So here I am again trying to understand the trench that I am in
Only the deafening silence to hum me along
While I commemorate every stupid thing I’ve done
I guess it’s a long time coming but I am here to meet the axe
Swung down with such conviction and force
Swelling somberly beneath every lie.
Why shuffle at the words if you’re bound to get hurt?
But it’s this kind of fatalism that abandoned me amongst my problems
Only the shadow of the moon and the calm laughter of the engine as
I drive nervously from them.
What were you even trying to do?
The echoes so familiar, an octave away from a memory
You made certain to bury
What’s the matter now?
Am I making you sick?
Making you remember the identity you abandoned?
Well, I can see your breathe but I know it isn’t from your lips
At least not the ones who were speaking
So ambiguously like obscurity covets integrity.
Is it suffice? The mask that you made.
The porcelain you polish and wax at the start of every day.
I know your defense; as if they forced your hand to craft the mistake.
I know it was painful, traumatizing at least
But here you are spewing word by the beat
As if a meter could rid you of the numbing spreading out from your veins.
They were cruel, yeah, they were stupid
But you were so much more.
Now you dig ravines and burn bridges leaving family and friends alike behind.
As if any sense of intimacy would start to stress the imperfections
And your strength would chip away.
What fortitude there lays within the rubble that wades across
Neglect and all those you refuse to see.
Do you feel resilient or can you hear the hollow
Drumming out from inside you
Where you abandoned all you were
To save the future the sight of blood
As you gasp for any kind of feeling now
That you let the defenses down.
So tell me was it worth it,
Do you finally feel strong?
Just some chemicals and memories—
That’s what they’re calling us these days.
And I guess it’s half-right.
Painting silicon-pressed sentiments
We put ourselves before our best foot
Can make it’s move.
But I don’t blame anyone at all.
I’d rather step than let myself fall.
We’ve got those endless nights
Where we can’t sleep
And those lovely friends we’ll never see
But a blot of ink is better than being lonely.
So let’s record what we can,
Keep your thoughts at hand
While every heart beats more than you can write.
We’ve got these stack of beliefs
And folded emotions we hang up on our wall.
Lying naked in the middle of all our lives
Trying to make some sense of what feels “right,”
The blind man knows not of the night in here.
So afraid of what we could be called
We find new skins where we can crawl
And pretend that we’re still human.
But even now, puking out my lungs,
I can’t find a single reason why you can’t be loved.
It’s the forgetful mind of the hypocrite
That robbed us of where we’d sit
We when believed that we’re something more
Than just chemicals
And trite, dizzy words.
I have secrets and I have ghosts
And I’ve done my best to bury both
But they crawl and writhe beneath me
Reaching up to catch my bone
Leaving extremeties behind
Surviving on fear and ache alone,
Made my way across the river,
Soot sinking solemnly below.
The past loves the sound of its own echo
Wailing withered, written lies
That in light of my own failure
I might’ve sung a second time.
I kept their cries on slabs of stone,
Counted days and worshipped minutes
Just to remind myself that I’m alive.
But one crawled out from the dirt
To steal its breath from the land,
And drink its warmth from our sun,
To follow tears along the echoes
And sing my soul a softer song.
I abandoned all the ruins you left me,
Finding comfort on the asphalt
And rest soundly in the rain.
Reverberation found its way upon me,
To my throne within the gutter
Where you whispered our names.
I thought your face would tear into me,
Lay waste to all that I had made.
But as I opened those green doors,
I found not agony nor torture;
But the reflection of our shame.
You fell back into the mist,
As I relished in my sewer;
There is nothing left to miss,
There is nothing left to fear,
Though I still sleep beside my shovel
And wish there was something left to feel.
The average ovulation of a female occurs every 28 days. 4 weeks.
It was never about zombies at all, just periods.
I’ve decided to share a draft of an upcoming project in The Writer, Written. This is but one monologue shared by the character Nathan Lilem. This is to reward you for being so loyal over the year. Thank you.
