Fleeting Nescience

Questions breed questions, and answers breed more,
Which ones will you ask with your face on the floor?
Half full? Half empty? Or a knocked over cup?
What will you question when the world chews you up?
Why are you doing this? Can you tell me the truth?
But to look for the answers is to be truly uncouth,
Or at least thats the conclusion you finally make,
When youre tattered and battered and your eyes burn and ache.
When tears wash a way through the blood and the grime,
But will never, could never remove the stain of the time.
When the path became dangerous, the world made no sense,
And you are left disparate, feeling both guilty and dense.
The questions keep coming even when answers grow thin,
Until you cant hear yourself think over the ensuing din.
And the one that stays with you when you remember the day
Is what happens to the innocence that is stolen away?

Burnout

The chasm in my arm is closed to me.
Yet echos from the deep call my name.
Half whispered promises of ecstacy
Over half noticed threats of shame.

Let it go.
Let it all be.
Time to come back.
Come home to me.

Ritual, sacrifice, older than time
Piece it together, with peace to find.
A piercing caress, sweet paths sublime
Intense, unstopping, through body and mind.

Let it all go.
Let it all be.
Time you came back.
Came home to me.

Worry not 'bout a plague ridden kiss,
We're safer here than in the arms of a lover.
Apathy, ignorance, uncomparable bliss.
Content alone, with no wish for another.

Let it all go.
Let it all lie.
Time you came home.
Came home to die.

To dream of waking

I woke.
And stared.
Into eyes the colour of the tempest tossed seas.
And like the seas that hide treasure long lost and forgotten, these eyes hid a lifes worth of stories untold.
Stories of games played, of those that were won and those that were lost.
Of the lessons that were learned, and the questions that were answered.
Stories that will never be heard again.
Eyes that saw nothing but past mistakes, and the broken dreams of future glory.
Eyes that held the memory of innocence, yet that knew the pain of losing it.
Eyes that have lost sight of hope, and of redemption.
Shattered fragments of dreams sparkled like diamonds, cold and hard and unforgiving.
They stared back, unblinking.

I dream.
And stare.
Into eyes the colour of dust, death, decay.
And like death replaces life that was lived and lost, these eyes supplant a souls worth of untold despair.
Despair for a wasted life, for chances that were missed, and promises that were forgotten.
Of the lessons unheeded, and the questions that remained unasked.
Despair that will never die.
Eyes that see nothing but a wasted life, a life that could have been theirs.
Eyes that hold only regret, and the hatred that comes with it.
Eye that never lose sight of mine, that are ever vengeful.
Shattered fragments of life sparkle like diamonds, cold and hard and unforgiving.
I stare back, unblinking.

Darling Dementia

Darling dementia, what are you to me?
A dream of a memory, a wish to be free,
A love of the loss the cuts to the core,
Or pathetic and wasted, unwanted whore?
Harness the demons, reel them on in,
They are what guide you, help you begin.
Hate them, or fear them, they are the spice
They keep you alive, stop you turning to ice.
Without them youre naught but an empty shell,
Confined to this life, yet left living in hell.

Thirds the one with the hairy chest...

Don't you just love children's rhymes?
"Ring around a rosie, we're all going to die!"
Morbid little things that they are.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary, not a pretty tale of silver bells and cockle shells, but of thumb screws and torture, guillotines and graveyards.
It is weird though, the things that are taught to children.

The playground never ages.
Take a walk one day, and sit by a school, a park, anything with kids, do your best not to look like a paedophile, and just listen to them play.
Everytime i walk past a group of little kids, they are doing the same little things i've done, singing the same songs ive sung, minor details vary from group to group, but then, they always did. Skipping rhymes, and counting games, they stay the same. The memory of them tugs at my mind, as an overheard tune carries me back through time, and i can almost, nearly... but its out of reach, and by then ive walked on, and its lost to space and distance. But, sometimes, on the edge of sleep...

The second coming...

So, now I have a job in which I stare at a computer, and wish that I could press fast-forward on my day, so I can go home and not be here. But it doesn't work today, and it didn't work yesterday, and I'm doubtful for tomorrow...

Complain and whine, bitch and moan, happier with something to give out about.

But it brings me to this, a record of self in digital format, and I'm not sure how I feel about this.
I'm used to keeping a journal and with that comes the sound of pen and paper, the scent of it, the freedom of direction and style, the illustrations, the unfixabke mistakes, not to mention the mental position it puts me in when I sit to write. I am only a writer by necessity, needing to write to exist inside my head, to make sense of it all. And as answers only create more questions, each conclusion I come to leads me down five paths at once, some of which will intertwine, and some that will affect everything, but others that are separate and unconnected, and ultimately reach a dead end. But I feel that maybe it is better to choose the wrong road every once in a while. Sometimes you need to force your way through the undergrowth, forge your own path, untrodden before you. Which is why I've burned all journals so far. Finish a book and burn it. Its not for anyone else, and it has already given me its benefit. And I don't want the opportunity to retrace my steps, and choose a better path, because to retrace your steps is to go backwards. And I've been there, and if it was worth it I would have stayed. And even though some people would love to read what I write, would like to get that all access pass to my back stage brain, I cant give somebody that. So, I burn them, and I've been told its stupid, a waste, why write at all if you'll turn it to ash? But if thats the way I should feel... Why live at all if you'll turn to dust? I don't know the answers yet, but sometimes I think I'm close to the right questions. But thats another subject to be dissected another time. I'm almost at the end of my current journal, there are three pages left, and I could fill them in an hour, but I haven't, because this time I don't want to burn it. And I wonder if I'm wrong to want to keep it, and I wonder if I was wrong before, and I wonder if I only think that I may be wrong so that I can do what I want this time. And I wonder and wonder and come to no conclusion, so don't write in the journal. I've even bought the next one, but a new journal is a daunting thing, all those blinding white pages, threatening to infect you with their nothingness, writers block, a blank pages age old defense mechanism. And so I am arrive here, with the intention of bitching and moaning about the starkness of typing and for the first time the click clicking of nails on keys syphons away my need to write, and I feel free.