In Your Absence

how do i go on

now that this bitter husk

no longer bears your burden

now that shattered skies

no longer paint your visage white

left with naught

but false impressions

framed upon your pillow

and all the stars have fallen

from the absence of your eyes

With Pen In Hand

Pensively, with pen in hand
I seek to speak this heart's demand
In verses vetting no avail
Dispersed through endless paper trails
The flames of amorous subdue
Proclaimed in clamor since imbrued
In rumination brewing long
From luminescent springtide song
Frustrations thrust upon this mind
Soon turn to dust all in due time
As lost laments gather to die
'Til one day come a weather eye
In search of words to mend the wound
Unearths the tome that tends this tomb
These tales eternal then retold
In vales of vernal life once known
For all things past must yet return
As falling glass from stardust spurned

As Sorrows Bleed

meet me
where the shadows drift
apart
from who we are

where waning tides
reveal the rift
that weeps
into the stars

wrap me
amid layers
of a long
forgotten kiss

our voices
led astray
upon the solace
of your lips

shake me
to the rhythm
of our innocence
denied

pray not let us
fall
into a conscious
state of lies

for all
this world
has proven
naught
but torment in reprise

and so
we take our leave
as sorrows bleed
for you and i

My ~Friend~

oh look!
a pretty* girl

*subjective
don't assume so much

my ~friend~

why not instead
show respect
and treat her
like a human being

use your brain**

**the one in your head

think of her experience
endlessly accosted
by lotharios
on dalliance

decency
staunchly objects
to your crass
objectification

luckily
there is yet a bus
awaiting
at the local station

destination: evolution
join the ranks
of humankind

should you choose
to thus forgo
please know
you are no friend
of mine

Beneath a Bellowing Sky

i once awoke
inside
skin
so thinly disguised

as compromise

drew lulling tears

until i was shaken
by words unheard

from thoughts
unspoken

uttering
of consequence
beyond

these walls
where echoes go

to greet death
calling

as throes
of discontent

and gloaming bathe
the hollow hearts

beneath a bellowing sky

Social Media Rant

depression sets in

cyclical perpetuity prying
clawing at the prefrontal cortex

altruistic assertions abundantly articulated
aimlessly amid atmospheres of apathetic arrogance

the pittance of positive people
professing palpable parable
is repeatedly passed over
spurned, and disparaged
for the perverted purpose of pandering
to the plight of pathetically puerile opponents
to placate their pathological penchant
for proliferated pandemonium

the spirit of selflessness
and subsequent sanctuary is subjugated
by solipsistic sentiments
that seem to spread
like pestilence plaguing the soporific populace

seeking to appease
the silent sect of surrogate shamers
tiptoeing through the treacherous tumult
presaging tales of omnipresent fear
with foreboding and pale trepidation

all too typically trivialized
by tiresome talk of intolerant tripe
tailored to tantalize stolid thinkers

in triumphant tantrums of truant intellect
inflecting in facetious affectation
fostering false intent so toilsome

tempting my intrinsic inclination
to defect and deactivate
with the hope of abating this state of inundated hatred
bred into my head by the hordes

of men faceless whose faith
one can only surmise to be heedless

so, needless to say my dismay
is with relevant reason
enough to release this lost soul
into sempiternal egress

How Can I

with time erodes the roads of hope
as seconds pass without distinction
wedged between the hourglass
in retrospect, a stranger's fiction
e'er beholden to the past
shackled by fear's ersatz depictions
diligently deconstructed
prone to dubious perceptions
doled out in fervid procession
sold out to our indiscretion
futures nigh belie the burdens
of reflective introspection
corporate chains restrain our choices
subjugated minds and voices
commandeering our convictions
volunteering our volition
fostering the hour's dissension
lost inside our own dimensions
drifting states of lone diremptions
kissed by fate's unknown afflictions
wistful days of rumination
stripped of our only salvation
dripping death with indignation
listless breaths of consternation
consciously resigned enslavement
viciously maligned by deviants
clamoring to hide misconduct
how can i but not give a fuck

rant of dreams forsaken

In life, we are plagued with many things. Some serve to compel us forward. Some, seem only to exist to thwart our pusillanimous progress toward the arbitrary goal of being human. What on earth is this innate desire to adhere to such insidious standards of corporeal existence? What is this tethering to that which can only be thought of as tormented torturing? To be able to reasonably anticipate the fate of each moment is a fate worse than death itself. To know the rhythm of each step. The cadence of every footfall. To know the precise frame of time in which that insidious sliver of seeping sunlight will slip in through the window’s crack to smack you into the oblivion of consciousness. Beholden to the call of nature’s never-ending reminder that our minds are moored to primal needs to which we must abide. To know that if we ever hope to reach our dreams ever dangling within our reach on string-bound carrots tied to sticks that sit firmly within the grasp of capitalistic ceremony. Only to be ripped from our hands as the sky rips off its fleece of sloe that flickered with the promises of worlds we’ve yet to know. Worlds we once had known. Our dreams become less reasonable as reason wriggles into our conscious condemnation of the hope we must forgo. The cost exceeds the measures of the treasures life might show us. And so, we go from lavish fiction in depictions of our making to the stark and unforgiving scripts seemed written solely to afflict us. Imprisoned by a temporality that deems our freedom nothing more than fruitless. Scheming to destroy the only things that make this life worth living. And believe that it’s a given that regardless of how much we strive to live the lives that linger long in silent songs that writhe in our subconsciousness, we slowly die each time we’re forced to lift our eyelids open. To the moment of our hope’s demise, we try to trick ourselves into thinking thoughts in which our dreams aren’t sinking fast like ghostly ships aghast into the vast, dark abyss of bottomless abandon. So that we might barely subsist. This is not the life we want. Dubious portrayals made to convey a fervid fantasy none can achieve lest they bereave their one and only soul’s reprieve by leaving all that could have been. To sleep beneath the silent seas of muted pleas whose surface screams tempestuously with festering feelings of remorse and discontented cries of silent implore. Born into a life of languishing where anguish rules as king with such an iron fist the siren’s kiss falls into effigy. It’s far beyond what’s known as wrong but come the shadow of the dawn we must persist as listless pawns e’er clamoring just to go on. For if we were to choose a fate not left effete by our own feet and force ourselves to deviate from what’s accepted and expected we would find ourselves neglected by our peers appearing queer whose scolding sneers and jilted jeers sustain our ever-loving fears of failure as our freedom fades. As quickly as we can adhere to anhedony-addled tears of consequence beyond compare. We forsake freedom for the sake of filling holes of corporate waste for ends that we will never taste. A lifetime of egg on our face. There is no hope for time replaced. Still, knowing this, we must awaken without time to contemplate our dreams in hypnagogic states that hold the key needed to free our soul from these arbitrary weights. Inflicted on our conscious being bearing on our consciences absconding with the only thing that would ensconce our existence. But our purpose has been purloined for acquisition of gold coin in copious amounts of which we’ll never see by all accounts. As pointless is this penned appeal I must present this truth concealed for I must voice these things I feel lest I succumb to my ideals of suicidal impetus of such unbridled force that thrusts upon me like this bed of bricks from where I now sit writing this.

Four AM

sleep comes in segments
between the ethereal experience
and fits of ephemerality persisting

these cycles interspersed
amalgamate what i call living

i want to die
but i'm afraid

afraid of living
without you