The HollowMan

January 7, 2011

My heart was the first to go-
but even so
Thoughts tortured me.
So I said goodbye to my brain and pulled out my eyes to string the life, poetry, and all else through.
The blackness still made it hard to breathe-
the truth.
So I dissected my lungs.
I really found no use for everything else and took it out as well.
I realized my skin still bled.
So I carved some wood and slipped inside.
Yes the fire still burned,
but I was still terrified of stone.
And didn't want to be like everyone else.

Falling into Sunrises

December 16, 2010

You make me want to write bad poetry.
Roses are red, violets are blue
Instead of tying up angels.
Glossy oil over marble Michelangelos.
Or even jazz that sings from horns.
Normally it's sex. Or death. Or those interconnections.
You make me want to dumb everything down,
You vacuous gelatin mind.

You make me feel less abnormal.
By the way,
I think I hate you for that.
There's something to be said for anti-insanity presences.

I want you to listen to my lip syncing, listen hard. Close your eyes,
Damn'it:

Sunrise's burn the waking eyes,
there's painful last breath as you die.
Clouds will touch you,
and although you won't feel,
You know by the tip of your tongue,
They do.
Earth may fold me in an embrace,
but not now, not now.
Today,
I feel your breath on my neck.
Stronger and warmer.
Ready for me to retrace.

Insert Cheesy Title

She was dancing. Lithe movements like something from a movie; was it all intentional, this perfect coordination? Water broke around her ankles and splashed her face and upper body and she bent low and tossed her head like a raging horse.

Her red hair flared against the night and her pale skin seemed breakable, even under my gaze. I could have seen her shatter for how strongly I watched her. She wore shorts only, and a tank top. Nothing seductive like a curtain of skirt to dance upon, but still it was enough. Bare skin flashed with each movement.

Cue the music that raged in my head. I couldn’t hear the music she obviously did. But I felt it. Thrumming deeply underneath my soles and through the ground, and exiting through her and her graceful movements like a spout. I felt the rain fall, and it never stopped her.

Every night it never stopped her.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So funny story. It rains, thunders, and lightning is in the air and I'm watching it pour and I get the craziest urge. I can't think of why not to do this, which is insane in itself right, but I figure what is there to lose. I go outside and lay on the ground. It has rained so much that it is like lying in a shallow pool of water and it's raining so hard that I can only barely see the lightning in the sky despite feeling the thunder under my back.
I stay there for about ten minutes before my odd laughter turns into shivers and I realize I've ruined the new dress I bought.
It was worth it.

Tone

*A note, a comment, a little hint. Do not read this plainly, monotone, or like a mime. Read with the hint of rhyme - although there is none. Read with sarcasm, frivolity, and mourning...Read with emotion that had been locked into a television screen. If that makes sense to you.
Without further ado:

If there was ever a picturesque "blackened woods"- it was these.
Painted over by an oil so thick that it not only chocked the trees, but air itself. Screams were swallowed whole by these woods. Although you are lost, however no more or less than anyone else, you dare not take off the blindfold.

Being lost, at first, was not so bad. The darkness was not lonely, and it hardly appeared dark. The shallow breathing that was forced out of your deflating lungs was symphonic, and almost companion worthy.

It began with the itch on your nose.

You itched it. Just barely brushed the blindfold. Just barely.
In fact, so barely that it was softer than the air around it, and even the occasional breeze. However, it was so alien that you became aware of everything for a moment.
The oil layers on your skin and the numbing cold as it stiffened on you - but that was gone soon enough.

But something wasn't. You felt the edge of your blindfold on your face so acutely that every thread hummed with a strange life.

You dared not touch it.

But it rubbed on you, slipped and slid across your eyes, and you itched and rubbed your body in hope to distract yourself. But it was powerful. Even in sex you felt the threads over your eyes. Mocking you in their strange life.

Sitting at the roots of this blackened tree in these blackened woods...You've been bleeding out slowly...You cut your tongue out...Ripped your nails out...Still the blindfold lay against your eyes like the marriage band. Stuck. Suffocating.

The shallow breathing had slowed and you heard your heartbeat. A thump, a thump, quicker thump ... then a thump, a thump.

Touching your face, the blood smeared. Your fingers skirted away from that filth. Skirted until you began touching the electrifying edges of that blindfold. You place your hands over your eyes as if to smother it in. Grimacing.

You become the scream swallowed whole.