N., Day 1
Bustling streets, the deafening wave of silent morals screaming from every individual, lashing out from their bluetooths, cellphones and tablets, walking ever so carefully as if the slightest touch of another person would corrupt their vacuous souls with the faintest hint of intimacy, this is what I pass by each and every day. So removed, so reserved, so distant that I find my own lack of social skills akin to their so called “interacting.” But nonetheless, they smile. They laugh, they work, they cry, and most importantly, they die. Like any other human, any other animal in this world and that, that is truly beautiful. Together, they survive, they adapt, and they love. It is a monument to their habits; so destructive, so ostracizing, that we ourselves may manage to breathe another day upon the endless cycle. Every day I am struck in awe by their acrobatics, the hypocritical contortionists that distance themselves only to land closer together at the apex of the night. Perhaps it is my futility that cherishes such feats that others find less burdening than blinking or breathing. I have never been able to connect well, to participate in anything that demanded any such intimacy. This I know and sew onto my sleeve. To have come this far, I know surely not of any such miracle. I have my noon-to-nine, and though it may not be pleasant, or ambitious, it is sufficient in its design. I know not particularly of what this cubicle may impact, but I know it to be of some slight assistance; for as the roof gathers praise from the dry heads in a storm, it is the beam that supports the roof, though it is never seen, never felt. But I am not forlorn, I am not distraught. I take great pleasure in supporting whatever roof I may. Though I am no outstanding citizen—nothing more than a name heard or read from time to time—I am content. The doldrums rumble and I am not afraid, nor have I forgotten myself. The four winds still roar and I remain. This is bliss.
There are nights like these
Where I get so lonely that I can’t sleep
So I spend my dreams out here by the street
Or in the damp grass beneath the trees
Looking for something I’ll never see.
But it feels so warm in these memories,
I don’t ever want to leave.
Like marble carved and cracked into seams
The statue finds in place in me
Though I should never rest like stone.
I am just a shadow bound below
Damned to spin yet never to go
Anywhere that light may be.
This may be just an open field
But you should see the people here:
Their joy’s so loud it almost sounds near.
And these feelings fall like scrawling leaves
I just can’t tell if it’s them or me
Who’s stuck in this ink.
I’ve been treading this ocean of people drowning around me
Their empty cavities making a mockery of my soul.
And though I’m straining my eyes, I know that I can barely see
This washed-out world as it’s burnt by that star the sky,
Once, the shadows of life seemed to dance around their faces
And now as far I can see, they’re just mountains of ashes.
Their placid smiles wrapped in plastic on their mouths,
I wish I could tear them all out,
What used to be there beneath,
An honesty without doubt,
But they’re just laughing at me
As I try to salvage any little meaning;
But there’s just emptiness, only emptiness.
The waves crash above as my fingers break the surface,
And with every salt filled breath, I forget more of my purpose or
Whatever I lied to myself to keep my eyes open,
But sleep is beckoning, yes it’s calling me.
Oh, how easy it’d be if If I just let myself drown
And I’d forget all the days that I spent running over this town
Looking for something to hold onto,
Keep me pinned to the ground,
As I’m floating awry with only seconds left
To watch the years go by and bring me closer to death
As if by kind of joke I’d actually find rest.
I’ll try to grit my teeth and send myself to the streets,
To where I littered my truth and all the relics of my youth,
As man in the gutters tries to reach out and touch me,
Finding nothing but the cold air to keep him company
As he succumbed to his decisions that lead him out of his home,
Calling out to a broken, blackened desolate world “Have you watched yourselves lately, have you seen how you’ve died?”
I only thought to myself of the reaping in my eyes,
I witnessed it almost every single fucking day,
How memories, feelings, meanings seemed to wither away
Until we’re left with our scars and our humble regrets,
Dying alone in the streets, just like the way we had lived.
All the hearts now that are just whored for greed,
Can you feel their tears, or does it fill you glee?
