I could feel the cracks,
Like I, myself, was some piece of thin glass
So I outwardly attacked, to avoid the self-reflection
But the pane mirrored my hallucinations and I was forced to see
The world tuned topside and turvy,
as if I had dismounted from reality,
and arrived in the psychedelic forest of Wonderland.
The Cheshire beast kept watching, kept smiling,
making me feel uneasy;
I questioned either asking for help or taking a small toke, he offered,
you know, to calm down?
The point on the path seemed like an invulnerable start
to a destination like most
Beginnings, that always continue with stories of journeys for listeners to investigate;
Led by the wordsmith in a hat,
who is guided by deep thoughts that drive him mad,
so he sings
My Grandma Alice warned me of his rants, as if
he and her had
some sort of scandalous past,
or was it me?
There isn’t anything that I wouldn’t believe, being forced to awareness by the Queen;
A devil to worship, as the keeper of thy heart
Dressed in fine linens and flowers that trailed loosely down
through the curls in her hair
Her rosy cheeks, that adorned the most innocent face I had seen yet,
a perfect angelesque figurine
But it’s a face that you could forget; that’s what made it different
Pretty, but not memorable; a disguise of one of the smartest fighters;
Apart of the liars of secrets that are unimaginable.
And the Queen was a pleasant peach,
Giving grandiose gestures of gentility
She offered a life of happiness, one fueled by greed
With everything at hand, to fulfill every need
The Queen, in all of her beauty, made one small mistake
A tiny slip of truth that made me see
As with every shark, they can never hide their teeth;
the most prized part of their being.
The Queen is smart, appealing to the fairy-tales that narrate inside of
each of us
Waking our desires, our wants, and
clouding what we believe;
Shading the light that fuels how we breathe;
Offering immortality for only one simple thing.
A piece of flesh that a god-like creature never needs
She is a romantic of disease,
who feeds off of anything that beats,
even remotely like a heart.
In that moment, when she stood over me, waiting, listening
A slight curve of her stained lips spiked up at the corner,
she assumed that the battle was over;
that the backhanded compliments with
the buried insults escaped me;
I just didn’t rise to the occasion, a few breaths I didn’t want wasted
I looked into the Queen’s eyes and requested my sanction
I knew my life was mine to give but that anyone could be tempted
Baffled, the Queen demanded an explanation,
I think she needed to hear how I could walk away from what she was trying to give me;
As if she had never experienced love,
Or even understood what it means.
Suddenly, my heart wept for the Queen of them all, so blinded by her lust,
that she could never feel any love
As a fiend, addicted to the taste of some cheap drug,
The aphrodisiac of a witch’s poison; a sick sorceress’ juice for the ones who were chosen and fallen.
I could only ever answer, what now sounds like part of a cliche piece of rhetoric:
“There could never be a life for me
without a life of love beating
from the foundation of my heart.”
The Queen seemed to believe, as if that sentence was the only
statement that I had said that contained any meaning
Her eyes wandered off for a few seconds,
Minutes of vulnerable memories and temptations,
as if the Queen was daydreaming;
Thinking of images and past lives without all of the empty feelings.
Scorned, numbed, drained of everything that was once good,
And then I realized that the Queen of Hearts is the justified victim of
life without a love at Home.
I see a clear cube, outlined in a cold grey
No color, no warmth, and most importantly, no life
It’s a sleeper’s nightmare,
to be shut off from the colors of the world
To miss the pounding heartbeat reverberating from the ground.
This place, this cage, this figment of my mind
That traps me inside of a transparent coffin,
Where I can only focus on the tiny scratches that scatter the plates that shape my walls together;
is it plexiglass; impenetrable?
Could the mental bullets, shot from the fire of my eyes, even crack the surface?
Is there a magical word,
a romantic kind of word,
that opens up our eyes to the skies?
To the gods who shape the boxes to control; to hold
They insert in them, the fears of us all;
To land inside,
to feel yourself die,
your soul cries,
no matter how hard you try,
you still find yourself inside.
And the madness takes over in the words derived from the scattered thoughts of your endless whisperings,
Repetitive words that shape nothing;
that do not create sentences with meaning
But then I see a full page
And I awake from my one god’s dream and discover that the box is gone.
There’s a voice I hear
Crystal clear and pure
A singer of love
A magical soul
And I wonder when,
The day we first met
Are there memories?
I am impatient
Tired of waiting
Looking for changes
I keep listening
To uncover you;
Some truth from the man
Or, someone to love
I sat in silence, maybe it was more like contemplation
When I saw a black bird flying all alone
He was a little fellow,
Flying close enough to show off his tricks
Somersaulting onto the telephone wire, making it hop.
