Poetry

On Trial.

With one breath, I gave up the

darkest, honest truth in me.

It drew forth crystal from

your eyes.

Condemnation weighed me down

as loss became reality.

What had I done? With all my heart,

I longed to mine

the crystal from your face.

Yet sigh-stained fingers would not linger

for lack of purity convicted.

The gavel sounded -

it was your silence.

I knew I’d been deemed

guilty of your tears,

and

innocent of your love.

Standard
Writings

I Lived for the Applause.

I have the primitive inklings of a story in its formative moments within my consciousness, but an inexplicable, unidentifiable barrier retires my will to meandering aimlessly in the universe of pre-creation.

Who am I writing for?

After having manipulated thoughts of mine into presentable, palatable packages for the general audience, it seems my hand has become too practiced to speaking into the desires of others and not urging my own desires into existence.  What once was art became pandering to the will of the people instead of molding it.  The excitement of new thoughts gradually became replaced by the self-serving gratification of agreement, the honeyed poison that is assent.  And so the descent into languor and loss of voice begins.  I no longer know what to expect when my thoughts are laid bare; it seems as if my work waxes and wanes – I love to hear myself talk but hate to explain.

I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience, but perhaps this time I may gain the experience of reality.

Standard
Poetry

Nightshade.

Murderous thoughts pass into dead of the night,

violent shadows mixed with two parts malice, one part fright.

Betrayal, jealousy, despair, and confusion

culminate together in a darkening delusion.

My own thoughts within are the public nemesis

as my eyes shoot blood at this anger’s genesis.

All those around me I thought were companions

turn on me now, those maleficent phantoms.

Smoldering love extinguished in smoke,

repaired heartstrings despite a heart that broke.

This darkness serves as a demon’s mirror

for night’s last hour is oppressed by fear.

Sleep stolen by non-existent betrayal

breaths drawn fast due to fury’s portrayal.

Spurn those close to me, banish all the care

not like they would remember if I was even there.

What shadows swarm my heart’s frail mind

that makes my hatred rise up in kind?

Embrace the noose with my neck

and enter hell with a step.

Demons leave me now, for I

go to seek my rest.

Standard
Writings

Speak to Me.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, mainly because of summer school and attempting to keep up with readings, but that’s hardly an excuse I suppose.  This Sunday during Sunday school, I experienced, for the first time in my life, the comprehension of the fact that God’s voice had grown unfamiliar to me.  I have recently been slacking in my daily Bible readings, and when it came time to break down the passage that we were discussing during Sunday school, I found that there was a message for me that I couldn’t quite comprehend.  It was as if what God wanted me to draw from the passage was there, but behind a veil of some sort.

That veil was a very real manifestation of how out of touch with the Word I had become.  Whereas in the past, I would never even have understood the difference not reading the Word daily made, now, I understood what it was like to have been hearing God’s voice and suddenly have Him be muted.  The growth that had occurred over the years that had been born from consistently reading the Word and dwelling on it had been stunted by this drought in my spiritual life.  I was no longer seeking to be watered by the Word, and so I came before Him as a parched soul with a dearth of familiarity with Him.  I was greatly convicted by that Sunday’s Sunday school, yet I still rejoice.  I rejoice because it confirms that God is indeed speaking through His Word, and that the fault lays not with Him, but with me for my lack of love.  He is merciful to show me this early, so that I may be newly aspiring to seek Him more and know His voice; at the time of His return, I will recognize and respond to His call.  All I can really say is that God’s mercy works in ways that we may have trouble understanding, but once revealed, there remains nothing left but to kneel before Him and worship.

Standard
Poetry

Delicate.

Body to body, chest pressed and breath held,

sharp focus, soft touches, caressed as souls meld.

One end to another, bound by deft fingers.

The tension of melodies steadily lingers.

A brief inhale yields perfume sonorous;

The hours gone by just serve to honor us.

Three silver, three clear, each in its place

as hunger and longing bear forth a new pace.

Thumb gently plucks, inducing a moan

as more and more passion produces a tone.

Ready for melody, tranquil of spirit,

joy of the player, who’s prone to revere it.

Standard
Writings

One-Eyed Blink.

He came to the window to look outside, elbows tucked by his sides and hands gnarled together, constantly fidgeting.  It had only been sixty-eight days in the cell, and already his right eye began losing sight due to the consistent twitch in his left eye, an involuntary wink that had the unfortunate consequence of leaving his right eye drier and drier.  He needed his meds.  But which ones?  Valium, Xanax, a slew of other benzodiazepines waiting to be abused.  Without them, he heard more and more of the voices, echoes from past mistakes.  There were tantrums, there were roars, but the worst voices were the whispers.  He clutched at the back sides of his head, eyes squinted shut.  The disappointment in those whispers, reminders of how he lost himself for the sake of pleasure.  He let go of the window sill and keeled over on his right side, his sweat-moistened arm sticking to the ground and producing a sucking noise as he rolled onto his back.  It’s dark.  That’s all he could see.  That’s all he could bear to see.

Looking outside was a mistake.  It just filled him with jealousy, reminding him of the prison that he was trapped in.  He was so jealous of the liberty that the everyday mind indulged in, not need to analyze every single detail of his visible encounters.  Others were free to do as they pleased with their time, meet their friends, have a coffee, exchange pleasantries with attractive passersby.  They had no conflicts within themselves, no guards to put up as his own wary eyes passed judgment with every sentence, every word that proceeded out of eyeless mouths.  For them, it’s so easy to just take life as it is; for him, he takes life as he interprets it, distrusting the reality in favor of his own brand of truth.

He had fallen many times over the course of his life.  But the fall that ruined him most was when he had fallen in love.  With lies, he dug himself out of many a hole, but love’s web ensnared the factory of his soul, provoking a thirst that yearned eternal.  And so, he started a path that got more and more downtrodden, until he found himself part of the road, trod on by unseeing, unknowing feet, blind to the swoon of his soul, deaf to the beat of his heart, and numb to the warmth of his touch.  Pharmacies understood him best, as he began frequenting them more and more, becoming a regular visitor greeted with the thinly veiled disdain of pharmacists who had seen many a case like his.  He ground his teeth in frustration.  He was different, why couldn’t they see that?  He knew about great horizons, stretching onward until they became a point on a meaningless timeline projected in space.

He staggered to his feet, hands over knee to push down the burden of the earth below.  And he left his prison that day.  He saw that his room, littered with needles and empty orange bottles, may as well have had reinforced metal bars around all sides of it.  As long as he stayed indoors, allowing his mind to rot with blank comfort and security, he knew that he would never understand the moon and the sun.  He locked the house up, and walked, blinking for the first time as the repressed sigh of two months’ length escaped into his night.

Standard
Poetry

Shine On.

The sun rose today, as it always does.

It sees us for who we are, masks,

shadows, and souls.

Disappointment in our human track, racing

onward

to a brilliant death, yet it still shines on us all.

Frigid minds are warmed by rays of light.

Broken souls are mended by day’s delights.

Shattered hearts are made beautiful,

complex refractions.

Oh, that we could hide in clouds

and not see the sun,

our hearts would beat for none,

and tears be drowned in lack thereof.

The sun rose today, as it always does,

yet I rest in peace,

quite in my tomb.

Standard