I think I’ll close my eyes, forget this world that I’ve seen…
Somewhere in sleep, somewhere for whatever is left of me…
Another anomaly has stricken me, and I couldn’t help but think of You. (Yes, I know, I return to these ruins lead-like apologies). It was a crowd this time … it performed the strangest feat …
When strolling past these bodies, it became apparent to me that it was less a matter of remembering faces and names and more of something else, something different. It was no longer the summation of arbitrary sounds ascribed some bastardized fragment of thought and character, nor the facade that I was taught to cherish in my picture-book. No, it was truly beneath that. For every curve, line, brow, jaw, smile, scar, blemish, freckle and callous that built that person sparked into a furious flurry of sight and sound. Every sentiment hit the flame like sodium, projecting their cores unto me. It was their laughter and tears that danced like apparitions in the shade, summoning every thought that lied beneath. Every word she spoke and dagger she pointed, they were all birthed anew. Every coy remark and snide comment, dangerous smirk and gentle sigh, imagined anger and selfish cry … they surfaced like corpses on a shore. For every word of consolation and outburst of relief he offered, the fires continued their dance. Slowly the connections cultivated themselves in the caverns of my mind as I sat by the daze of the performances. It was more than remembering. What remained in the coals of the fire was the fuel what they were—are. It was the epiphany of stumbling upon the fragments of myself in those who encompassed me. Each pebble carried its parable of my granite-like soul as I sifted through the earth they had become. These were lives I passed by, littering my careless glances. These were the composites of weaknesses compressing themselves into diamonds, shimmering in speculation, as they shined onto my very core.
And the fires were all but extinguished.
The years that stretched over the single second of two eyes locking polluted my head with a tenacious smog, clinging to every nervous thought dared admit its kinship. In this shroud I shuffled on, suffering as a witch before the faces around me…
As for You,I leave this gentle flame ‘til once again I bear my name. May its warmth remind You of our compounded identities.
Where would there be fun in depicting Your flame?
Besides, as far as I can see You’re little more than a haze.
It’s hard to ride your horse with broken leg,
When you’ve already loaded your gun.
And here I am, scraping by
For my final run.
Every single thing you have done,
Here in hell—my soul you’ve think you won.
But you cannot break what you don’t own.
But you cannot break what you don’t own,
This here my heart, is my home
My heart, yeah, it’s my home.
So into the gutters and forsaken, filthy streets.
With every bit of indecency that I will meet.
Now do whatever you want with me,
And the reason I still smile
Is something you’ll never truly know, oh.
But you cannot break what you don’t own.
You cannot break what you don’t own,
You cannot break what you don’t own.
You cannot break this—-
And though this time, You see,
Your bullet in my eye,
But I will not bleed beneath your feet. [x2]
Through his courageous endeavors,
He desperately tried to change his past, exploit his present, and control his future,
And without intent, he placed himself on a contorted stage.
Thus, he damned himself to long life
Full of short days.
Ultimately it depends
Upon where you place your beginning and end,
But in this play I stand at climax,
The flag hanging at half-mast
For the fortune I have lost.
So let me bring your head to this;
A gamble against will and wits.
Oh, Fate you smirk when I cringe,
Laying down as many cards ‘til you break this bridge;
But go ahead and build your house on sand
And we will see who suffers from a poorly dealt hand.
It is in this state
That I begin to relate
To those who begin to bar the gate
And drone along the listless days.
Where is release where there is no rest?
And where is the pride when given one’s best?
It seems that I must ferment and repent.
I wonder what it’s like to be you;
To suffer a life in such a view
Of what horrors the mind can do.
Oh, what tragedies you’ve seen:
Empty hearts that are trying to seam
The crevice they tore with neglect,
Conforming, contorting, combating,
Clinging to some sort of identity.
Some try to lie in the shade,
Wishing but to mesh.
Some die to live in the sun,
Marring mind for flesh.
Some cry out to the world,
Just for thrill of offense.
Some buy themselves a reason,
For they have found nothing left.