It bounced up and down, the wire with the little black bird,
As if he was dancing to some invisible rhythm,
To the song that I hear inside of my head, it always sounds like my past;
An offered dance by a sky flyer; just another wandering soul gathering another stranger’s stories;
and relating to them through the knowledge he seeks.
The black bird peered at me from his perch; I think I heard him call out my name
He waited as if he expected some sort of response, but I wouldn’t
His fiery gaze locked onto my heart, my soul, and I watched him dissect me.
He clawed apart the boxes of displaced unhappy feelings,
Leaving torn pieces of cardboard to shuffle through; trying to decide what to save and what was lost.
The black bird saw in me, in a way that no one else could;
As he ripped out the tender moments that I find so endearing, like the song with the pathetic piano melody,
that always makes me relate to understanding;
Or, some of the various treasured stories I remember with my families;
the little black bird thought he found a few things that were interesting.
His eyes penetrated into the thicket of me
Cutting down limbs and moving all of the scattered debris
He worked until he trimmed the forest, he didn’t bother to burn it down.
I couldn’t hear anything, I could only see the demon above
Hovering, like some symbolic message or meaning
He smiled, his yellow beak opening as I hoped for a moment of truth;
but he just yawned and flew away.
As I watched his shadow fall into the darkness of distance, I remembered one thing;
Your eyes and the story I see.
My only thought; the “thing” to give me life.
I once worshiped you out of ignorance of being blind, so now I speak.
But the little black bird is a sneaky beast,
Making those he touches suffer the life of endless numbness.
A thief worse than the greedy monkeys who rule the world with fake money,
Their bills of Blood bounded together with the rubberband of us all;
a stretch, but we can draw it as a circle of light, life, love, laughter.
Where we can write down each memory one by one,
As a connected group of force to control the greed; they’re weak; we seek.
I want more than what the little black bird left me.
I snapped the band on my wrist and was shocked into remembering it all…
There is enough hate
So, I would rather be kind
Wouldn’t you agree?
It’s not hard to change
Love is, and will always be:
A powerful tool
My heart is open
Unlocked and warm, defrosted;
Welcoming new friends
But what happens when
I can’t hear the music here?
Do you see the truth?
A muse of my own
A wanderer of the sky
A man of all words
The profound message
From a boy alone,
With a crooked smile
Dreamer of my heart
Guardian of an old soul
Save my restless mind
I prefer white wine
Out, under a summer’s moon
Mid the cicadas.
A writer, a shell of desire to devour everything.
A wanderer of the world through self-reflection and theory.
A figure that houses a projector’s beam of information to shine always.
Conversation is only found through the imagination
that has already discovered too much.
When I write, I speak; it makes it harder to find
to care and to spread my boundaries;
to be influenced to achieve.
Companions of the art, we communicate
past the normal reasoning of human appreciation.
A trick of light with the pattern of letters;
words that sound better when flexed together.
We live in a wonderland of fools who truly feel what the rest of the world is afraid to.
I “implore” you to be discovered.
There is a saying that “you’ll never die if a writer loves you.”
Do I lose the competition if I can only describe the monster living in you?
The devil in disguise, the master thief that broke into my heart, my soul,
Forced himself in and then locked the door to anyone else.
A sociopathic Romeo, who loved and hated all the same.
Tainted by the beast, I feel branded by evil;
My tattoo of remembrance that has forever changed my life.
The last time that I saw your face, could you possibly claim to be confused?
You couldn’t remember the baseball bat or the bruises you left hell,
I don’t even remember it all.
Except now my first waking thoughts result in terror;
An unmistakable second of adrenaline where my fight responds to hide my instinct to run.
To be chained to memories that influence everything is the worst kind of prison imaginable
To be free…
What lies underneath the words that we say?
We manipulate to understand a percentage of honesty that
hurts, when heard. I think my actions are
always owning fear.
We’ve underestimated the size of the world, but then,
you can’t imagine where I’ve been.
I miss the unattainable, the home that saved me;
I wonder if we’ll make it back someday?
I’ve admitted to no one, these thoughts that overcome,
But there will always be impatient
moments of truth,
a second where the light shines a target on you,
I’ve felt it for awhile but I’m unclear
of what that means,
or who I am?
I feel as if I’ve escaped some reality that haunts me
A double vision, time warp that
competes with my own sensibility.
Do I wage these wars of battle in my head to an empty sector?
I wish I could see what is going on.