A Twisted Heart

A Twisted Heart

With trembling hands,

You held my dark and twisted heart,

For one melancholy hour,

I bled the poison of my soul for you

The poison that stained once red roses,

To bitter black.

The black that spills from my lips

--A dark decay within.

You held it,

You felt it,

So you took the knife,

Stabbed it within,

Twisted hard,

Till love, hate, life, and death

One, became

And altogether ceased.

Concrete Phantoms

So I wrote this years ago, haven't revisited it but I think it's pretty good

Concrete Phantoms

Grey concrete, the lining of a world in a box as clouded sky hangs overhead and walls of aged and dilapidated buildings surround an oil-slicked alleyway. Rainbow-laced streams of suwling waters pour towards rust encrusted grids, draining away an accumulation of dirt, dust, and other city refuse. Here a bony and dishevelled cat roves. A cat, cast out to convenieve through the streets in search of a place to call its own, a place to call home. Early each morning it pantanders through a labyrinth of discarded crates and soggy cardboard boxes for a bite to eat until the shop workers come armed with either brooms to make this cat go skittering, alarmed, and hittercanning away from the doors and underneath a stack of cracked crates or to vainly attempt to stuff yet another bag of trash into an already overstuffed dumpster. And if this stray’s lucky stars are in line a bag will fall split to the ground and she may feast upon a mess of odds and ends. When night comes sweeping through this concrete corridor, leaving garlands of shadow in its wake, a lone figure may enter the feasting feline’s domain, and perchance their eyes may meet, and a connection may be established, understanding, pity, or even some buried sorrow may surface. Instead the faloring figure lights a cigarette and continues along his path, a trail of smoke tavallering towards the palandering gaze of the starving homeless cat, alone once more as the phantom disappears into the night.

Tattered Notebooks and Coffee From a Styrofoam Cup

Let me tell you a bit about myself. I’m writing this in the back of a bus at ten o’clock at night. People are looking at me strangely, happens but it could be because I’m writing this out by hand. I’m twenty-five years old. I have never been in a solid lasting relationship. I doubt I ever will be. I’m coming to terms with this. I have been told I’m beautiful. I can’t see it in myself. Again I doubt I ever will. I have a poor self image and little self-love. I try to help people anyway. In the end, it’s not about me. It’s not so bad living life alone. There are paths best walked alone. They are paths that are easier walked alone. Sometimes it’s agonizingly painful being alone. In a way, it fits my chosen lifestyle. I’m not entirely sure if this is true or I have just convinced myself it’s true. I don’t feel a sense of belonging anywhere. I wonder if I ever will. Sometimes, more often lately, I wish I were living out of a backpack, drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup, writing down stray thoughts in tattered notebooks in some strange roadside diner, motel, anything far away from my current life. I think this even though I know you can’t outrun unhappiness. You can change the scenery as much as you want but you’ll still be carrying those feelings with you. I have always been considered strange, different, unwanted, an outcast cast out but in my exile I have found comfort and good conversation among the fallen, the freaks, the damned, the dark, the deranged, and the ones who walk alone. Their late-night talks, clever quips, and kind words have gotten me through some long nights where the coffee has run dry and the thoughts come creeping, the ones that take shape and gain strength through every misconception, twisted lie, and skewed perception a person has ever felt, heard, or known. I have many quirks. One of the most frequently commented on, and in some cases a frustration to some, is my lack of phone. I don’t lack a phone because I choose to avoid people, nor is it only a financial burden I can’t cope with at the moment. It’s in part, my incredible dislike at being tied to something. I see people pull out their phones and do nothing but open and close apps only to avoid the possibility of interaction with other human beings. Weren’t phones originally meant to be a method of making communication easier over long distances to connect people? I’ve found without a phone I’m considerably more punctual. I don’t have the option of writing off being late with a quick message. Some people say I’m old-fashioned, caught in the wrong era. In truth, I don’t know what era I belong to. I love old strange antique things, I love science fiction, I love twisted streets leading to new places. I don’t seem to belong anywhere in time of space. There are eras and places in the world where I would be executed, exiled, deemed untrustworthy (I’m actually a deeply honest person), but people have their beliefs as I have my mine. If a person is fervent in their belief of anything it can be either a great thing or a terrible thing depending on what the person values and how many people get caught up in the belief alongside them and what directions the original idea is skewed. Because I don’t always speak my mind, my silence is sometimes misinterpreted as ignorance, by people who choose to see it that way, when, in fact, it’s the opposite. There are just some things I don’t want to discuss or I will discuss at the right time, or even people I don’t feel inclined to talk to. I don’t blame others for my failures and struggles. If opportunities are like grains of sand, I don’t let them slip through my fingers; I close my fist around them and throw them into the ocean and let the waves crash over them, crushing them into oblivion. I am the architect of all my own destruction.  I made the choices, good or bad. I can thank the people who offer me a helping hand when I’ve fallen down and am struggling to stand, even if I push them away. I can thank the people that try to tend my wounds when I’m bruised and bloody, even though I again push them away. I can thank the people who offer me a crutch when I’m limping and stumbling but I push them away. I push so many people away and the failures are really all on me. I can’t achieve a sense of balance. I have no harmony. I know there are changes I need to make but either I’m trying to make the wrong changes or I don’t know what changes to make. I don’t write all this for sympathy. I don’t need sympathy or to draw attention to myself. I write this because these are thoughts that are asking to be let out and sometimes all you can do is let it out. Maybe someone will read this and take something from it. I don’t know. I can’t know but it’s there in case. 

