Déjà Vu is one of my all-time favorite albums and I’ve always loved this song ❤
Blank stares meet at contrast in face
There is only one through the mirror
The gilded glass hangs for fame
Where we can see it but cannot hear
Body escapes the boundaries of life
As thoughts shift freely through flesh
Other minds quietly pass the time
Desiring in want of the significance
Eyes flicker as forehead tilts forward
Finally succumbing to unawareness
Darkness slowly creeps as shapes form
Sight expands outward framing features
I am grateful for my reflections ❤
All of the stupid things I’ve said
To justify the anger
The fire burns through muscle in my chest
I don’t know how to snuff it out
There’s a fine line between carefree and careless:
I tossed the past in the trash where such horrors belong
White plastic bags buried underneath a few unidentified moments
As an ordinary object, it makes my skin crawl
I can hear it breathing, this sentient fiend preparing omens
Of hate, sending shivers down my spine making me weak
Admitting that friends become enemies when their ILL Will feels justified
Thoughts claw into the layers of your mind unconcerned with the casualty
The poison spilling out feelings sending black thoughts to anyone alive
(and to no one else in particular)
As our united soul suffers to wait for the next silent wave of an attack
Both sides lose, as they always do and the truth remains unknowing
Forces against heart demand to blind emotion
Displacing innocent wishes because it’s easier being angry than being wrong
In my mind, no death is worth this destruction
It’s all the same to me, evil is as evil does and you all know who you are
I am grateful for trash day ❤
I wonder if we’ve become more concerned with the
Sexiness of beauty instead of the truth of the heart
Where the outline of skin draws more attention by
Mimicking affection and confusing the sanctity of Love
Building crippling relations through the idea of touch and
Aggression as dark as what we’ve assessed to be unthinkable
When the cheap inspection of emotion can only affirm as much
As we claim when forming attachments as nothing more than optional
I am grateful for Tim ❤
Monthly Archives: February 2015
Breathing in the mental hunger tasted
By ordinary thoughts created
Memories of what we question
Of what is real and what is a reflection
Or the mental mind stamp of time and place
The pictures drawn to dream
Each moment to catch your attention
Bracing for the next life lesson
Simple happiness simply wasted
The imagination is hated
Painting on a believable face
I descend the staircase
Step after step
Inside of a turret of
Stone and mortar
Shadows dance along
Always by my side
Following the way down
As the light slowly dims and
Then it is extinguished
Darkness consumes sight
My friends of confidence
Of light and dark that
Leave me alone in my silence
Without the echoing cadence
Step after step
Inside of the basement corridors
Of my mind
I woke up from a dream and I lost control
I rubbed the dirt from my eyes
And I see nothing but the night below
And I hear the wind on all sides
I watch the hands on the clock
I slip through the sands of time
Visions blurred, unspoken words
Have I lost my mind?
I find myself so alone
Starring back at everyone
Bodies pass me by
With their empty eyes
I walk with you between these old bones
Among, the crooked rows, of lost and broken stones
Black phantoms marching, their footsteps pass me by
And I hear nothing but the sounds of snow
I watch the spirits rise
The floors are white
Shining the reflection
Into my eyes
The chair is blue
Rusted with age
Probably picked up
on the side of the road
Or given away
Soles of shoe
connect to the
mirroring the ceiling
Sitting down upon
seat in middle of room
With the glittery floor
and single object of
Blue chair scuffs white
floor and rings out an
Echoing scream of
metal scraping tile until
My back is enveloped within the trenches of my mattress
Body’s tensions easing into this nightly intimacy of comfort and safety
Submerged underneath layers upon layers of dreamt wishes
I sink into the bottom as a sleeping fish on the ocean floor
Wishing everyone above Goodnight
There are acceptable phrases to begin particular statements,
The remembered hardships become the sentences that wrench out of gut;
the blood and the intestines pouring out of stomach into a heaping pile of life
Symbolizing the jagged wound opening human flesh to kill all of the hidden spaces of ideas
Metaphorically dying as a sacrifice to the Greatest Masterpiece
She glances left with her bright white eyes and painted lips.
Now head turns to accentuate perspective.
Left arm moves up, next the right.
Now eyes face forward.
Mouth chatters as she walks.
Left foot steps, right steps next.
Hands lift and sway.
Now head tilts up, rosy cheeks round.
Her mouth is open wide but no one can hear a sound.
Now head looks down and her eyes are hidden.
