more.
She cleaned her hands on her clothes and used the soft cloth to wipe the rain off the mirror person's face once more. She stood closer, closer, so that only her face was reflected in the mirror and said, "Here, this face is for you. It is not my most delicate piece of art, nor is it the most colorful, but I made it with all I have. I made it for you. So, love me. Just love me, and love me, and love me..." As her arms slipped around the mirror person's shoulders, embracing them to be close, she fell through... the person's body was made of mist, and as she looked back at them, to her horror the mirror fell to the ground and shattered.
"Oh dear!" she cried, falling to her knees and desperately scooping up the shards of metallic glass, "No, oh no... but you have to love me!" The jagged edges sliced her fingers, spilling red blood.
"Maybe that's what I need," she said, bemused, "maybe there wasn't enough red... love is red, isn't it?" Placing together the larger mirror pieces, she looked at her broken reflection and painted red swirls on her face, between the thick streaks of mud, "See?" she asked the shattered face, "I painted it for you! It has color now, and it is beautiful. See how I made this face for you? Just love me! Please, love me." But there was no answer from the broken pieces.
The rain continued to fall, mixing with the mud and blood painted on her face, smudging the lines and running the colors together. She held the largest piece of mirror as blood dripped from her fingers and watched as her face became muddled, the designs now unrecognizable.
"Oh dear..." she said, "I did it wrong..." Her heart now hopeless and numb, she stood once more and shambled on to the next blank canvas, "Love me..." she said, now listless and cold, "Love me... and I will make it all better... Love me... Love me, and love me, and love me." and reaching out, she painted a face for them in blood.
Autocratic
Sifting and shifting, settling as dust, once the vision clears what is left? The answer eludes the blind eyes of those whose hearts are turned inwards. Numb and shaking, afraid to feel, afraid to come forth and burst with emotions, what if the broken can no longer live as a shattered being? Those who breathe do so trembling, holding on to the edges of ice beneath which they can only drown in cold darkness. Has Her Majesty created such a seamless lie that the tapestry has been turned within and deceived even herself, the creator of its every stitch? But perhaps she is no Queen, only a beggar, yet even more.. perhaps she is a goddess, hidden away from the world, from herself. But is this lie not told to you? Do you not believe it, you self-serving humans who only wish to hear the lark sing if it sings of you? The bird has a witty eye and knows which song you wish to hear, to please you, to appease you, to deceive you. Before you notice the trick, you have become sated and are no longer capable of realizing there is more to see beyond the facade.
The painting never cared a wit of those who viewed it. Awed by her beauty, by the depth of meaning the artist seemed to portray, her stoic strokes and glossy smile appear so guileless... yet they are inert and cruel in the face of your sincerity. The crucible burns enough to open her eyes but within their cloudy depths no sense can be proffered. The silver tongue will prove to be poison in the mouth of the one who bears it. The painted swirls distract your eyes from the deeper meaning. Give homage to the Queen, she will only trample upon you regardless, yet in your reverence of her light you will never see.
She will take your scepter, but more than that, the succubus draws out your humanity - keeping it in a box for herself when the rain spurs her loneliness. The withered rose serves as a poor memory to the broken pocket watch collecting dust upon the shelf. Her occasional glance does naught to polish its tarnished surface. Did she once care? Does she still? Are you meaningful to her only in what you provide or is there something deeper? Sitting in her fairytale land, alone and in the dark, do you oft think of her? The Queen may appear arrogant, yet an apt title is deserving for one so skilled as she. Her talents ring about her as a pond with endless ripples, yet the depths of which only she knows.
Her Majesty's commanding aura and haughty disposition hide well her flaws and the fears of the helpless child caught within the storm of the heart she has hidden away. Decorum is the rule of necessity; Her Majesty's autocratic rule is more rash and merciless than would ever be revealed beyond the shimmering rainbows and fluttering butterflies, yet its harshness will ever cut the deepest within the protection of stony walls. The core which is numb may not feel the tear in the flesh as it bleeds, yet the injury damages still the same.
At times the most painful treasure is the one which teaches the most, yet all that is left are rusted corners and the emptiness which is all there has ever been. In desperation to fill that which can only be a void, the insanity creeps in and causes that which she wishes most to never find. Control only causes the edges to fray, and then what is left to the Queen?
