The rain is too cold to wash me clean,

getting thicker and thicker with every homeward scene.

I see more in Euripides than Man;

does that mean I am motionless and cold?

I feel as though I'm frozen in stance,

but energized when great floods unfold.

Is the language dead because it needs no life,

or because it died at the hands of time...

worn away to bland stereo-effigies un-knived

and lost its taste from the Human Crime?

Brachiation

My mind began to churn,

with the association given to me

by someone I once knew:

Of lonely Man and lonesome tree;

of bitterness and disgust

and the nature of our ways.

When I see branches bare,

I think of skeletons and dust.

I think of washing clear

the hours buried deep in mud;

the slowly cycled breaths,

pushing out and pulling in

instead of being one

with the nature of our ways.

To be alive and seething hatred

for what I am one part of;

surely, hypocrisy or hegemony.

It must be another piece of the bleating love

proclaimed alongside dominance.

I think, instead, it is of my blood,

the blood of every memory

carved into our millennia.

And, unlike the naked trees,

who return as life unsheathed,

we will find our fate so feazed

at the glaring violence of our ways.

Invisible Wounds (Dark Bodies)

Dark bodies floating in darkness

No sign of light ever given

Imprisoned in a world without a memory

Unconscious, or am I conscious?

Cut from the heart I am part of

Sometimes I feel as though I'm frozen in Heaven

And I saw my own face in the dark and lonliness

And I saw my own face like a spark

In dreams, I see myself flying

Closer to the Sun, and I'm climbing

Tried to touch the Sun,

but the brightness burned my eyes

Unconscious, or am I conscious?

Fell from the sky like a star

Sometimes I feel as though I'm frozen in Heaven

And I saw my own face in the dark and lonliness

And I saw my own face like a spark

Dark

Dark

Dark

My life was so dark

Dark

Dark

My mind was so dark

Dark

Dark

My life was so dark

Dark

Dark

Everything was dark

Unconscious, or am I conscious?

Fell from the sky like a star

Sometimes I feel as though I'm frozen in Heaven

And I saw my own face in the dark and lonliness

And I saw my own face like a spark frozen in Heaven

Dark bodies floating in darkness

Dark bodies floating in darkness

Dark bodies floating in darkness

Dark bodies floating in darkness

Dark bodies floating in darkness

Dark bodies floating in darkness

Dark bodies floating in darkness

Man is obsolete.

And so, I stumbled onto a concept album. I was reading an excerpt about a Fear Factory song I was listening to, and ended up reading a bunch of stuff about what the album it's on was about. And it was really cool.

And it shows that it isn't only douchebags that create deeper art.

Days End

The life inside an empty scene,

with frozen skin and a mind asleep;

a heart tormented in endless dream....

Day Five

And so, I reach in and start carving out the older constructs, because although I am in shambles, I do not wish to build more ruins.

Day Four

It is a struggle to find anything that gives progress, because I do not have the same chemicals pushing me forward (or backward, or inward). It's hard to accept a lack of power on your own part, and even harder to resist what you think gives you that power, in spite of your own biology and psychology.

"As I descended into impassable rivers,

I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen..."

Day Three

You are a shell along the beach,
the shattered home of an ignorant beast;
I am the wave that hammers down into sand.
To barrel down, all on your own,
with nothing but the confusion of foam,
They watch the head with baited sight:
The throes of a candle in oil-burning torchlight.

Day Two

The earth knows the taste of falling flesh,
and we are one.
Come to ritual for sanctum's sake:
Habitual; commonplace.
I am death in the horse of Man,
I am death in the eyes of war,
I am death once the eyes are screwed
into spirals of conjecture
from the graves of funeral.

Day One

Indignation always comes in the form of splintered glass, with its origin at our centers. No one ever tries to control that, though, and they feed themselves with self-righteousness and condescension. It is disgusting if you put it into context with the capacity of the brain.

But that is everyone's identity: The ego, driven inward.

If I could capture one thing and place it into an expression of some abstract form, I would envelop the cold autumn morning, the rusted brown and a shortness of breath. These things are together inside of me.

How many times do you want to die? How many ways do you want to die?

Frustration grips me because I have waned in my ability to control my own mind. Even when I have been at my most insane, I could always control my baser emotions. That is getting harder to do. Maybe it's because I'm never sober for more than a few days at a time. Maybe it's because I'm starting to realize just how fucked I am. Maybe it's because I know that I will never have any semblance of normality or happiness in the more concrete sense. My brain is lashing out at me.

I can't ever be your sunshine...

I remember grinding my hand away,
pulling blood through the skin.
Sharp, cold air and autumn clouds
came roaring in their stasis;
my eyes were not on them,
but on the sanguine sacrifice.
'Beloved' is a curse on me,
tied in fetters to my name.
For someone as empty as I,
the word itself is frozen water.
As silence thrummed and pulsed,
I tore until crimson was my pillow,
until my bed was rose-red loss.
I tore until my voice was nothing
more than a rotten wooden cross.
And still, my memory brings me low,
slices through like jagged shards
into my flesh and bone.
And still, I try to bring it back,
as if I have control.

