Little Signs – The paranoia of betrayal –

 “Fear of vikings builds castles.” – Charles Manson

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Sitting at the window, you wait for the sound of me
Knowing your betrayal, you nervously wait to see.
Looking in my eyes, you seek for little signs
the lurid knowledge of forbidden times.
 
Searching through my things for false pretense
believing I’m like you, you’re incensed.
 
Take your paranoia, your imposed hell
Leave me alone, your really not well.
 
How is it that, you can steal away
Holding my patient love at bay?
 
In the end you’ll regret to see
I’ll leave you alone and take care of me.

Also published in Broowaha
Also published in Wingposse
First published in Opinions Of Eye
11242011 
 
       

Evaporation –

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.” ― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

uteenwolf
People are becoming an anathema to me. I drift farther away from compassion and concern, wishing to be left alone, weary from the drama that unfolds around me. I’m cutting off communication, slowly, to everyone and everything. My paranoia grows, beat back only by my deepening animosity for the general populace and the abandonment of care. Altruism evaporates, why waste my time being involved in the play by play drama being displayed by the second. I’m so tired of people, so tired of giving, so tired of caring, so tired of empathy. I’ve born the tears of thousands, lost on my knees in prayer, begging my unseen father in heaven to help these itinerants, the foremost of which is my naked and barren essence. I wash away the scabs of never healing wounds with tears that evaporate before they reach the outside. Depression and fear grow in the dark doubt of my soul, one way out I tell myself, just one way. Can you hear me God?
I can’t bear the cries of broken humanity any longer. Failure of my life to help even my family bears witness against me. I deserve to pray for nothing, if I can’t help myself out of this frothing mire of emotions, why call out in the fog to those adrift either by choice or captivity? The wolf chases me, he knows I’m weak, stumbling to get ahead of him. The panting steaming breath he breathes inspires me to run blindly ahead. There’s no help for me in this depression as I spend days fighting to feel happiness in situations where happiness should prosper, watching as it alludes my failing sight and clawing grasp. What would it be like without my festering insidious mind? I’m not my only enemy, there are spirits hungry for the kill that surround and howl. Come close as I gargle my last throttled breath and express my self deprecating disdain for the evil that has become the cancerous me. I don’t want sympathy, but only to realize that as this trees falls alone in the forsaken woods, that you may hear the snap of my aging trunk and know, if only for a short while, that I existed.
First published in Opinions Of Eye

A Death Called Dove

“What a short time I had been given to experience love. I felt as my life had only recently begun and now it would surely end at sunrise.”
Meredith Taylor
sweetesttootsieroll
Found then a little dove cowering in the birth of new
A blade came near and scant to miss
only a hairs breath relinquishing bliss
Flying before her time with wind both a friend and foe
Thinking to see, her wings grow tired
Blind fear rushes never more inspired
A shy grasp at what becomes a mysterious fateful lore
Trying but giving away the hidden life
Reduced to nothing and shut in by strife
Again the hungry clock stood its watch over gentle dove
Only to alight were she would never to fly
Wings fail to carry her to comforting sky
Talented feathery quills of reaching passion stoned to silence
Will giving her gifts to the clouds that call
Only create little pieces in the memory of all
Just dreams of doves laying torn in dawns fading embrace
O fragile dove you’ll ne’er see forever pain

Walking in silence ’cause your wings are maimed

Also published in Broowaha Citizen’s Magazine

No Fear –

“Bran thought about it. ‘Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?’
‘That is the only time a man can be brave,’ his father told him.”
George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones 
Noctturnalromance

 