The painting never cared a wit of those who viewed it. Awed by her beauty, by the depth of meaning the artist seemed to portray, her stoic strokes and glossy smile appear so guileless... yet they are inert and cruel in the face of your sincerity. The crucible burns enough to open her eyes but within their cloudy depths no sense can be proffered. The silver tongue will prove to be poison in the mouth of the one who bears it. The painted swirls distract your eyes from the deeper meaning. Give homage to the Queen, she will only trample upon you regardless, yet in your reverence of her light you will never see.
She will take your scepter, but more than that, the succubus draws out your humanity - keeping it in a box for herself when the rain spurs her loneliness. The withered rose serves as a poor memory to the broken pocket watch collecting dust upon the shelf. Her occasional glance does naught to polish its tarnished surface. Did she once care? Does she still? Are you meaningful to her only in what you provide or is there something deeper? Sitting in her fairytale land, alone and in the dark, do you oft think of her? The Queen may appear arrogant, yet an apt title is deserving for one so skilled as she. Her talents ring about her as a pond with endless ripples, yet the depths of which only she knows.
Her Majesty's commanding aura and haughty disposition hide well her flaws and the fears of the helpless child caught within the storm of the heart she has hidden away. Decorum is the rule of necessity; Her Majesty's autocratic rule is more rash and merciless than would ever be revealed beyond the shimmering rainbows and fluttering butterflies, yet its harshness will ever cut the deepest within the protection of stony walls. The core which is numb may not feel the tear in the flesh as it bleeds, yet the injury damages still the same.
At times the most painful treasure is the one which teaches the most, yet all that is left are rusted corners and the emptiness which is all there has ever been. In desperation to fill that which can only be a void, the insanity creeps in and causes that which she wishes most to never find. Control only causes the edges to fray, and then what is left to the Queen?
Cryptic Rant at the Death of Spring - Written May 18, 2013
Hell's soiled feet tiptoe across the grandiose tile yet still, still, still you cannot see the marks left behind. Sooty ashes and sulfuric dust blending into dazzling patterns, even were it obvious you would turn your face, hide your eyes. 'Tis easier to glance upon the beauty than to oppose that which might mar your senses by its presence. I could have told you that the true darkness comes from running away. Run, you cursed fools, run into that which you fear. Run toward what frightens you, what you avoid, what you wish most to escape from. Embrace your darkness and there, there is where you will find your light.
Sifting through dust and ashes, the remnants of those who lost themselves to the depths of your solitude, never sang such a sweet song as the keening of love left behind. But what is love? Mere frivolity and lies, lies to the self to convince that we are not alone - yet all, we are all so utterly alone that the presence of another can never penetrate our scars and the faces we hide behind. So see, you never had need of another to fill your heart; your heart is full of demons and you are their master, dancing and prancing and pulling the strings, the master is the one controlled by his own puppets.
Grovel at the feet of excellence, churning within your maggot filled heart. Blood in the waters turns their crystalline beauty to dusky ochre, despoting its clarity with the poison created within your rotting husk. Selfish one, you see a soul and wish to crush its beauty, yet never have you faced wrath such as this. You will not be the victor of your own colosseum. The bloody moth shan't crumple in the heat of your flames. The ash which shall float across this earth's wind shall be that of your own, and when the bitterness of it falls upon the tongues of those who wander their singular thought of you will be to spit you out into the dirt from whence you came. You are your own cursed spite, and you belong in the dust; no, you belong so deeply below the sludgy caves that even Hell could never find your essence smeared across its walls.
Feel the insect crushed between your fingers, feel its hidden soul cry a lament, "No, it's not my time!" Recognize within it your own fear of mortality and the guilt carried within you of all the pain you bring to this divide. Crash upon your own shore, violently churn within yourself, beat against the stones in your heart as a wave of turbulence in a blackened storm. Strike yourself as lightning, hot searing pain brought upon your withered form. Truly you deserve it only by your thoughts of wishing it to be so. Deserving your own wrath was ever more sweet upon your tongue than that of being free.
Sifting through dust and ashes, the remnants of those who lost themselves to the depths of your solitude, never sang such a sweet song as the keening of love left behind. But what is love? Mere frivolity and lies, lies to the self to convince that we are not alone - yet all, we are all so utterly alone that the presence of another can never penetrate our scars and the faces we hide behind. So see, you never had need of another to fill your heart; your heart is full of demons and you are their master, dancing and prancing and pulling the strings, the master is the one controlled by his own puppets.