A flurry of confusion and a mix of emotions.

I never wanted to be one of those people caught up in a flurry of confusion about purpose and identity. I thought the people who did that were generally self-righteous pseudo-intellectuals who would spend their lives talking about the great achievements that would change the world they would accomplish someday but could never make up their mind about anything. It seemed to me that they were afraid to commit to a decision and were constantly seeking guidance, clearly never having been told the greater the risk, the greater the return. It seemed to me they want the safe path and with someone else giving them instructions, they could be absolved of guilt if their path didn't lead in the direction that they had hoped.
At age twenty-four I am realizing I am much of  this. I talk of great things I want to accomplish. I never do anything significant in order to do any of it. I write words but they are a scattered, disjointed mess. I make goals but have no follow through. I tell myself maybe what I need is a guide. What I really need is to get the fuck over myself and throw myself at whatever it is I'm trying to do regardless of consequence. I frustrate people who see that I have abilities and perspectives worth sharing. No one but my own self can make me do this. I have to be the one. I know it and yet I can't seem to do it.
I spit advice for anyone that asks even though sometimes I feel so fake doing it. Who am I, fuck up that I am, to be telling other people ways to resolve their problems when I am burdened with so many of my own, almost entirely self-inflicted, issues? I don't take my own advice so why should I expect anyone else to? As I see it, I've been a loser most of my life and will continue to be one as long as I keep holding back and I can't seem to help it. I try to be fearless and yet somehow I'm crippled by some overwhelming fear of showing what I can be if I let myself which is pretty damn fucked up.
I also feel like I'm turning into a more and more bitter person everyday, constantly frustrated by people. I feel like saying "yeah, no shit." during conversations more and more often when people feel the need to point out something fucking obvious. I'm sure plenty of people want to smack me in the mouth when I talk anyone so I'm starting to considering keeping my mouth shut is a better course of action for everyone even though I get the idea that won't do much in resolving some of my issues. Sometimes I just feel like I'm going through the motions, having conversations that don't interest me but it's the thing to do so I put my face on and get through it. I used to be so interested in what people of any and all intellectual levels had to say, now I don't really give a shit. What the fuck have I become and am becoming?
I don't want to say I've lost my path or direction because too many people go on about that. I don't think I ever really had one to begin with any way. I just fuck around and stumble into things. I have an idea of who I want to be and what I want in my life but there is no fucking guidebook or clear pathway layed out. I'd be pretty damn disgusted with myself if I took the easy way anyway but I seem to want it nonetheless. I want what would make me hate myself, trying to become a person I could be proud of. That is fucked. I would probably admit to needing help but I can't stand asking for help and push it away whenever it's offered. I have been bleeding on the ground and refused help from people offering. I can't stand leaning on anyone for support which is why I stay out of relationships and try to end them before they even begin. I'm frustrated with the fact that I am not as independent as I would like to be but I struggle to fix all the shit, mostly in my head, that is fucking me over. I'm pretty messed up.

Wings of the Dying Light - A Poem

 I wrote this in 2006 and just stumbled across it going through old files and I actually like how it sounds, which is surprising since I usually find my old writing pretty horrific.

Wings of the Dying Light

Wings of the dying light

Made from twisted strands of the night

Faded dark from what once was bright

Given up without a fight

These faded wings of the dying light.

In solemn darkness,

A single candle is lit.

A single flame is extinguished.

Where once there was light,

A single whisp of twisted smoke

Fades away.

Where brightness once showed,

Darkness fills an empty void

Built on shattered fragments,

Lost and replaced;

Though still displaced.

Wings of the dying light

Made from twisted strands of the night

Faded dark from what once was bright

Given up without a fight

These faded wings of the dying light

Will never again take flight.

Positive Impact - A Reminder

POSITIVE IMPACT – A REMINDER

In general, we tend to focus more on the negative aspects of our lives over the positives. I know I've said many negative things about myself and sometimes have a lot of difficulty seeing the better side of me. A piece of advice I often give people is to take a bit of time to reflect on things they've accomplished and what makes them feel good about themselves or life in general. I'm going to take a moment to look things I do to make a positive impact on people.

I give people a space to be themselves without worrying about judgement – A space they can feel safe. I've been judged a lot in my life so I know what it's like and I know there are many people out there more than happy to make judgements on people over the slightest things. Around me it's a discrimination free zone. No one is getting shit for being who they are. I expect people to be respected and respectful in my environment.