Aftermath

He's like the ghost in my bedroom, true I can't see him, but I feel the presence enough to not want to change in it.

I feel your breath, tugging on my soul.

I am though:
Soulless, ...maybe it's my heart.
Heartless, ...maybe it's my dreams.
But I sleep dreamless still moreover.
Whispers catch my ear,
although I'm deaf.
And I feel your presence,
although I'm numb.

I'm the ghost to your handling s,
And yet you haunt me.

Vanity: You are no Fairytale

Feb. 12, 2010

The Debut:
The hearts you place in your eyes are deceivingly sublime. Stop those claws from the pearl of your skin. Take instead the bite of your lips to make accounts of the smiles you receive (ignore the pity). Wear it like badges upon your chest, but on your wrist.

The Silent Ball:
The pallor of your skin is not envied, Belle. The horrors of your nights are not hidden, and yet not horrifying. The whispers that ring your bells and shake your tea cups isn't gossiping Jealous, and the white room isn't encased in rose thorns (bending in coquette curiosity).

The Fall of the Midnight Hour:
Hence to your image in the ripples of the lake, and just as humble humility comes - it comes too late. The rose petals have fallen and the frozen pool has stolen your image. Hiding it in copious dew.

Sometimes it's even...

Breathe,
And choke.
Cry,
But smile...
You swear-
You're doing it right.

That you're holding on,
baby just keep holding on,
For a good reason.
It'll be worth it,
worth it for love,
But it isn't worth it.

You just don't know it yet.

Submission,
Because you're scared -
That you'll control.

Funny,
That trickery.
Those lies.
You already knew the lies.
Blackly, you say say-
It's fine. Sometimes it's even...

Beautiful.

I'm Confused

May 2, 09

I am confused.

Today I read an update on a diary someone had posted on the internet. She had loads of viewers. It was all about her obsessions, depressions, cutting, underage drinking, anorexia/bulimia, and heart ache.
It's hard for me to feel pity for her. Yet I do. Because I am human. I want to tell her how to live her life. Nor is that right for me to do. Nor is she going to listen to me. Why would she? Why would she listen to me for her happiness? Or in seek of the happiness she doesn't know she can have that I feel I could bring her to?
She has to listen to herself.
Sometimes she calls herself stupid.
Now...I've wondered. Is she fake? Does she do it all for attention? If it were me...Would I ever want to post it on the net with millions of followers? Would I want them to know my weaknesses...my needs...my obsessions... my heart aches...my addictions.
Does it matter? What do you say when you are approached by someone who's life needs to be dictated?
We walk away. Nor is it right - nor is it our place. So what is the place of humanity? I read the comments of her millions of followers. Sometimes they say they agree...Life is fucked and not worth living. Sometimes they give her biblical references, personal emails to talk to.
I never do. Sometimes I say something. It's never much. It's never about her addictions, obsessions, weaknesses or anything...I can't talk about it.
I'm not sure why I keep reading about her drowning.
It does have me confused.

I'm confused.

I have a letter that I write to myself...to say. It's a single piece of paper that writes about my mood. Nothing about my life. Just my mood, where I am...How I feel. I update when I feel it needs to be updated. I read it when I need to know who I am.

Today I read it...I wanted to update it. Because I wanted to put something of my happiness in.
Then I wondered...
Do I act/write how I feel I am meant to act? Do I read books, see movies, hear tales and think...Oh if I want to full out this cliche of being happy I must smile and bounce around. Because I want to? Or feel that I must?
Then wonder...what does it have to do with anything? If I do it either way - whether because I want to or do because I feel I should be doing. I'm still doing.

Lately it only feels halfway. And I'm confused.

Icicles.

"Relax or you'll die all tense."

Says one soldier to another.

-Just something to say...I read somewhere on the internet a story of a woman whose car was shot at, causing her to crash and be killed. Her and her little girl. Why was she shot at? Because on her car it had a bumper sticker saying "Half my heart is in Iraq".
Some Anti-War citizens decided to shoot at her and spray paint her car in red horribly derogatory things (that I won't write on here) for her lovers enlistment.
Her husband hadn't even met his daughter before she was killed in this accident.

I cannot understand this world I am in.
I cannot understand this world I am in.
I cannot understand this world I am in...

Truly it cannot be.

You and Yours

May 7, 09

You look at her,
Haggard. Tired and limp.
You are pretty
And maybe once beautiful.