You’ve witnessed the worst of affront,
Whether morals can be professed
Or in exploit they are dispensed;
The acts always change,
But the sentiments never relent.
You’ve encountered every attempt,
To mend the mind with flesh,
To mince the body with soul,
To mitigate the heart from guilt.
The efforts are endearing,
Yet every instance yeilds
Beneath the tyranny of folly.
Your substance, scent, size, spectrum;
It always tends to change,
Yet you, yourself, you remain.
I wonder, yes, truly what is your pain.
Eve again to the moon’s full reign
And what it is that defiles your brain
Is nothing more than what you cannot control,
But nevertheless, targets your soul.
Yes, what ails you now
My meticulous, meager mount
Of incarnated, pithy self-pity,
Is no less than what you hardly
Notice, if at all, you’d briefly know this:
What beats and breathes will lead
Into what appears to be
A sporadic routine of self-critical means—
To what ends you forever attempt to appease.
Debate to yourself that you are alone,
I doubt not you’d be argued into an empty throne;
To a kingdom you fail to rule,
Instead you prefer to lay it in rue.
Are you blind?
Is it empty there, in your mind?
Though you do indeed see
Vast precipices that lay between
All of those who may be within your vicinity;
Have you not the will to construct a bridge?
Or has fire left those constructive hands burnt?
What once was shouldn’t burden
What exists now, and still…
Long ago that shipwreck was discovered,
Long ago that isle was reached,
Long ago that mute was given speech,
Yet forever more you fall to grief.
Where’s your fire?
And where’s your smoke?
Ah…where is that raft on which you once tried to float?
Two friends, one night, affronted
With the pernicious need
To watch each other bleed,
Began regrets with morals stunted.
A fervent hypocrite with ignorant inquiries,
A didactic wretch with snide remarks.
Beginning with the former,
"Why is it you listen no longer?
You’ve grown so wary
Of opinions, I see.”
As beliefs seem to beg
A degree of self-conviction.
And as the latter warned,
"I’m growing short of nice things
To say, I promise my voice will sting
Worse than nettle if you carry on this way.”
"Oh but what fouls and wrecks
Your professed finesse
My belief is supreme in this.”
You draw your blade at yourself!
Begrudged, belittled, betrayed
By your worship of a figure
Who forgets you on a dresser.
Belief? Hah! Believe in this:
If you’re going to point
Your words at me,
It’s best to bring a sharper knife,
For the daggers I speak will bring
You to an inch of your life.”
Victim was played
By the one without shame,
Nor thought nor compassion;
And soon, the latter cried:
"You tear at your own eyes!
Have you no regard for once what was?
Or should ruin be the sanctuary
For all that you waste”
All to no avail.
Narcissus found a blade
Through his reflection,
And into his chest,
With room for another
At any moment.
A concerned, once-friend
Lied hunch over in the dark,
Blade in back with no where to start.
The latter bled by himself,
With his words to accuse.
The former passed
With his folly to peruse,
Written in blood,
Yet nothing to do.
They say deceit’s stench is like rotting flesh
in the nostrils;
They say treachery walks on whispering toes
that screams in your ears;
They say that our world is completely fouled,
and you must accept their route;
They say these words that dig at your heart,
but they cringe beneath your brain;
They say that you’re free to believe anything
once you’ve been put in your chains;
They say that friendship is jewel that hasn’t a problem
shattering the strengths of diamond;
They said all they could, whether or not they knew
If any of their words were true.
With a desperate heart, a pleading mind, a fleeting desire, and a burning agony
I listened closely and heard nothing.
Deceit’s rott went undetected,
And treachery’s paradox was surreptitious.
The hypocrisy was demented,
And the fallacies were malicious.
The tryanny was implemented—
The fascism quite precious
To entrails laid strewn across the floor
From a naive heart once whored.
The friendship was fragile,
And only a sadist remained.
They fed me full of lies,
My life fell to shame.
To believe all that’s heard,
To accept all that is seen,
To bite into every single lure—
That is the tragedy.
That is what they made of me.