Grovel at the feet of excellence, churning within your maggot filled heart. Blood in the waters turns their crystalline beauty to dusky ochre, despoting its clarity with the poison created within your rotting husk. Selfish one, you see a soul and wish to crush its beauty, yet never have you faced wrath such as this. You will not be the victor of your own colosseum. The bloody moth shan't crumple in the heat of your flames. The ash which shall float across this earth's wind shall be that of your own, and when the bitterness of it falls upon the tongues of those who wander their singular thought of you will be to spit you out into the dirt from whence you came. You are your own cursed spite, and you belong in the dust; no, you belong so deeply below the sludgy caves that even Hell could never find your essence smeared across its walls.
Feel the insect crushed between your fingers, feel its hidden soul cry a lament, "No, it's not my time!" Recognize within it your own fear of mortality and the guilt carried within you of all the pain you bring to this divide. Crash upon your own shore, violently churn within yourself, beat against the stones in your heart as a wave of turbulence in a blackened storm. Strike yourself as lightning, hot searing pain brought upon your withered form. Truly you deserve it only by your thoughts of wishing it to be so. Deserving your own wrath was ever more sweet upon your tongue than that of being free.
A Cryptic Revelation - Written August 26, 2012
There are ways to express the rainbows which hover in the cluttered mind. Ways in which the butterflies dance and through the fog of spindly legs and fluttering wings you see light filtering from the heavens. Never holding to the silhouette for more than a moment, you seem so black and white, yet the problem is.... you are both black and white. You switch and turn and change faster than the raging waters of a swollen spring river, unable to know what you want, it is easy to deny what you have promised.
Each twist cuts away, digging deeper into the earthen heart, a rut in which what seeds may be planted? Without nourishment what could grow? No waters spring from this well, but instead the drying soil turns to stone with time and the pressure of the Ages weighing down upon its sleepless form.
Heedless you waiver to and fro, hunting for an answer yet not knowing what you seek. I ask you, why do you not spend some thought? Are the moments of silence only there to be your bane? Or perhaps, mine. Pools of blood hidden in caves feed the scummy swamp fish whose eyes have long since been removed by Fate. Mayhap this seems irrelevant yet somehow echoes within your soul, fluttering and hinting; hinting at truths your cluttered mind cannot grasp. Not now, not in this state.
Failing to see the pattern, wandering across the many paths which sprawl through the fallen wood, why not stand in one place for the sun to warm you? See your reflection in this pond and question the fish within; perhaps they have the answer, don't they? Do they not know better than I? Better than you? Better than Fate? One might think so given your proclivities. I have yet to see the other side of your many arms, do they weigh you down, sir octopus? Cast out of water, you appear to hurt, but the glint in your eye says you would rather cause anguish than to experience your own happiness.
Maybe that is all you know? Fear is a nasty treat.
Rendering the golden shafts of feeling cannot take away the stench from the flesh which rots on the bones, maggots were ever useful, yet the horror of them begets a rage which can never be dimmed. The fury in your blood serves you, does it not? Yet fury is hot and the boiling will dry you to a husk as your soul evaporates and your heart hardens into twisted foil. Don't be afraid.
Do not fear love, my love, my lovely. Just fear the cost of your own fear. Irony is worth the high price.
Flies in the cat's belly do not assist the mouse. Nor does that ache in your bowels assist the taco hidden within.
See the redirection and spy upon it, what fears are not expressed through such forms as this? You will never know unless you look deeper, forcing your way into its depths. The chest will open, but 'tis not gold hidden within...
Find out yourself - it can only be interesting... yet...
Silence.
Each twist cuts away, digging deeper into the earthen heart, a rut in which what seeds may be planted? Without nourishment what could grow? No waters spring from this well, but instead the drying soil turns to stone with time and the pressure of the Ages weighing down upon its sleepless form.
Heedless you waiver to and fro, hunting for an answer yet not knowing what you seek. I ask you, why do you not spend some thought? Are the moments of silence only there to be your bane? Or perhaps, mine. Pools of blood hidden in caves feed the scummy swamp fish whose eyes have long since been removed by Fate. Mayhap this seems irrelevant yet somehow echoes within your soul, fluttering and hinting; hinting at truths your cluttered mind cannot grasp. Not now, not in this state.
