acataphasia
Immortal.
Is there nowhere where all are constant? Can I not find one who will stay and remain? I will stand in the river as the rest wash on by. Stand with my toes bent slightly to fit the mold of the rock in which I stand on. And the rest will keep flowing. I will seek someone who will remain pure even if I fall short in my own constancy. But as for now, I will go fishing from the past and see if I will catch what I thought had past.
Disappointment.
I live. I will live and fade. The world sees me and it will for some time, but I will soon fade out into myself. High in a tree that looks over the city I will live. Looking though my little telescope, I will watch the people scurry like roaches to their day-to-day life. I will see them and they wont see me. They'll never see me. You will never see me.
I blankly stare. Do I want to wake the dead?
Metamorphosis.
Riding with all the windows down and I am feeling nothing. Lost in my thoughts with a blank expression across my face. The wind is whipping at my hair and blowing over my ears so that I hear nothing as well. So much has changed....is changing. Lying in a cemetery in the middle of the night as the clouds hide the stars. Breathing in the mist, blowing out the smoke. Sleeping in bed with pictures flashing on and off in my mind. A year is forever in the present; a second in the past. Growing from the ground up and knowing that I can't go back down until I die. So much has changed....is changing.
So easy yet so hard to cut open the parasite that sucks its food from my body.
Field Trip.
Herded like cattle into a small bus with more cranky children. Given bits of our freedom but still on a leash. Someone out there must see this besides only myself. We are rounded up and pushed out double-doors into the bright of the day. Everything is of a high cost, but being the dumb animals we are, we eat right from their hands. No one sees it but me. Stop! Look what you are doing! You dont need all this you wasteful creatures. And yet, I find myself joining in. They might be right; maybe we as a whole need to be treated as the cattle that we are.
Flames bounce to the rhythm of the music and then fade out.
Renewal.
I see what is written, and I write my own. I see you, lying on your side, singing to the music with your eyes shut. And as you sing, I watch the little string of saliva connect from your tooth to your bright lips. Everything feels delusional in a way that feels real. I am still afraid to lick my lips for then they wont stick when I rub them slowly across each other. No one sees the dot that is right above your eye, or how the strand of hair falls across your forehead. With every detail, I paint my picture and predict my future.
Sleepy Humor.
Waves of heat cover my upper body all in flashes. They come; they go. We saw a woman who was painted today. Her face, completely false and drawn on her skull. Her hair was just a wig on top of the whole plastic face. Seeing her tells me that I must be real.
Romes List.
I am surprised that you have not removed me. After the rise and then the fall of our empire that we created together, there is still a small way of communication between us. But just as you have not taken me off you list, I have not removed of your name. Though there is never any communication between us now, there is still that little, tiny... path in witch we could make contact. And I have no idea how long this will last because I watch the remains of our dynasty turn to ruins everyday.
The Poison.
I am but a simple drop. You think nothing of me and so things begin. But nether you or I realize what I am. I come into your organized system and start eating at little things. Soon, what you have always done you are no longer doing. Something has stopped you. What is that little idea that prevents you from following what you have always followed?
That is me. I am that little idea. And neither one of us realize what I am doing. The outside sees it, but keeps their sightings to themselves. Am I trying to mold you; trying to shape you into something else? No, I have never seen what destruction I have been doing and what I will do until now.
Spring.
Tomorrow is built with one goal. Tomorrow, we have to please the powers that are higher than us. Tomorrow, we as an individual means nothing. Only if we as a whole perform up to par, then the powers are happy. We have no choice. There is no running. They always catch up to you. But soon, very soon, I will find a path that those powers have never traveled; the loop-hole in their system. I will not be a Moses and lead more of the people with me. I will do this for myself and my minds freedom. We will slave away soon, but this will be all that I will endure. Soon, they will not find me because I will be free.
Tomorrow I will please them. Tomorrow I will work for them, to make them appear better. Tomorrow, I will allow this government to rule over me. And I will make them shine. And they will be proud, but not of me, of the numbers. Tomorrow will end soon.
Powerless.
