He was a loud spirit slinking down the hall
Haunting you hear it the loudest quiet talk
Neither friend nor foe just a void in the air
Seems to have been yet is definitely there
Stealing the air from the room like a tomb
His presence isn’t soothing nor should it doom
Sticking to the corners and avoiding light
More powerful there and in the bowels of night
Some say he was a soul from years ago
That a horrific tragedy torments his soul
Doing no harm in his dark pitiful form
He is like a ghoul devoid of any charm
Even this poor thing has a purpose
A cautionary tale told to serve us
One day, a little boy whispered a wish—
to see his future in a mirror of truth.
The heavens listened... in silence.
And when the moment finally came,
he looked—
just once.
The mirror didn’t scream,
it didn’t cry—
it simply shattered into silence.
And the boy?
He never disappeared...
he just stopped being who he was.
Because some futures, once seen,
don’t leave you the same.
tears carve silent paths,
though the sun is but a ghost
pressing on his skin.
he hears the light in the wind,
and weeps for its golden weight.
The urge is overwhelming –
to see my battered skin break open.
To feel, believe, that I’m alive –
might thaw my soul, so frozen.
I’m cold, I’m numb, am I even real? –
or a figment of someone’s mind?
(For) no matter how much blood I spill –
(there’s no) feeling left that I can find.
I’m lost within a realm of souls –
where all but mine can matter.
I hate this suit of flesh I’m in –
it’s torn, beaten, and battered.
I’m branded as the “useful one” –
but all the same, disposable.
This hate could fill a sea —
(until it’s) shores should burst and overflow.
My loathing, not for others –
although they care not of their sins.
But if I must be honest –
I hate this soul which lies within.
I never understood –
why I was treated as an outcast.
I guess I’m just too sick –
perhaps it’s why my friends don’t last.
The darkness is outside,
waiting for something—
maybe the shadows,
maybe the weak heartbeat
of the flickering lights
as they stutter along the walls.
It presses its face
against the windows,
fogging the glass
like it’s breathing my name.
The cold leaks in
through every crack in the house,
threading through the walls,
curling along the floors,
slipping under the doors
like it owns the place.
I feel it finding me.
Moving slow.
Sure.
Icy hands wrapping around my bones,
pulling tight,
pulling quiet.
It settles in the spaces
where warmth should live—
the soft spots,
the tired spots,
the parts of me I pretend
aren’t hurting.
Tonight the dark feels hungry.
Not loud,
not showy—
just patient.
Like it knows
I don’t have much left
to fight it with.
So I sit here,
breathing in what’s left
of the warm air,
listening to the shadows shift,
feeling winter’s fingers
take their grip,
and I wonder—
Was the cold always outside,
or did it crawl out
from somewhere in me?
A hoarse whisper, at 2.49 a.m.
"It's over-it's over- it's-"
There, he is,
in his dark bedroom,
eyes wide open, but seeing nothing.
Fists clenched with sheets, and nails sunk to the skin.
He mutters it, to the locked bedroom door,
as if it's someone who's listening
to his confession, sorrow.
2.50 it is.
A tear, dull and frozen,
falls from his left eye,
just to land on his shaking upper lip.
"It's over- it's over- it's-"
his hair, wet with sweat,
voice rasp with dread,
with a broken throat and a heart,
he mutters the same,
again and again,
in same pain,
same tone,
to the same silent wall.
His over bitten lip,
now glistening in red.
Iron and salt,
mixed in pain.
He feels it.
He cries, finally....
There, 2.55, sleep is crawling,
not a fitful one, shaking, he falls asleep.
3.00 a.m. it is.
DANG!-the alarm..
He wakes up, again.
Just to begin another day of hiding the suffering,
and suffering from hiding.
