Cloud

Sometimes
You'll find your inspiration
In unexpected things.
Many more of them than expected, rooted in the things we'd label bad; taboo, unacceptable.
As much as I am privy to this knowledge, from experience I am well versed,
And yet still, I fall to them; to the weaknesses lying in them
Almost as some form
Of conditional love,
Rather than...
An unconditional ideal us spiritualists tend to idolize.

Documents

The raised voice speaking through and to
Tall buildings such as mine,
Makes me think back
To when they were rounding up the Jews.
It is monotone, drone,
And alarming
Though I am sure it is just a fire drill for the empty school across the street.

I am sitting in today,
Like many a day, and as many my kind,
Feeling as though I do not belong to this time.

Gripping at and grasping holds,
My fingers SEEM to slip every time..

In my head, a philosopher writes, documents..notes, gathers
Ever going off, and I catch but glimpses o her insight...
Of his.

The battle wages on, only this time I see now
How much it is only with self..
All else,
That smokey mirror they rave about.

Life is not clean. Not easy.
Survival 101.

Somedays the documents are tattered and tragic...I'm learning to write about those ones a little less..

Saving them for melodies to haunt and preserve the soul in us
That still cries and writhes
And needs just those hugs of
Not going it alone.

Song...

Deep Down

Life is a silent cry;
An inner score of womb and tomb...
A shallow experience
That runs chasms deep
Into a solitary place..

I am pulled at by the fake hand that sways my hair-
not really there.
Not there,
Rather far away...
And gone.

Like me...
When life gets this way:
Flat, lifeless..
Unsatisfying...
Gorging up on needs dampened..
Hopes shown fantasy...
What is love? And why is its maturity so painful to oblige?
And what's more...
In the midst of so much desperation...
Who am I?
Longing and hopeful...
Who am I?

Loathing underneath...
The sweet trail of God's gift
Soaked in others' empathic sin...
And of course, as well..
My own.

Life is a default of something faulty.
Frail.
Lost.
And cast in all Mya...
Seeing hardly ever so clearly...
Hardly atall...
Even us Angels that fall.
Hardly ever at all...
Seeing so clearly.

I see the outsiders go after me.
It is a manhunt
Against our own and greatest kind...
Meanwhile deep underneath..
We're all dying..

Me...
I longed to be touched...
And know that I am loved.
Longed to be honored..
And seen for all...

I..
Am locked up..
My world in my mind and painting sonnets and journals
In the untouched places of my soul...
Where only I dwell, no force to know
What's here, deep down.

The Girl

Goose
Bumps.
Eating away words. Words.
Being driven insane
By not my sane, oh rather,
Eating the sanity of others
Where not in my temple
It could dwell.

Shivers,
Like poison.
How I am the reason
Behind
All this undoing..
And doing..
And dwelling.

She might not know it, but she hates me.
-taste it like a bitter victory swallowed.
She hates me.
Dwelling
In the "Un-love"
Just around the corner.

Can't I move around her?
Why am I disabled?
What wounds?
Why cries?
Why confusion,
And no...so little
Refuge.

Always a silly thing.
That's what they ought to say about me to take my pride away.
What I say, so crudely as if saying it with them!
I am a silly fool
When it comes to matters
Of life
And death
And love.

A silly fool,
seeking ever still
The happiness somewhere along the way...
Praying,
It won't be the end.
Until again,
And then,
Death seems a quicker fate.

"Such a fool", they'll say
"Along the way".

What they don't tell you in school

Drowning.
I hate words and their inability to depict the way sound does;
Song..
But I am too uninspired anyway,
And drowning in the despair.
Wretched.
Lost,
And losing something.
Reaching out
Into cold, open air..
No-one there.

The world seeks to make me it's enemy after it had taken my treasures from me,
And then the rest
Think me faulty,
Frail,
When I cry and whimper,
When I find myself walking out of and against
Only more despair.
I am starting to think like them;
How it IS my fault
For putting myself there..
But running running,
I fin some white,
And how quickly it can shade to grey,
Then black.

Cages. Bars. Barriers.
Sinking ships.
Voices submerged.
Even heard?
Ever?
Treaturous it is,
Even swimming in these waters...
And I've formed a beast..
Letting it go on,
And grow,
And heave
The way we do...

The way they do..
The way
I
Do...

Love.
Love has me in bed
Not so sure of who I am anymore.
Not so sure, there is cause to be okay..
Am
I
Drowning?

Did I drill
These holes?

None of it has me able to move
From this sinking ship.
Instead..
I lay here in bed..
Drowning..
Knowing everything I
Am BEING
Is everything I struggle so hard not to be.

-signed
The Life of an Artist

Floorboards

As my hand slides down,
I feel the heavy uncertainty, like sin..
Weighing on me, like tomorrow's concerns, and yesterday's get-away.

Smokey ruin.
The devil is beguiling.
She wears luring eyes
And chambers of second-hand that makes ego look fresh..
Tasty..
Needed.
Craved.

I..
Am under floorboards trying to get away.
Peeking through the dark for streaks of light to give me some hope..
Any.

Teetering in Sin

Life,
Watch me become a blundering barbarian
In your intoxication!
Devour me
In your artist's galore
As I throw all cautions
To the wind that tried to claim me long ago.
"I will not be tamed" seems to scream from my artist pen and my artist body..
As I fall to the opposite of pleasantville's likelihood,
Instead drowning myself in the sins that many a man
Has become famed around.
It was the intoxication
That devoured us all...
But a life it gives,
As we do write,
And do dance,
And do allow ourselves to be swallowed whole, with not many notions towards consequence...
Whether it be mundane,
Or a life fully lived...
Whether it be regretted
Or not at all...
Whether it is deemed sinful,
Or to those only that seek to label...
Is it worthy..
Of YOUR praises?

That is what I ask you now...
Is your life,
Happy in your own abide?

And if so then to others,
May we all just live!

Split Roulette

The wind in my hair
Flys in The melody
Of modern beat
Meets old love.

There is a man
Resting, propped up, on an abandoned mattress
Staring, up,
In a daze..
Seemingly at the buildings
Across the way.

I, too, am losing myself in the ordinary.
Seeing its extraordinary.

Lost somehow in the daze of the way the sun hits this, and how the lighting forms "that"...

My days lately, seem to be taring at me.
Like two minds debating until claws are ripping off faces;
Masks... (There is blood)..

My head splits in agony;
"Bare with me", begging.
I am split. Craving. Lost. Desired.
Lost...
But maybe
On my way out..

The days,
They play at me,
Like roulette and a pistol.
Dark clouds I cuff myself in,
Excited at the angst of sinful foreplay..
Lost however..
Because its not
A game.

Roulette.
Will? You...
Deny me?
Self? God? Person I love?
Will you,
Continue
To deny me?

My game:
Roulette...
All...
All...
Or nothing.

What is there really anyway?
So why not?