I lie in your bed surrounded in multi-colored white feathers. And I feel your cold fingers run slowly on my arm. We lie there still, not speaking, and your warm breath is going down my neck, under my shirt, and to my back. You breathe out; I breathe you in. Only I know and appreciate how my lips stick together after we kiss. Only I know how something as meaningless as lips touching can possibly mean so much. So we lie, and I feel your breast move in and out as you take in air. And I try to make my breathing pattern match to yours so we both in and exhale at the same time. I even try, even though I am not sure if it is possible, try to make our hearts beat at the same second. We are lying there and I absorb your hold body through my own. Out the window, the dark clouds continue to move in.
Swirl.
We all have dreams of what we might be. We fix our eyes on them. And as we are looking at the dream only, we cannot see what we are doing.
Christ's Coffee.
You walk around. It is dark, cold, rainy. You do what you think is bad and you punish yourself harshly for it. Your performance wasnt to be looked down upon and certainly not bad enough to be punished for. It is still dark and cold but the rain slows to a drizzle. Your hand is bleeding. So much pours from it that it drips to the ground staining the asphalt. The world comes to help you, and instead the are nothing more than an annoyance. Still, your hand bleeds. I overhear from around the wall. You talk to them all, yet still with that voice that you have that is so fake. I can hear your plastic smile though your words, never once laying an eye on you. I wait; you bleed. I know better. I know to give you room to breathe. The world has no clue. You bleed, silently, behind your back.
Street.
Things all seem different now. You are more yourself and I am not. But are you? How am I to be sure who is who and what is what? I cant think twice about what I have gotten myself into, because there is no more thinking. But I still manage to do so.
Broken.
I listened to you again. Just like I used to, only this time, my back looking to you and you didnt know I was there. I tried to remember what it was like before. I heard your voice and I thought about all that once was. Still, even though all returned to me, nothing was the same. Yes, you were still you to my eye, but my ears and mind could not stand to hear you. Why is this? It wasnt that long ago I died simply to hear your voice. Now, I listen with horror to you. Ah, so much as changed. With you and with me. With us both. Slowly, very slowly, I see you disappear from even my eye and I will be replaced. All that will be left is what memories that are still inside my mind. And how long will they stay with me?
Was that you?
Swallow.
I have fought the need to be cold and shake in my bed. I dont run and vomit or let tears free. The only thought I can muster is, Why wasnt I there for you?
But maybe it is better that way.
The clouds tune themselves before they begin to play. The wind blows across the ground. Birds still sing while the storm is playing its overture. Tuning itself to perfection. Then, the birds stop their singing, and wind now only blows softly though the leaves, and the clouds open releasing their tears.
The concerto begins....
A boy picks up sticks for an elderly lady. Why cant the world follow?
To the Narrator
Yes, my friend. You can drag the knife across your writs. Yes, you can end all of this. That is a way. But I ask you, what really have you done? What will that prove? That you know how to run from your problems?
Orange.
A cat meows at me. What do you want? I ask him over and over. The thought of being to myself comes and goes. Out the window, there is the sun set and the warm weather touching me. A boy plays with his ball. I watch as the ball hit the pavement and the sound takes a half a second to reach me. And when you look right at the sun, your eyes squint and your eyelashes take the light and spread it in all directions. And trees are alien for everyone but earth. And the door breathes. Everyone here is either pushing the sun down or holding it up in the sky. Yet despite our efforts, it moves at its own unnoticeable, fast pace. And you feel the day dwindle away.
What a relief it would be to be a child and find the complete joy and entertainment of a simple stick. Their elders never see so many of their ideas. And the day dwindles more and more. Because we live in just the world of ourselves. I dont see you, and you dont see me. But I wish I could tell you what I do see.
But I ask you my friend, is it so wrong to be lonely? Should a person of myself be dependent on no one but himself? Maybe I have committed the crime in which I believed in love. And because I still believe in it, and love itself it still there, I have to suffer when I cannot have what I desire.
Then again, is it such a crime to let go of what was yours and renew with something better? Even though you love it more, what is wrong with still thinking of all that was lost and you yourself being replaced. Yet you have already done your own replacing! And still, there is something inside you that continually strikes you down when you see your past and then you see their future and you arent there. The thought of you not being able to see into them in a physical way and just being allowed to see as much as your mind will permit you to view. Yet you no longer love that! Nor do you want that again!