You smile.
So she smiles at you and yours.
The lady next to you.
Who is beautiful.
She seems a bit scared as she looks,

He smiles and watches.
You and yours.
A little jealous,
Wishing it were him with you?
Wishing he had what you had?
Or maybe just thankful for the smile.

Was I once a child so sweet?
I think...I think...
I can't remember.

So I look on,
On those who look at you and yours.
Trying to see them. Since I can't see me-
When I look at you and yours.

X
Not so much a poem but an observation. I was looking at a woman and her daughter if you couldn't guess while looking at two people who looked at them as well. Funny things mornings are.
Felt I should write...something.

This Mar

This isn't a poem or anything...Just a rambling. Sigh to the rambling thoughts which keep me up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why can't you give me life?
You give me love. Sorrow.
Tender and hate. Support and
Fall down experience.
Why can't you give me life?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is this sadness?
The small mar in my heart;
Which isn't even my heart.
Just my chest
Kind of like an invisible hitch in my breath.

What was before?
Before?
Am i happy now?
Loving now?

And when you're gone,
This mar? Is this sadness?

What was before?
Before?

I don't hasten to be melodramatic
But, I think, I love you and miss you when you're away.

Pages.

The first time I've ever said it.

First time I wrote on the blog as a blog and not as a site where I put up my so called "poems" by others and mere "writings" by me.

I haven't the faintest idea of when/if I'll ever write those so called "poems" again. I will...I'm sure. But right now I'm out of the click. Out of it.

Ah well. No one cares.
(Hah, though, paradoxically, I'm vain enough to know maybe a few will)

Waves

I feel elated.

You didn't even say it-
But I knew you wanted to.

How did I know?
Because I know you that well.

I cradled the feeling of warmth,
All through the minutes afterwords.

Then I felt guilty,
For caring so much when I know I shouldn't.

-But I am still elated.

To know...To know...That you wanted to say it.

I love you.

Colour Changed

It’s only songs. Only lyrics, only words. Only beats, only tunes. It’s not anything but a song.

Not a song I created. Not a form by me, words chosen by me. A tempo by me, nor a feeling by me. It’s nothing that is mine.

It’s still there for me though. The songs still sing to me, tell me. Knock me back and forth and fill me with a melody driven feeling. It’s everything.

I sometimes wonder if you think of me;

like I think of you at night.

With my hand on my head staring at the ceiling wondering, thinking, dreaming.

I wonder if you think of me, when I think of you. Then maybe we would be closer somehow. I wonder if you know I love you. Loved you. Do and will.

Do you think of me?

Remember me?

I know you remember my name. My number.

You call me sometimes. And I don’t say much. I think you are disappointed, but it’s because I just want to hear you talk. Hear you breathe. I forget what I wanted to say to you.

I remember everything I wanted to say to you when you hang up and I go to bed. Just those moments when I’m thinking of you. Listening to that song. Just hanging on the night.

You call me less. I wonder if you know I stay up and don’t go out. Just so I never miss that ten minute phone call. Sometimes it’s less.

It’s always worth it.

Someone told me – When I met you.

“Don’t get your heart broken,”

I laughed then. We weren’t like that. And my heart still isn’t broken. And you could never break it. You could walk away and hate me – and it’d not ever break for you. I’d move on. Live on. Hope that you are okay.

You’ll be going to war. And I fear that during the duration of time you were away training that you lost who you were. Or gained who you are. I don’t know you yet again. I’m lost in a phone call. I just hope I get to know you before I lose you in what could happen.

And I just wonder if you think of me. Feel the spark when you do.

The spark, I think, the songs tell me, we’ll always have.

Litany (Of Sorts)

July 31, 08
This is a short disclaimer,

This is utter bull shit I don't really recommend reading because it has absolutely no purpose rather than for a place for my little half heart ed rant. It never gets to anything and complains about things I don't believe in and is mostly just a ramble. At least for the readers it is for the enjoyment of knowing you, yourself, are sane.

Lucky you.