Puppet strings can only do so much
There’s never a face
Only a blurred mask of features
Cloaked in all black
Probing, seeking, killing
We never learned how to believe
Shoved into this state of certainty
With acceptance in grieving
As if being alone is freeing
I say fuck that
The rooms are familiar
They haunt me in my sleep
Saving the night for disaster
As the psycho beast creeps
This time I’ll be waiting
Not running through the maze
In this life of creation
We own the hours of the day
I am grateful for staying awake ❤
An old song is playing on the radio
Where there is no time
Forgotten in the journey of the unknown
I don’t want to ask why
It’s easy being the one unnoticed
Let’s forget the past
It’s been said that I lack focus
But no one has ever asked
We can pretend to live forever
For in death do we part
Hopefully then you’ll find it easier
To forget it all from the start
You’ve never been a real person
Just someone’s ghost
As a figment of my imagination
A stranger at most
I am grateful for public radio ❤
But first a little side note, if anyone could spare a little extra money to help a wonderful kid, it would be greatly appreciated. Below is an excerpt from his mom from their gofundme.com page. It’s not every day that we can actually do** something to make a difference but in this case, every little bit helps. Cancer is a fucking bastard.
“My dear, sweet son Otto has been diagnosed with Stage IV Neuroblastoma. He just turned five last month, and became ill suddenly just a few weeks ago. The last month has been a whirlwind of testing, doctor’s appointments, and specialists. We were admitted to the hospital when his symptoms and his pain became too severe, and finally received our devastating diagnosis after several days.
As his mother, I cannot bear to leave him right now. My only baby is afraid, angry, and in so much pain. I don’t know any mom who would feel differently.
Unfortunately, taking care of my boy means that I can’t work. While FMLA will protect my job so that I can return there when this is all over, I am the breadwinner for our little family. We just bought our first home in October and would despair to lose it and have nowhere to bring Otto home to when the time comes. My paid time off allotment will already run out as of this Friday, barely a week after we brought him in.
We need your help to cover his medical expenses as well as funds to keep us going so that we can continue to support him here in the hospital. We have already received such an outpouring of love and support, but we still have such a very long way to go. I know our goal seems like such a large number, but every small amount will help us.
Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”
The words disappear beneath the shadow of hands
Ink-stained knuckles curve into fists of anxious frustration
I hide this self only as much as I can pretend
With the challenge of mind led by the weight of suppression
The truth is acknowledged by those in its possession
Absent in substance, despite how it’s being written
We accept in ignorance what we abandon in submission
Perverting blind desolation while claiming “It is I who apprehends!”
Well, who I am to desecrate this movement?
As I sit here losing hope from the promise of creation
Devising rhyming riddles of expectations to offend
Only to deaden the void from the torment of corporate stagnation
The page glares in indignant accusation
With a delighted radiancy desirous to transcend
I always succumb to suffer its carnal predation
As it is, who cares? we all die in the end
I am grateful for friends and family ❤
In a way that escapes the modern ear,
A blank canvas filled in with white
A bold emptiness inviting anyone
to create a mark
Or to fill a hole
Whether the colors resemble anything
Some, hear the saxophone lulling into the night
With a heavy heart of understanding
outlined in the pinkish hue of love
The echoes vibrating off of the porcelain keys
A duet of hauntingly beautiful music
to complement the mood
Others, afraid of the uncertain
See darkness in nothing at all
No direction nor meaning
No sound, no saturation, no feelings
A mysterious sullen shade of
shadows and silhouettes
Wintertime is merely the feminine
shifting of emotions
Of acknowledging the
empathy for the differences that unify
everyone of us
A season of physical touch and self-awareness;
A memory of warmth and of the
The golden webs glow in the darkness
Of shut eyes focusing on seeing
Knuckles grind into skin and the lights get brighter
Lines and shapes moving, pulsating
Intertwining into an array of mystery
What is there to see behind closed eyes?
Where are you?
I see the shadows
feel the movements
But only from the corners
of my eyes
As if it’s some kind of joke
to confuse the blind-ed
Where were you?
When the clouds drew near
blocked out the sun
when I forgot to run
Feet locked into the ground
as if they had sprouted roots
all by themselves
Letting the dirt swallow my
Even the dark
Nooks and Crannies
that I had forgotten about;
How do we begin to
in the very things that
Sucking in breath
Calculating movement of throat
And counting the appropriate
Pauses to create;
To distract attention from face
Highlighting the notice of a distant object or attraction
Offering something, anything
Reasonable as to explain why
Focus must always be shifted
And kept outside
To be comfortable
The simple choice to make, think fast it’s easy
Do you go with gut instinct or only question the answer?