Failing to see the pattern, wandering across the many paths which sprawl through the fallen wood, why not stand in one place for the sun to warm you? See your reflection in this pond and question the fish within; perhaps they have the answer, don't they? Do they not know better than I? Better than you? Better than Fate? One might think so given your proclivities. I have yet to see the other side of your many arms, do they weigh you down, sir octopus? Cast out of water, you appear to hurt, but the glint in your eye says you would rather cause anguish than to experience your own happiness.
Maybe that is all you know? Fear is a nasty treat.
Rendering the golden shafts of feeling cannot take away the stench from the flesh which rots on the bones, maggots were ever useful, yet the horror of them begets a rage which can never be dimmed. The fury in your blood serves you, does it not? Yet fury is hot and the boiling will dry you to a husk as your soul evaporates and your heart hardens into twisted foil. Don't be afraid.
Do not fear love, my love, my lovely. Just fear the cost of your own fear. Irony is worth the high price.
Flies in the cat's belly do not assist the mouse. Nor does that ache in your bowels assist the taco hidden within.
See the redirection and spy upon it, what fears are not expressed through such forms as this? You will never know unless you look deeper, forcing your way into its depths. The chest will open, but 'tis not gold hidden within...
Find out yourself - it can only be interesting... yet...
Silence.
A Cryptic Follow-Up - Written July 4, 2012
Grasping so tightly, the crushing grip preventing breath, churning red seeps into the flowery vision and black instilled in heart's depths. Ephemeral as the touch may be, the tenuous hold sinks deeper, twisting down into a soul burnt and aching.
Always. Always was never enough, for truth's aging mother abandons hope in an alleyway, littered with dust and refuse and the carcasses of what once was locked away in the shadows of the tortured mind. The circus may be delightful but the ruin left behind scatters the last bits of sanity like the crushed shells of nuts with dirtied rags. Each dessert tastes sweet and yet the aftertaste becomes more bitter; dissatisfaction eats away as the cup stands empty and rusts. Hope is the deepest curse, cutting more acutely than any other blade; moths eat away at the tapestry of life, leaving holes and wretchedness.
Hold to your sinking ship, siren who cannot breathe air, for all that is left are the waves crashing upon your lost heart. Your caved stash of violent secrets will only last for moments before you find the only pain left from your rampage is your own. Snakes twist through your hair, feeding off of your confused thoughts.
Grasping the poison in your paws, the antidote you dropped behind. The color deceives you without the label attached, but the drunken feelings will heighten your senses when you fall; your heartbeat fills your ears as the pain of the thorny weeds penetrate your flesh. Across the chasm you built is the soul you seek to embrace, curling yourself within as a salve of communion heals your wounds. Only you are blind and cannot find the warmth past the fog filling your failing senses.
The gentle breeze carries over the steel box, settling softly to create a lullaby; the glimmer of silk touches your shoulders, but you shrug it off despite your nakedness.
Hold. You cannot breathe now.
The rushing waters will revive you; don't fall to the stones. Taking time might be worth it...
But hope cannot be trusted.
Always. Always was never enough, for truth's aging mother abandons hope in an alleyway, littered with dust and refuse and the carcasses of what once was locked away in the shadows of the tortured mind. The circus may be delightful but the ruin left behind scatters the last bits of sanity like the crushed shells of nuts with dirtied rags. Each dessert tastes sweet and yet the aftertaste becomes more bitter; dissatisfaction eats away as the cup stands empty and rusts. Hope is the deepest curse, cutting more acutely than any other blade; moths eat away at the tapestry of life, leaving holes and wretchedness.
Hold to your sinking ship, siren who cannot breathe air, for all that is left are the waves crashing upon your lost heart. Your caved stash of violent secrets will only last for moments before you find the only pain left from your rampage is your own. Snakes twist through your hair, feeding off of your confused thoughts.
Grasping the poison in your paws, the antidote you dropped behind. The color deceives you without the label attached, but the drunken feelings will heighten your senses when you fall; your heartbeat fills your ears as the pain of the thorny weeds penetrate your flesh. Across the chasm you built is the soul you seek to embrace, curling yourself within as a salve of communion heals your wounds. Only you are blind and cannot find the warmth past the fog filling your failing senses.
The gentle breeze carries over the steel box, settling softly to create a lullaby; the glimmer of silk touches your shoulders, but you shrug it off despite your nakedness.