What is it that keeps your mind from escaping the days of what was? And you know, that their future will never fully escape their past either. So you both love each other even with both of your pasts weighing down and sitting on your backs.
The Bald Man Part II
Today we visited a cult. One, that was hidden from the publics eye with a white sheet. We were witnesses to a mass number of people reciting and following. And they knew what they were doing. Directly, they spoke out of how nothing there was for their own and nothing was what they wanted, but only what was commanded. The matter of this place is easily comprehended. Think of it, you are not in control. Man is made into puppets for a gods own entertainment. But is man itself supreme? Are we all that matters and head of everything of what is and what has and what will be? No my friend. Because we are a nothing compared to everything. But in that place, just remember, do what you are told and not of how you feel. Man, an animal of comparative vast knowledge, is supposedly controlled by the written word; pages from a book. And men want to take part in this! They say that it is not all of their desire to be controlled, because man as a whole are a controlling species. But yet, they do it because the follow this book into whatever types of holes it may lead them to fall into. But do they see what they are being told is not directly from their book, but from a secondary source of one man. Follow the words my brothers and sisters. For I will not and cannot stop you. But know my friends, that I will not pursue you or your words. Go where you please, just know of what you do.
Fitting the Two Pieces Again
After the blood ran from it once before, and it is now a dark brown to purple, on its way to being something that is permanent, it is ripped again. The cold of the metal is run across the skin, at first, to no prevail. Repeated several times with more pressure final draws the thick crimson liquid onto the pale canvas. It is felt, but yet still loved. With the reason in mind, no pain is real. Anything that tries to get in the way it is cut in half like the rest. Very slowly, as it is being dragged along, you can feel it pull and rip and break. Why do this? Why torment yourself? Well my friend, once you have seen what has become of it, there is nothing you can do but smile and love. And when you see that the other side of it, on the other person, it brings you to tears of happiness.
The heart is connected, yet hidden from the world.
Grabbing a Snake by Its Tail
I know what you talk so much about. I have felt the beautiful sickness of it. I am alive. Blood pours out many seconds later. One cant bleed on command. My hands produce a clod sweet. I am shaking. Yet, does this stop me? I try this because something needs to go wrong. If it means the separation of my own skin, and seeing my own blood, then so be it. I need it. I like it. Cold blood; a phrase that is incorrect.
This is where my mind needs to play. It needs to play with razor blades. Its eye can see the pleasure only now. He understands. I understand. We understand. Every feeling multiples itself thousands of times over and over. I become part of my skin when red falls on white. It brings a sickening soothing. Breathe in, breathe out.
Smile, because now you begin to understand. The chains begin to fall from your wrists. Comprehend everything that you have been missing. And the best part of it all, you freed yourself.
I lie naked in my bed. An unknown sexual desire consumes me. Then I go blank. Nothing is floating through my mind; no thoughts, feelings, desires. I am not were I belong. The place that I know so well is unfamiliar and strange. I look at the ceiling. Its blankness is what keeps me alive. My mind paints pictures of whatever it feels on this gray canvas. Everything is falling downhill but there is no gravity to pull everything down with it. I need help; I call to no ones response. The Second Mind is not taking over; this is worse. This is just me.
How could you love this?
He is nothing more than a carbon copy. Create yourself! Damn you! All you are is a monkey; a chick that called the first this it saw its mother. Yes yes, lower your head in shame. So stupid, so mindless, so blind, so native. It has always been okay to plagiarize other peoples soul until now. You are loved. Who do they really love? You or the mixture of others you call yourself? And you; the one who says to create yourself!
Create yourself. Then you may have the right to speak again.
Hollow is this place. But maybe that is just me. I crave so much that it disgusts me. Maybe the crave isnt a desire, because this is no lust. I crave love. And this is the best craving. I never knew this before, but now I can see I just want to breathe it in.
Every time I shut my eyes, the sense of feel multiplies itself millions of times. And I feel your naked, pale skin. I run my fingers over it again and again because it is so smooth. Every detail is so predominate. My lips touch it and I have found heaven.