Walking towards the house, I just finished spending another evening with my church youth group. On the way something sinister stirred in the shadows. No sound, just glimpses of dark figures, darker than black, accompanied by a deep foreboding fear. Forcing myself along the path, all my nerves on end, I scramble to find a weapon worthy of this opponent. My fists were no match, guns likewise. I needed something without form to battle the unseen opponent. Words, that will do, they have no shape and find you even when your hiding. I’ve got the weapon, now which words? The pastors taught me words exist that are extraordinary, having more weight and value than common words, words that were in themselves different. The most powerful of these are the words that looked ordinary, but are changed by my belief about the source and effectiveness of them, i.e. they gained value in this battle by virtue of the faith I placed in them. It wasn’t that faith did it, because I had to actually use the words, but it was faith that gave them the edge to cut the dark. I read this somewhere, “You light a lamp for me. The Lord, my God, lights up my darkness.” Repeating this I tried to understand how to fight the fight that is not fought with fists but with belief. I believed that Big Daddy (that’s what I called God) let me find those words as advice. Fear has torment and I was always afraid, so this whole thing was a training ground to overcome fear and learn how to fight what is called by others as “the good fight”. The victory to press past this feeling and not turn around and run, was not a gallant one at all, it was horribly clumsy and vacillated between wanting to run and wanting to face this fear. All said and done, I made it through, I didn’t die and I learned a valuable lesson that equipped me for the rest of the craziness called my life.
Also published in Opinionsofeye.com

Glory Undone – A woman succumbs to vice –

“She’s not happy about the life she is living but to jump through the hoop would mean to succumb to death.” – Kit Williams
*
3d1f6-addiction1
I saw her give up and fall to addictions vice:
 
Your legs splayed in graphic way
Wanting to leave this world, come and play
Scoring your hits underneath dark worlds
Flying, inhibition burned in pink pearl
Reaching to touch your body magnificent
I’m held at bay by your habit’s descent
Changed from a fondled object of desire
Picking at your curves that soft skin on fire
Tears they are my lover as you fade from sight
Pleasure was ours until you hid in your night”
– Nightfall, D.M.W. Sager
*
Glory is undone as the softness turns to a melted waste of surrender
 
Gone is the shine from the jewel of your womanhood
 
Shame clothes a golden soul tarnished by wantonness
 
Laying down your fight as your thoughts of peace fall with fear
 
What’s left now that you gave your glory to another?
 
Stained garments of unusual color adorn your nakedness
 
Dive into the murky river as it flows away
 
Perhaps your deeds will not settle on your life
*
Pressing back the past, recover your glory undone.

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

First published in Opinions Of Eye.com

 02132012 

 

Prophecy

 “Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.” ― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
 
 
Inspired by my dream the night before
Pulling back into watery heaps, the plan is set
Leaving the crowds gathering in a storm of wonder
The coast changes and that for eternity
The waves swell and crash, hands of the potter

Brightness from the sky enlightens the new land
Flames peeling off like leaves from autumn trees
Eternity waits for another world to collide,
A ricochet leaving its destruction
the fearful people hold their mouths and wait

One Thing, Everyday – Do something to help

“How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing from it, except the pleasure of seeing it.” 

I saw this picture, a boy collapsed on the road to a UN Food Camp, a vulture waiting for him to die, and I said to myself, “way the hell am I whining about anything?” Am I that frigging spoiled that I don’t recognize how good I have it? After a good self flagellation, I determined these goals in life: take the weight off of those who I’m around, bring a smile to a desperate soul, lift up a broken human being back onto the path of life, and give one hungry soul a bite to eat. Basically, look for the opportunity, everyday, to reach out of my comfort zone and help someone. What if I could do just one thing, everyday, to help someone out? Then my perspective would be changed, then I would stop complaining, then I would really be living.