Hold. You cannot breathe now.
The rushing waters will revive you; don't fall to the stones. Taking time might be worth it...
But hope cannot be trusted.
A Cryptic Rant - Written June 22, 2012
My heart the stone of which has broken, it aches bleeding a fountain, and yet through it all I can only breathe, breathe your name and smell the salt from your leftover presence. It only fades slowly and yet increases in intensity, growing, coalescing, gaining, creating a stain in my lungs. The scratches which bled are slowly healing and yet still there, hopefully forever, always instilling a memory of where I was true and safe. Lifeforce flowing beneath the surface, shivering through in murky colors, grows more dim as each day passes yet lasting would be both a curse and a desire for memories which can only die without glory. Like fallen soldiers each day tells a twisted story of running and dirt, sweat and hiding, only to be left with nothing as the corpse grows colder and my fingers curl and stiffen around your still beating heart.
Run - that is what you are doing, and in such a way that is pathetic, Man that you wish you were. You are not, but a terrorized darkness, wallowing in the covert shadows and sipping amongst the scummy water banks. Your eyes which glimmer, so reflective, they hold a light in them which reminds me of gummy bears and love. Even so, the hand which I trusted so completely made me fear a lie, and now I worry of the gift it carried. Was it empty or no? Is the gift box holding within it a light or is there merely shadow? Does then the insanity cling to my mind or is it only hope that has twisted me thus? A dried flower still carries meaning, and even in the husk the intensity of feeling can be sloughed with faintest feather of touch. A home of the heart creates dust motes in the air as light filters through the highest window, and yet the motes dance - so carefree - as to make one appeased at their Fate despite the colder winds outside.
Alas, the twists that come from your Destiny, and curse and spit and hate upon those lies which bring about the deluge of tears. Bemoan this circumstance which rips back and forth, hithertofore, eating away at the crumbling edges of your soul. Ink spills running only downhill even as the rivers of blood run amok in the heat of your fever. Greatly cherished memories now curl with smoke and sting with the gall of acid due to your passion and heart which cherishes them nearly so much as I, the fool who loved the Damned and yet seeks to soothe your chafed soul. Seethe, begrudging those who make lies about the flood of tears.
The stench of the smoke is fouler than you would truly know, you uneducated and imaginative person. You say you know because you have seen but you have never felt the true sting of the Leviathan. The deep gashes occur twice, the blood of which flows with deuce of colors - deepest green the one which poisons - black the one which burns with hatred from desires. Loathe and bathe in that knowledge, that which you know is forsaken out of fear.
The sting of the liquid in your lungs as it drowns you is only ironic in the face of the nights that have lined thy path as gravestones. Ticking, grey, as lightning streaks overhead, and only silence and the green numbers of the clock are there as your saviors. Waking and wakeful your only company, the pain of which only you know, and their sympathies fall on cold ears as you lay dying with a vulture's mask covering your dry face. What, no tears? How could there not be?
But with each comes a price which is never paid.
Not for me. Not for me.
I am indebted yet have paid my price.
Keep this passion which cries for you, your heart soaked with the sadness that is unable to be wrung, yet with a tear in the creases the blood rushes forth, sinking into the vase of flowers. Why not? For roses of this color speak thy name so sweetly. The depth of which is only measured by drops of greater weight. A sly form of expression yet viewed through a sieve like a mirror, holds the weight of a pen and a moth.
The heart's commitment freezes as Time's crystal hand bursts, hold, hold, hold. A glint of red as it continually twists in your wounds, the sting is Just yet cruel.
Little girl who held a pledge shed what clothing she could yet bandages still wrapped her wounds. Merely torn coats she had wrapped herself, as the infection spreads. Cut. Cut and saw and tear. Tear the flesh with teeth which glimmer. Feel the morsel with jaw-like hands, clawing, bearing, crushing, eating.
The mirror is broken and half is slipped, a mere quarter inch distorts your vision. The sadness being you may never see past your stubborn desires to the gold within, melted, waiting.
Husk left by rotten seeds only moves in the wind, no motivation for itself, yet sentient as the mold grows on its side.
Ocean waves would tear you apart but your fear keeps you dead in the cave where you've hidden. Your knees tremble beneath your weight.