We are like rose bushes pruned by various things
Some, cause and effect, like the death of a dream
Defining moments in how or if we move on
Do we live despite defeat and become art
Something beautifully flawed yet uniquely inspiring
Like a rainbow after a dark violent storm
Will we choose to reflect the light or the onyx cloud
Both have a purpose and a violet value
For what is light without darkness to compare
Even in failure one can be victorious
A hero who sacrifices self that others may live
Can reflect light despite the darkness of death
The womb to his body is as a thorn from life’s rose
The demise of his dream gives rise to others
Light enters you and your soul is transformed
You become part of the fertile grounds
For a larger dream to become reality
From a seed to a bud and perhaps a tree of life
Light which will enter you, facilitating your victory
For in tribulations your soul lives on cheating death
Apocalypse
There is thunder, and lightning
The land is laid bare
The elements doing a death dance
Destruction in a frenzied dance
The trees trust the earth, the ground shakes
The mobile, helter skelter
The waters that give life, in spate
Uprooting everything meant to be constant
The lava flows here, acid rains there
The land trembles and disrupts elsewhere
Somewhere, a tornado swipes
While the Tsunami sweeps clean existence
The annihilation is defining
Yet a survivor stands witness
to an apocalypse manufactured
Now has to start all over again
The hunger, beyond the wounds, growls
Forced to hunt anything that survived
Carrion looks inviting
The last hunter is hunted
Moonlight weeps on rusted stone,
Where once I danced, I crawl alone.
Roots with hands now draw me near,
Feeding on my deepest fear.
My shadow speaks in shattered rhyme.
A ghost who bleeds through endless time.
Like a raging river barreling toward an arid basin,
sediment collects inside a hardening heart.
Weighing heavy, eyelids flutter over drowning maculas;
all that can be seen are murky riptides.
Vision cuts out.
Frantically flaring arms desperately try to skim the surface,
dragged deeper into an unknown chasm.
Sub-zero temperatures shroud panicking flesh.
Prying eyes open, undiluted pitch darkness surrounds.
Gasping for oxygen, lungs inflame.
Excruciating pain catapults through weakening legs.
Safety is nowhere to be found.
Reaching into an intolerably tight pocket,
I feel for your disintegrating picture.
My savior became my impending doom.
Only evanescent memories remain
at the bottom of this watery grave.
has he got
the balls
to juggle?
doesn’t he
have
balloons?
only a knife
and a photo
of his mother
not meeting
their gaze
only walking by,
fixed eyes on
the horizon
he walks down the block party
where mothers
hold children in fear
and Dennis is in a trance
dancing toward
the uncertain nothing to leave
toward another town
start anew
parties in high rise apartments
of fashionably well-to-do
with a mason jar of beetles
and a guitar with one string
the toast of
Bean Town
or Broadway
the life of
the pity party
the talk of
small town U.S.A.
I found the monster in the mirror, fleshed stitched with the fear of guilt, a puppet bound by veins. With whispers of rot beneath each breath.
I fed it well, fed it lies, fed it fear, greased its tongue with my own deceit. Till the shadows spoke in cadence with my voice and I knew there was nothing left to redeem.
I chewed on my own skin, hoping to purge the beast gnawing from within, each tear a prayer to silence the beast, but all that I tasted was the stench of my own decay. The bitter rot that was me. The truth suffocated me, and in that suffocation i became the beast.
Behind a screen, they hid their faces…
Cruelty unleashed, leaving internal damage,
They sneered as she crumbled, a spectacle for them,
Their laughter echoed, as her world began to fall.
Anonymously, they hid behind the pixels,
A poison ring, horrifying scene indeed.
“She deserved it, I hope she’s dead”
Are we not allowed to make mistakes?
Her soul, once vibrant, now withered and gray,
Consumed by the darkness, fading into oblivion.
The bottomless pit, a soul-slaughtering house,
Where werewolves wandered, devouring her innocence.
Their words, like arsenic slowly dissolving inside her,
An unending torture, deep wounds left bare.
In the virtual white room, her cries ignored,
Nonstop nightmares, her fate slowly being written.
The poor girl withered, an angel losing her wings,
As the darkness smothered her, sealing her tomb.
Their barbarism, a barrage of bullets fired,
Unleashed on a soul, a life they did end.
Their cowardice exposed, a truth they can't defend.
In the depths of hell, judgement awaits,
A punishment for their actions, forever burning.
I always heard a whisper
It whispers to me
"Hide"
But today,
It whispered
"Run"
~he knows; has been warned he's self-destructing, yet turns the other cheek. why?~
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