Years and years of a wordless slide;
one day swollen with rain and ice.
The sadness that creeps into me
is the same as when I found her there.
It stabs with the same ferocity,
bleeds as though it never stopped,
and fills me with a shaking hand.
And now, I have nothing else
but emptiness: Luridity.

I have died a hundred times
from living in this skin.
I have cut a thousand ropes
that pulled me near to him.
What I have left is waving glass,
a mirror carved of worthlessness.
What I have left is the lack of reach,
the lack of what I have.

I am delicate, but razor-sharp;
penultimate, but with no end.
And here, I feel the winter coming
to freeze my soul in ice.
Here, I see my own decay:
The endless, faithless night.

No one will ever know what I have seen,
nor what it's done to me.

I am trapped in the idea of untruth,
like the mist that pulls on morning dew
until my bones are stagnant and painfully dry.
The dogma, authority and structure of life,
or rather, of civilization; the knife
cutting selfishly to separate
the stars from gods, water from mind,
our being from dreams.
It rests solely in lies.

The water's deep here
The less of me I show to you,
the more I get to get me through

The stain of my eyes,
burnt deep within
Who will fall?
I asked not to know

I'm sealed away
You can't touch me, now
Wheel and fire
return to me

I have three sins
thrown down on me
Fate frees my heart
Whatever comes through me I will be

Digging a hole
so I can rest
No tears for me
No river to take me home
The stones in my way
reach to the core
of a rising sun falling
through the wind to the soil

As my body leaves me,
I cling to a tree in a dream
I'm screaming to you
Whatever comes through me I will be

--

Did you see your people?
They all turned out for you
We were all together,
not so long ago

In the shadows, we can see you
In the wind, we hear your laugh
When the light reclaimed you,
we were left clawing at the sky

In the ocean, we can find you
For the Sun, we praise your name
In the dirt, we pray for God to bring you back again

I can see you
I can see you

In the void, the stones are turning and turning and turning

I can see you
I can see you

Holy burning hand of wrath,
piercing forever through the heart

and this flaming orbit of shame
ravages and splits the path

Grinding, binding
Taken away
Needles above the prey
Wreath of barbs
Grinding, binding
Taken away
Needles above the prey
A wreath of barbs

The injection of religion
has a coma-like effect
And bodies lay in decay,
dreaming of a greener day

Grinding, binding
Taken away
Needles above the prey
wreath of barbs
Grinding, binding
Taken away
Grinding, binding
Taken away
Away

Open eyes reading nothing
A sky harsh blue grins black

And I bleed and bleed in this wreath of barbs
And I run and run, but I don't get far

I don't sway with a woman's hips,
or a crumbling tower's breeze.
The snake's mouth whispers many things,
but nothing I believe.
To see that we are riding waves
on a poisoned trajectory,
not knowing where it ends
or when we will have time to grieve;
as if grieving is some strong belief....

There goes my head...

What am I doing?

I went on a bender, I lost myself, I lost every sense of bearing and direction.

I have no idea where either of my phone chargers are, and both have been dead for at least a week now. I have no money, My bank account is hundreds of dollars in the red, my bills are unpaid and piling, and I have no idea where anything is. I have no idea where reality is.

My palpitations are worse, so much so that it worries me every time I lay down to sleep. I don't have any real sense of consciousness; I feel like I'm hurdling down a wire at lightspeed, using every ounce of Self just to hold on. And I'm awake at five in the morning, unsure as to whether I should even sleep or not before work.

The last time I felt like this, I was hiding, trying not to think about how recently Death had visited me.

And now, I'm here again, but this time with an emptiness instead of a burgeoning sadness. Pure emptiness.

I'm sorry that I don't deserve you, and I'm sorry that it had to be shown in this way. I'm sorry that I'm too erratic and unstable and introverted to let it end any other way. I'm sorry.

I am the wanderer
bound to burning effigies,
pupils wide in anger,
straining from a winter.
Stretched thin for elegies,
strings smoldering, a lesion.
A lesson for belief;
my skin is leathered myth:
the shining proxy crumbling;
statues of weltered sin.

I can't reach the width
required to douse myself.
Silent fires are burning;
raging storms unyielding.
And I am silent,
for I am a silence.

October all over...

Meet me in October
Now it's nearly over
Maybe in November
if we can remember

When it rains, it feels like shame
Remind yourself after work
to find a new city to blame
Lock yourself in the house

Sometimes, you'll laugh
so hard, you'll cry

Only in October
Now it's nearly over
Maybe in November
if we can remember

Broken teeth for months, it seems
Like you like Hell
Weekend comes and now you feel
like your afterlife
Sometimes, you'll laugh
so hard, you'll cry...