Don't move on, don't move past, you missed the one that could have lasted only to hurt yourself in misery for you know not how to be free. Cold Soul your warmth will only hurt you. But the gift box with a pearl will bring you back to harbor. Your sincerity irks me with your smoky facades. Silver serves you better than gold despite the brilliance of your eyes. You are too changeable to keep a promise, for once your opinion changes your words have no worth. Like platinum exposed to heat, your vows evaporate and what had great worth is now less than gravel.
Don't expose me with love, I'd rather hide in your banter and sickening sadness. Moons shine thrice yet the spade falls only once.
The whitest fish roves through bloody waters. There is only one jewel to save, yet even so your stubborn mercurial nature may cause you to be a Boy not a Man. Sea lions have more heart even if pricked by murderous crows, sucking away at the gel within their eyes.
Throw down the quill and raise your glass to the sun - the red sparks a new day and highlights the only word to fill your soul - yet as you squint to see the page ignites, losing forever your path to the secrets which you long for. Alas, the child who knew you only stifled with self-hatred as you blame that which ended before your consciousness was birthed. Foolish lies to soothe yourself like a bear spreading honey over bee stings.
The stars which were destroyed in past eons yet still burn brightly to be seen, are their feelings of no value once they cease to exist or when their light no longer travels into the depths of the Universe?
Chain which is soft, it binds so sweetly, yet I cannot remove it for fear of finality.
Run - that is what you are doing, and in such a way that is pathetic, Man that you wish you were. You are not, but a terrorized darkness, wallowing in the covert shadows and sipping amongst the scummy water banks. Your eyes which glimmer, so reflective, they hold a light in them which reminds me of gummy bears and love. Even so, the hand which I trusted so completely made me fear a lie, and now I worry of the gift it carried. Was it empty or no? Is the gift box holding within it a light or is there merely shadow? Does then the insanity cling to my mind or is it only hope that has twisted me thus? A dried flower still carries meaning, and even in the husk the intensity of feeling can be sloughed with faintest feather of touch. A home of the heart creates dust motes in the air as light filters through the highest window, and yet the motes dance - so carefree - as to make one appeased at their Fate despite the colder winds outside.
Alas, the twists that come from your Destiny, and curse and spit and hate upon those lies which bring about the deluge of tears. Bemoan this circumstance which rips back and forth, hithertofore, eating away at the crumbling edges of your soul. Ink spills running only downhill even as the rivers of blood run amok in the heat of your fever. Greatly cherished memories now curl with smoke and sting with the gall of acid due to your passion and heart which cherishes them nearly so much as I, the fool who loved the Damned and yet seeks to soothe your chafed soul. Seethe, begrudging those who make lies about the flood of tears.
The stench of the smoke is fouler than you would truly know, you uneducated and imaginative person. You say you know because you have seen but you have never felt the true sting of the Leviathan. The deep gashes occur twice, the blood of which flows with deuce of colors - deepest green the one which poisons - black the one which burns with hatred from desires. Loathe and bathe in that knowledge, that which you know is forsaken out of fear.
The sting of the liquid in your lungs as it drowns you is only ironic in the face of the nights that have lined thy path as gravestones. Ticking, grey, as lightning streaks overhead, and only silence and the green numbers of the clock are there as your saviors. Waking and wakeful your only company, the pain of which only you know, and their sympathies fall on cold ears as you lay dying with a vulture's mask covering your dry face. What, no tears? How could there not be?
But with each comes a price which is never paid.
Not for me. Not for me.
I am indebted yet have paid my price.
Keep this passion which cries for you, your heart soaked with the sadness that is unable to be wrung, yet with a tear in the creases the blood rushes forth, sinking into the vase of flowers. Why not? For roses of this color speak thy name so sweetly. The depth of which is only measured by drops of greater weight. A sly form of expression yet viewed through a sieve like a mirror, holds the weight of a pen and a moth.
The heart's commitment freezes as Time's crystal hand bursts, hold, hold, hold. A glint of red as it continually twists in your wounds, the sting is Just yet cruel.
Little girl who held a pledge shed what clothing she could yet bandages still wrapped her wounds. Merely torn coats she had wrapped herself, as the infection spreads. Cut. Cut and saw and tear. Tear the flesh with teeth which glimmer. Feel the morsel with jaw-like hands, clawing, bearing, crushing, eating.
The mirror is broken and half is slipped, a mere quarter inch distorts your vision. The sadness being you may never see past your stubborn desires to the gold within, melted, waiting.