To evaluate the lenses available for view
and for purchase
One by one each pair is laid out in a row
Stagnant in waiting for a view left in
The different frames decorated for
An attachment of recognition on first
Selecting the best mirrored of self
instead of the glasses with the correct
focus to see
Too much visual screening can leave
one often staring, lonely
Observances jaded by the different
shades and shadows covering face
A mask to wear while
claiming ignorance and
I shrugged in sarcastic narcissism,
Of course everyone got the joke.
As a creature molded to analyze
I constantly try to self-replicate myself into the norm;
It’s safe, a nice comforting cocoon, the norm.
An obvious cliche stepford kitchen recipe
But the norm is always actualized from diversity
The new beginnings that created multiple personalities
Stages of metamorphosis to write down in history.
I am a masked face to pretend to relate.
It’s hard to begin to express the sheer frustration and depression I fall into when you leave. Although your body lingers, your mind has lost it’s way. The pathway to self-destruction on speed. A numbing embrace and a glimpse of a light, so you use. To keep a handy vial on hand, mimics the guidance of friends, pushing you away from everyone. And you do. Your self-confidence issues are portrayed, by the mean words you say, when you’re not you. How important do I weigh in the narcissistic world playing in everyone’s heads? What would you say if you were given the chance to conquer it all or, to be happy?
As a cockroach, the ugliest parasite of them all
I am free, but pointless
Black antennas and beady eyes, they consume
The world is on fire but the bug always prevails
A grim reaper of destruction and chaos,
What have I become?
A monster of death?
A watcher, a listener, a schizophrenic creeper?
To be an addict’s last witness and give out his dying wish
We all collectedly suffer;
To always be alone and afraid…
My miniature vault, a glass storage jar, sits on the table
In its own little spot, next to the monte carlo cigar box
As an object of character, it represents my freedom, my rebellion, my sweet descent
My little piece of sanity that keeps me contained
A late bloomer to the bud of the most contentious flower
I hear every poet’s favorite color is green
The walls are pounding,
Quick, loud beats that mimic my heart.
The room is always illuminated by the tv,
A reality of fiction and demons of temptation.
Where is our salvation?
Where is the harmony of perfection and ecstatic bliss?
They say that everything happens for a reason,
But I won’t stay here pretending that I don’t notice.
Am I a threat, a calculable mission,
A potential cause for confusion of emotion?
Oh God, I hope so.
I looked down, red caught in my peripheral vision
A few seconds passed of shocked contemplation
Mixed within the natural expression, was blood
A dreamer is
the medium to life that puzzles together
the miracles of the Universe.
He isn’t godly or holy;
He isn’t a wizarding character of fantasy.
A dreamer is a creator of hope;
and with hope,
Softly, somewhere, a piano sings
A whispering tune that I have never heard
It’s my hope, the sound of the keys is encouraging
My own fairy tale, just without the violation of words
And I find myself remembering, or at least believing, that
I could remember the place of collective self and happiness
It’s without Greed, the killer, the monster that will devour the world;
A plague that ravages you from the inside.
Legs shaking under the steering wheel, I hide it
Blue lights flashing in the rear-view mirror, an intrusion of the night, they hurt my eyes
A confusing warning, a paranoia sponging up the awkwardness
In that moment, I flash-forwarded to a million scenarios of what was in my pocket
The system is corrupt and weak
But we still believe it
We are abstract clouds that wander through the fields, their sheep
Somehow lost in this crossfire of a country’s desire to everything
There once lived a man who claimed he could fly.
He said he was a true pilot of practiced skill,
Also known as the difficult type, but he was loved by us all;
and their colorful words and phrases depicted him well.
This man loved, as so many romantic men do,
Like his whole body was roasting on fire.
The acrid smoke clouding his judgement;
The heavy heat making living unbearable.
A gift was offered, it was long ago;
A gift that everyone has forgotten,
But the man who flies can see the world,
He’s become a hoarder of memories that don’t belong to him.
He suffers now, afraid of what he might remember;
Because she doesn’t.
How many lives are allowed in one sense of time?
If there is a favorable notion why you hold them so close,
Then, it’s okay to divulge the available details.
Butterflies, how do they fly?
Little velvet wings that shine like stained glass in the sun.
Such a delicate life;
An explorer of illusion made for beauty and wonder.
The Monarch of the tree paints it a fiery orange;
Orange has always been my favorite color.
The battle for the tree is illuminating;
It’s so remarkable, this insignificant magnificence of a whisper