Cold Searing Reality

He dreams of blood and knives all the time
In waking moments the copper and iron mix to taint his fingertips
At night, he’s surrounded by strangers; he is a stranger to himself
The mirror is a fog of gray and blur-
There is nothing to see that he wants to see
There is nothing he can say to make himself real.

Less of a who and more of a what
Busy shuffling life and drama to the front
Once more drowning himself till the end
Until he, again, doesn’t know who he is
But part of him wants it that way
It’s just too complicated, there are no answers
And no one to put his questions

He’s tired of being just another brittle cup
To eek out another drop of water for the starving souls around
How long until the sun cracks these fragile edges?
How long until they realize he’s not just a tool for others?
They slice him up and divvy the spoils, everyone gets a piece
All that’s left are the bones of anguish, no silence or peace.

He is alone.
That is the worst part of it all.
Everyone has someone and he is just one.
Still.
Again.
And he doesn’t want to wallow in self-pity
But, he can’t help how he feels and he’s tired of being silent.

He dreams of darkness and red
A violent demise to this fear and dread
A soft and muted gray nestled on the sunrise of
Each and every day.
He doesn’t enjoy being despised, he just wants to be
Himself without being penalized.

Why do hurtful people always have power?
Why do they always need a victim?
Don’t they know he has more important things on his mind?
Than wasting energy just trying to survive them, and himself,
And this godforsaken world?
Busy delaying him with petty battles when he’s trying to win
The bigger war.

What is he becoming?
What is he supposed to be
Where is he going?
Is this ever going to end?
How can he make a new beginning
When he doesn’t know where or who or what he is?

For someone supposedly smart
He never has the answers to the questions that plague him
He leaves the room for a cage, the cage for a glass box
The glass box for a room with walls
No windows, no switches to unlock
Nothing but a series of boxes
An echo of chains.

And he must put this away now
He must fold all this away into yet another safe
Housed in the closet
At the end of the hall
Behind the barricaded door
In the abandoned mansion encompassed by the impenetrable forest.

He has failed again.
Containment has been breached, and the agony pours out
In waves of fury, in ice trailing through his veins
In the kiss of Judas stealing the breath from his soul
In the hands of betrayal wrapped around his neck
Grin and whisper that they want him to stay
Then wake him up to kill him again.

Sometimes it’s like he’s not even there
Unless they want someone to blame
He’s not even there
Unless there is someone at fault
He’s not even there
Unless someone needs to be punished.

He isn’t even there.
You have to be a person to be real.
But what does it even matter?
People have no rights at all.
He’s just a leftover script
Of their desire
Just a robot’s soul that they killed.

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Hasn’t happened yet

He walks through the door,
He brought the sketch;
Crinkled paper in sweaty palms.
The bell jingles as he enters,
The buzz like a soft whine;
He stares in your eyes-
“Make it good,” he says,
Make it bleed, he thinks.

You shrug, he nods,
He doesn’t even know where to put it;
How could he pack in 12 years of pain
Into one simple ink blot?

He can explain it all,
The elements and what they stand for:
The flames, the ice picks, the daggers,
The blood, the pitchfork,
The black heart, the devil wings,
A final halo…

Salt slick skin on his upper lip,
He didn’t know what to expect
Pain in spades and hinted regrets;
Adding art, subtracting perfection;
He’s a fuck up anyway, gotta own that shit
He is who he is.

And color cancels pigmentation
The final asphyxiation
Turns purple into blue,
And white into black.
Tell him, seraphim,
What light do you have to shine
On this dark, foreboding day?
Useless sour kisses and lemon juice tears.

Blinking his eyes open to a new day,
Ignoring the crumpled paper
Clenched in his fist like an unfinished prayer;
Does it monument his past
Or his future? He stares in the mirror
Of false accusation, or is it a condemnation?
But, then again, it’s all the same
Yesterday is today tomorrow…

Am I dead?

In 12th grade, I was invited to my friend, “Lian’s” birthday party. It was scheduled for the weekend, started in the afternoon, and ran on into the evening.

His house sits in the midst of the woods. It reminds me of home.

I enjoy the fun and activities, exploring a new house. I remember my friend’s smiling face. He has the cutest smile. Dark bangs hanging into his mirthful brown eyes. Dimples. Beauty mark on his face. Voice not so much smooth as easy, caramel with coconut shavings.

Continue reading Am I dead?