Husk left by rotten seeds only moves in the wind, no motivation for itself, yet sentient as the mold grows on its side.
Ocean waves would tear you apart but your fear keeps you dead in the cave where you've hidden. Your knees tremble beneath your weight.
Don't move on, don't move past, you missed the one that could have lasted only to hurt yourself in misery for you know not how to be free. Cold Soul your warmth will only hurt you. But the gift box with a pearl will bring you back to harbor. Your sincerity irks me with your smoky facades. Silver serves you better than gold despite the brilliance of your eyes. You are too changeable to keep a promise, for once your opinion changes your words have no worth. Like platinum exposed to heat, your vows evaporate and what had great worth is now less than gravel.
Don't expose me with love, I'd rather hide in your banter and sickening sadness. Moons shine thrice yet the spade falls only once.
The whitest fish roves through bloody waters. There is only one jewel to save, yet even so your stubborn mercurial nature may cause you to be a Boy not a Man. Sea lions have more heart even if pricked by murderous crows, sucking away at the gel within their eyes.
Throw down the quill and raise your glass to the sun - the red sparks a new day and highlights the only word to fill your soul - yet as you squint to see the page ignites, losing forever your path to the secrets which you long for. Alas, the child who knew you only stifled with self-hatred as you blame that which ended before your consciousness was birthed. Foolish lies to soothe yourself like a bear spreading honey over bee stings.
The stars which were destroyed in past eons yet still burn brightly to be seen, are their feelings of no value once they cease to exist or when their light no longer travels into the depths of the Universe?
Chain which is soft, it binds so sweetly, yet I cannot remove it for fear of finality.
A Beautifully Blank Canvas
And so it begins... a simple phrase, maybe, but one with too many possibilities to count. Perhaps I have an idea of what this blog may become, but in truth, it would be against my nature to form it. Rather, my way of being is that of the mercurial type, flitting and changing and shimmering across many surfaces, ranging in varying colors and splashing like paint chaotically spilled across the canvas of Life.
Due to this tendency of mine I find I am terribly unreliable. I pick up ideas and drop them, I begin projects which are never completed, I promise friendships to last an eternity and move on before the paint has even dried...
But really, whoever expected a mermaid to be reliable?
This blog of mine, really just another canvas, will be a form of expression of a broad range. Some days I will post stories, others poems, sometimes rants, and often types of writing which I do not know how to categorize. I've never actually cared much for labels though, and despite being a person who has high mental acuity when it comes to recognizing and improving patterns and systems, giving them specific names and labels has always seemed rather pointless to me. I would say that is likely my mercurial nature showing through in the end. Or perhaps it is the side of myself which desires to love all the spiciness life has to offer without limiting my experience of it by narrowly deciding what it is.
In truth, there is no real way to predict what will be expressed within my blog, but I guarantee that if you come along with me it will be a beautiful adventure filled with bright intensity, raw emotion, logical reasoning, inspiring moments, fiery passion, glittering humor, a blinding ego... and moments of apologetic humility and true humanity.
Thank you for sharing this path with me, and I look forward to splashing some color onto your canvas with my mermaid's tail dipped in paint.
Due to this tendency of mine I find I am terribly unreliable. I pick up ideas and drop them, I begin projects which are never completed, I promise friendships to last an eternity and move on before the paint has even dried...
But really, whoever expected a mermaid to be reliable?
This blog of mine, really just another canvas, will be a form of expression of a broad range. Some days I will post stories, others poems, sometimes rants, and often types of writing which I do not know how to categorize. I've never actually cared much for labels though, and despite being a person who has high mental acuity when it comes to recognizing and improving patterns and systems, giving them specific names and labels has always seemed rather pointless to me. I would say that is likely my mercurial nature showing through in the end. Or perhaps it is the side of myself which desires to love all the spiciness life has to offer without limiting my experience of it by narrowly deciding what it is.
In truth, there is no real way to predict what will be expressed within my blog, but I guarantee that if you come along with me it will be a beautiful adventure filled with bright intensity, raw emotion, logical reasoning, inspiring moments, fiery passion, glittering humor, a blinding ego... and moments of apologetic humility and true humanity.
Thank you for sharing this path with me, and I look forward to splashing some color onto your canvas with my mermaid's tail dipped in paint.
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