Note to self

Fear is crippling
This isn’t living
Do a kindness
Choose life
Or choose death
Don’t be a walking corpse amongst the living
Go with grace, own your demise
And you won’t be a tortured soul amongst the dead
Stuck in purgatory
Bouncing off the same four walls that shut you out of the universe
Restive for all eternity.


Dirty deliverance

The one half,
born to forgive and forget afore the dagger point even grazed our feeble hearts, our half-baked haste.
The other half of us to live and die by dogged decree, serving the final course of our repast, cold riposte at every turn.
But jury purer, justice pending. By my word, what became of integrity delivered by the scales.
This day we heed the colourful, the contemplative.
Hollow criminal. Hello shotgun conscience.
Pause it on the black and white, and cue the grey to wash the crimson bright.
Let love linger, let faith gape, met with sickly sweet humane abundance, bathing in the dusty light.
Overkill in the first degree.
Pleading with the hellbound, the soon to be departed.
But what of the judge-penitent, whose just heart serves us well. Like hell it does.
By my soul, crux of my being, we cannot abide by this dearth of morality. This stately sodomy.


Witching hours

The crazed witch that harrowed us to insanity in the house where I grew up
Is slowly making her way back into my life
From a distance I see her, I feel her
Wending her way through overgrown jungle-garden weeds and fetid animal carcasses. Grave omen
I know that cackle, inimitable
As pronounced as hers decades ago
When she wore my father down, took his key, took his crown
We all sat watching, too scared to move.

And now they come over me nightly, clawing
Gnawing at my limbs from all four corners of my bed
Trying to tear my mind out, and drink my faint heart dry
Please call off your demons
Here is not your resolve
Father I promise,
I won’t let her in this time
As long as we all live.


Devil knows I am

Deathly afraid to stop knowing you
Fierce prize of a cub-like man. Once, no twice,
Let’s try thrice devoured for a bland, scarce dinner
For a barely chew and spit morsel.

Disaster after disaster will pass her
What pathetic life form
No refined pallet
But swills at every chance.

Let’s hold up now
Do I cease to beat myself black and blue?
And shiny but I do not shine
Playing better than my worst is harder than it sounds
You do not know a thing
I brushed off your sins
Before they even left your pretty little mouth
To say nothing of the ones
That barely impressed upon your chest
That stand neither a coaxing, nor trial
I am no judge-penitent
Assume no such title
I swam, no drowned in deep blue love
And hell only knows this preemptive defense
The heart so eager to quickly mend.


Nowhere Mare

I am not here
So I can never leave
Nor can I just remain
What I once breathed lies moribund
Where I once flourished stands a ghost town
When I smiled it was once true
And you, you always knew
Coloured me happy, taught me pride
For you are it, and it is you
Don’t you value my fight
About as harsh as I value my being

Where is my faith
Where is my agency
Where is my grace
Where is my spine
Now where is the crack
What’s up with this face
What is this fucking awful place.


Thrust you back in

It’s a gutwrench, behold
When another tears open the hole in your side
Releases the you that you wanted to hide
Sluices out slowly, slimy battered innards
Thing of pitiful mirthlessness
Why won’t you set it free, let it leave
But no, you stuff this back into you
And wait for the next lovely person
To tell you about yourself

Knot your sides back up, tight
You’ll start to carry your despair
Flaunt it even
Like a hideous necklace
Do you think it’s an heirloom?
You consider your forbears
And swallow the tears
Because hope is now a distant memory
And your mind is perforated by the little guys
Who live there to bombard you
With all that is untrue
But they don’t let a thing escape
So have fun head case


Something more

And suddenly, I need something more. Like the artist stood before blank canvas, longing for his muse. The writer’s block hit hard, pen poised frozen, time’s up pal. The lyricist hit a wall, deafened by dour silence that will not bring to bear his words. Stop the bullshit music. Give me something real. What’s more give yourself something you can feel, thus get away from me. It makes me sick you acting slick but you don’t really see that. Even if you do I don’t think it would really ail you. Naturally I must salute you for your ability to run on nothing more than your own self-approval. I myself need something more. Perhaps even something in lieu of that sycophantic validation to fare well henceforth. So raise it. Here’s to something more. Here’s to not looking back at a thing I abhor or, for that matter, adore. It’s time to get going, high time I did my time. Make no mistake, it is your crime. You don’t see that. It is for that reason I’ll happily do your time. It’s not all bad, I get to make it mine. My own and on my own.