Disease

“I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness – a real thorough-going illness.” ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground 
“Despair filled his skull even more tightly than his own brain. All around him cars filled with normal people perfectly unaware of the disease turning Perry’s body inside out. Fucking normal people.” ― Scott Sigler, Infected   

He folded his arms, tightly, like a knot by a five-year-old, and scratching an unconscious itch, wondered at the bloody drop rolling down his aging skin. Wiping it away, he couldn’t help but taste the irony of death. The tics and eccentric behaviors that manifested since the incident made him an odd sort. It wasn’t his fault, he was told about the consequences of playing with the dark. The dark, always forbidding, forever in tales of lore and fables of heroes and damsels, wasn’t he warned? He wanted to see what was hidden, what moved and was caught out of the corner of his eye, begging an explanation. The blackness held an allure, pushing him into a sort of night that comes on those depressed and abused, and holds them, protecting and discouraging at the same time. On that night, he witnessed what others only pretended to know. 
Praying to the powers that kept life and death apart, he fell forward into the darkness, wholly accepting whatever lived there. As he strained to see, he knew that his senses were his friends, and not the eyes that betrayed him. The shadows boiled and rolled, threatening, yet, comforting. Things calling him, bringing whispers and tickles on the back of his neck. The holy house stood confident at the beginning, though the shadows within betrayed that camouflage. Some shadows were darker than others, malevolent and unforgiving. These fear provoking shades are the ones he desired, the dangerous, the despised, and angry forgotten ones, forgotten by fear and ignorance, chased away, but only in their minds, they drew his curiosity. As one gathered itself from the rolling chaos, it writhed up from the depths and called his name, not his given name, but a name he never knew, a name that reminded him of fairy tales and legends. This began his love affair with the dark and conceiving a hatred for the cursed disease called life. Others longed to live, but he, only to die. Life offered no solace, no hope, but the great emptiness of death, there a lover waited that never left and forever hissed the affection that only cold embraces can show.

Hidden

“Camouflage is a game we all like to play, but our secrets are as surely revealed by what we want to seem to be as by what we want to conceal.”Russell Lynes  


darkjinn

Cloaks, shields, cover for you.

Duck, run, defense for you.
Leaves they blend with your skin
Camouflage from within.
Scent not your own,
Voice unknown.
Scant you appear.
Leaning away in fear.
Shadows, darkness to confuse
Who can know you, when hiding is your muse?

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

011811 

Angel, Part 5 – Jealousy Breeds Over Angel’s Dancing

bunnyalexander

The nights dragged on into months. We both learned the game, with a quickness necessitated out of survival rather than, as she supposed, fun and glamor. My angels’ eyes lost their shine, being replaced with a distant look now shared with the rest of the dancers. She was fresh on the scene, and new girls make a lot of money the first few months of their rotation, their clients hoping to sway them with “generosity”. Other more unscrupulous men, professionals, hoping to secure her in their own businesses, would throw her lure after lure and line after line. Not knowing how to handle the growing concern and yes, jealousy, I tormented myself by watching her night after night, grinding on them, whispering to them, and worse still, disappearing into the private rooms that cheapened the scene, their rudely built walls ending a foot short of the ceiling. My guts ripped in agony night after night, developing a hardness of heart that was unnatural but soothing. One client in particular purposely set himself to provoke me, giving me the impression that he was a danger to my angel, which drove me near insanity. I begged to her to dance for anyone else but him, it tormented me. Many nights I watched him with interest and growing anger, burning deep inside, like only a jealous lover can feel. A hatred growing so strong as to rival the love I had and would soon turn me into a dangerous man. He took her one night into the room, I followed and sat close, as close as I could get. Tears welled in my eyes, anger pushing at me, jealousy tugging me, my own care for her demanding I take action. I had not yet resorted to violence in my life as a means to an end, but that would soon change. For now, I took an unconventional approach. I yelled for her to stop. I figured if she wanted money, I would give her money, I could give her what he did, or so I believed. I threw hundred-dollar bills in crumpled wads over the wall, pleading for her to stop. He was giving her what I could never give her again, a stranger’s attention. I stormed out of the building, everything in me screaming and confused and on fire with powerful passion. She came and found me, comforting me, with kisses now growing cheaper with time, telling me that it was her job, and it was. However, I would learn that there are other parts of her job that were not so well advertised to those on the outside. This lesson I would be taught well, emphasized by the peculiar fact that I never saw those hundred-dollar bills again, ever, it was never even mentioned.

  

Also published in Broowaha

12132011