Scream my children, for you are lost. Stuck in this place with no light. Here, everyone is a stranger.
Cry my children, for you have been led astray. You are all mindless beings playing follow-the-leader, and now you are here.
Smile my children, for you like this place. Only here have you found freedom in yourself, and you now can begin to start living.
Climb inside the pupil and everything fades to darkness. Though you are unfamiliar wit what is around you, you know your way; to nowhere. Because you have stolen the prize. The treasure is in your hands. Should you hide it? Throw it away? Share it? Give it back? But you found this without looking. Blindly stumbled upon this. And now, you love it truly, madly, deeply. And you can't give it back.
In the complete darkness
A dim light shines
Everything else glows dully
Ah, but you my friends. You are imbeciles. For you can't see that your screaming and crying does nothing. I hear all inside my hold in the wall. Be a little more creative. The same pattern of sorrow is growing old and I pity none of you.
Life and Snow are Interchangeable
You are anticipated and predicted. Then, you fall from the sky so pure and beautiful. And people gaze at you and are amazed by all of your little details that are just part of you. No one wants to step on you because you are so fragile. Then, the first step is taken. And that footstep stays with you for the rest of you life. That step, and the rest, become part of you; all of them form you; make you. Then you are covered with footsteps and shapes. Soon the sun comes and you begin to fade. You get shoved. More and more of you dissolve into nothingness. People grow tired of you. All of them want you gone now because you are not as beautiful as you once were. Soon you are black and mixed with dirt and grudge on the side of the road. More and more slush is pushed on top of you. You end your life that came from the sky, marbled with dirt and you are gone.
~
I wish that t could be blamed on something else. I dont see what I am doing with this artificial dictator. The bookshelf is glowing. Is it just a day that all bookshelves glow, or is there persuasion by the mind and the outside being that stalks me in the complete darkness without me being able to stop it? This force, this criminal, that robs me of the only things left that is truly mine. But I may have found law in this. There is a sleeping cop. Yet I drive away from him, making a rut that digs so deeply into the heart of the very earth and myself. Inside, there is a screaming boy; a small child sitting in the shower screaming as the rain falls in him. His mouth, wide enough for his entire body to fit inside. Ah! The taste is so bad! It will die with the demon. The goose that cant catch bread stars at all; or me.
Every scar is a souvenir that you will dont lose. The blood that stains you, just a reminder of the scar. More and more weight gets removed from me, then is but back on. To hell with this being, this snake in my mind! The clown thats face is so clear finds its way in the nothingness. What is me and what is squashed by the barren that I hold? I bare this cross, its thorns and splinters digging into my back. With every step they bury themselves deeper into me. I hate the pain. Every nail goes into my wrists and I scream without ever opening my mouth. The pain increases until I cant bare it any longer. Here, and when I get to this place, I love it. And no one should pity it or apologize about this.
Upside down, I am glued to the ceiling. The mind cant fight it. You are lying! I am regurgitating though each nostril. Time goes by so slowly, I need to speed myself up and surpass it; find the nothingness where I have forever to find myself and discover others. In all of what is vast, there is a circle of people that are loved. Tragic that there is so few and so much room.
How can I trust what a dream has laid before me?
When it hits you,
You bleed.
Do I need to do this again?
And try again?
It's like having a dog.
A heartbreak waiting to happen.
I have been crucified.
Such a slow death.
Can I come back to life?
It is silly.
No it's not.
I think it has faded.
That is what happened.
But no one let go.
And I am not really there anymore.
But that is true if it is reversed.
And I can't help the feeling.
But I love where I am.
And my surroundings.
But, it is not possible to have all.
I guess I have fallen out of my first tree.
But something,
Something deep inside.
It drives me.
Pushes me.
I can't give up.
There is a reason that we didn't let go.
But it is exhausting.
And I have proven,
That I am not bullet proof.
My mind's eye sees so many pictures
Pictures covered in salt
It burns
I cry.
There were people, but I'm not one of them. All this space, but no room to breathe. Something large was screaming as it died; as it faded away. You are out only hope! Don't do it! And as the beast died, I went with it. Just another one to bury. Just another dead stillborn in the freezing cold.