Where the " * " is present it will mention a persona Dante (if you don't know who he is I suggest you start reading...his work obviously, not this). I recently am reading Dante Inferno for the story purely not so much for the biblical of love and god ---and I already just bored myself beginning to go into the philosophy of it. I just like the imagery so I suggest you don't (If you've read Dante) try to start a discussion with me for whatever reason you'd think I'm intelligent enough to keep up. I'm bored.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It started as a thought. Then it was erased and I had to start all over because my memory was terrible and I couldn’t recall the magic that it was brought either. Then it became words. Yes, it may seem odd but the thought was before the words because the thoughts aren’t made of words. They are more like colours. But they aren’t really colours but I’ll call them that because they need a label from our all too human world and colours is as close as it gets.

Then those colours get stirred, woven, perhaps by the breeze or music. And I’ll have a word. This might have meaning, though it will be erratically bold or insanely stupid, it’ll pierce like a wound you didn’t know how you got. It was too quick for the eye but too painful to be a lie, this painfully single word. Then it becomes more, it becomes a sentence. Once a sentence I’ll almost call it a writing, I’d call it a poem if it were more that beautiful but it isn’t and it’d be a crime to call something so dull something so meaningful. After all I’m far too normal and nothing is of mine is worth chiselling on the rock by a screwdriver and hammer. It was not even enough for the graffiti shouting out to “Change the Fucking World” on the dumpster behind the church.

So instead, I wrote it by the rain, but I swear to you I wrote it by that water which was pure from the heavens… or more likely came from the pollution from our own lakes and rivers of lies and poured down to purge us all. In ways, it was nothing, but it was going to be everything and what we wished that we would have nightmares of.

*Dante has damned Myself and All, each shadow of the lily not forgiven for stealing the nectar from the trees before it. A place in the multitudes of storage areas inside of Hell to be whipped, rained upon by fire, and be crucified…All in the name of our ill side of nature. What God makes balance with no relinquish for the punishments of our own self … Our forced upon Sins. For he made us that way… Maybe he just wanted us to make lemons and become a giant lemon pie. Something we all would end up loving, despite that we’d (again) end up dying because our bodies cannot function on its not tolerably overly tolerable sweetness.

Who sees it would love and all who sees me I love. Did I begin to mention that? I love what I’ve made myself, and all who look upon me without their burning eyelids. Then I try to look into my soul and the watery substance. Then I realize it isn’t like water, it is more like air. Then the air is more like nothing. Nothing at all. I guess I hate myself brutally as well. So selfish is this vanity of mine that I’ll smash every mirror while chipping my skin to hang framed in my dark cellar mind. More or less formerly known as my room. I’ll create each beast in justified memories and stories given to me. Yet I’ll let myself be gnawed on by their teeth that I personally brushed life times earlier. Every memory and every sin that made me who I was and that made me human for every mistake-I’ll rub fire against my skin, thinking Hell wasn’t too bad but too many people made it out alive according to folklore and more.

I like who I am, but hate myself

Only those who attempt the absurd will achieve the impossible. I think it's in my basement... let me go upstairs and check. ~M.C. Escher

"I do not choose to dream;there cometh on me
Some strange old lust for deeds"
-In the Old Age of the Soul, Ezra Pound

Don't worry about the world coming to an end today. It is already tomorrow in Australia. ~Charles Schulz

Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~ E.L. Doctorow

And I listen for the whispers
Of your sweet insanity
As I formulate denials
Of your effect on me
-The Stranger, A Perfect Circle (Maynard James Keenan)

A courage is needed, as deep as despair
-The Sight, David Clement-Davies

Light shines brighter in darker places
-Alison Croggon

The body is trapped in reality; but the mind is free to roam the oblivion of fiction and fantasy.

The past lingers with smells, the present is full of them, and the future uses our imagination.

Murphy.

Murphy's Law
If there are two or more ways to do something, and one of those ways can result in a catastrophe, then someone will do it.

Murphy's 2nd Law
If anything can go wrong -- it will.

Murphy's First Corollary
Left to themselves, things tend to go from bad to worse.

Murphy's Second Corollary
It is impossible to make anything foolproof because fools are so ingenious.

Quantized Revision of Murphy's Law
Everything goes wrong all at once.

Murphy's Constant
Matter will be damaged in direct proportion to its value.

The Murphy Philosophy
Smile... tomorrow will be worse.

Joker and Jester

Joker: (Random)
Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall free me.

Jester: (Me)
Peace is a perspective, there is only choice.
Through choice, I gain ignorance or knowledge.
Through knowledge, I gain self determination.
Through self determination, I gain compassion.
Through compassion, I free the rest.
The Peace of Self shall free me.

-You, sir, are Ignorant.

Dot?

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