I listen to people – Sometimes what someone really needs is to know someone is there listening to them work out something outloud, maybe offering input if it's needed or I can. Just being there can make a difference. I am a pretty damn good listener and I have a solid grasp or words and seem to help people articulate things they can quite put into words without a little help.

Even if someone is being an asshole, maybe they're going through something difficult and don't know how to vent their emotions well or approach the situation. I'm okay with sitting down with them and working their shit out

I make myself open to talk to – If someone needs to talk, I'm pretty much availiable as often as possible. Sometimes I do need to sleep or am busy living my life, or just need to take some time to myself, but if someone needs someone to talk to and they let me know, I make a point to find time for them. I don't just ignore people who need some help. I give advice and words of encouragement as often as I can and if it helps, cool.

I compliment people – As far as I'm concerned people don't hear good things about themselves enough on a regular basis. I enjoy giving people compliments and know how a kind word can turn around a shitty day. I started doing this on a more regular basis after a random stranger came up to me and said, “You're very pretty, you know.” I don't consider myself particularly attractive so this made me feel really good about myself. A few words makes a huge difference.

I'm a generous person – I may not have a lot to give, but I try my best to give all the same. I get frustrated by my lack of funds, often. What I'd like to do is get a bunch of people together and be able to cover food and drink over good converstion but I'm not there yet financially but I will be someday. Instead I'm generous with my time, helping people out with things. I also donate blood reasonably often. At a donor clinic I asked how many donations a year makes a person a regular donor. I was told once a year. I donate 3 to 4 times a year on average. I give when I can.

So I guess I do do some really worthwhile things even if I don't have the highest opinion of myself.

Word On the Shelves

Word On the Shelves

            WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS MANY CORNY AND OFTEN CHEESY PUNS. SOME MAY CONSIDER THIS A BAD APPLE OF A STORY, ROTTEN TO THE CORE. IF YOU ARE ONE OF THESE PEOPLE, PLEASE TAKE YOUR BEEF SOMEWHERE ELSE.

            The following occurs at grocery store crime scene, where in it there was a recent massacre. This is what went on in the store amongst various food items within, the word on the shelves.

            That night the apples were feeling a little rotten in their cores and as was the custom, the undoubtedly disturbed individual, the offender, came to have a not so friendly chat with the apples. It is possible that the apples planted the first seeds.

            We are well aware that the corn remained all ears throughout the conversation, and that the potatoes were keenly watching, eyes wide open. Unfortunately, due to their vegetable state, they are unable to speak with us, instead a team was sent to discuss the matter with the ice cream, that attempt however did not get far since all the ice cream would do was scream. Each scream had a slightly different sound; from generic to German it was there. The German scream was Haagen-Dazs frequencies, meaning it was louder than most. Present at the crime scene, was Mason, the wide-mouthed jar. He insisted the heads were involved, though it was indistinguishable whether it was the cabbage or lettuce in question, and none of them were talking.

            There was mayhem in the dairy: the milk had curdled, most of the cream was turning sour, and even the soy had gone a little bitter. The eggs, assumed to be rotten, were put under forceful interrogation, they soon cracked under pressure. It was quite possible that the screaming ice cream may have contributed to the curdling of the milk. The cheese-strings got pulled for questioning. It was also a possibility that the cream was whipping something up. But the rampant chaos within the store didn’t end there.

            There was no sweetness in the candy aisle. The toffees had landed themselves in a sticky situation, it wasn’t long before they realised they had become one. It was assumed that the soft drinks had popped a few caps. The Snickers, for some reason, found the situation highly amusing. The Bounty bars had mysteriously vanished; perhaps that was the cause of the whole attack. The gum seemed a little chewed out.

            As the investigation continued, it was easy to see the killer was not a cereal killer, since the cereal was untouched. Furthermore, it was doubted that the killer was a serial killer, since the serial numbers remained unscathed.

            Later on, a recording was discovered in none other than, the produce section, where this whole plot had been ripening. The apples had gotten the attention of the romaine lettuce, who they believed to be keen thinkers, ready to plot some great strategy for battle.

           

            “Lettuce, plot something devious,” called out a group Macintosh apples, who were believed to be the smarter of the apples, with a faster at processing information than most. They had had mass success with their recent creation—the pPod (a portable audio device, which could hold as many songs as the peas were capable of remembering, the songs were similar to each pod)

            “The apples are to plant the seeds,” declared the lettuce, “and the celery is to stalk the killer throughout the store. Corn and potatoes be alert. No one let the pork squeal or saucy tales coming from the canned food aisle either, if word got out amongst the soup, this could create quite a stir.”

Each fruit and vegetable knew its role, though the cantaloupe was feeling a little blue, instead of the usual vibrant orange, since her honey, the ham, made for Black Forest with a Bratwurst sausage. The cherries had been in the pits, afraid they were going to be used as bombs. And the peaches, feeling moral even with hearts of stone, decided to call the fuzz. They tried to call using the bananas, but the bananas split, maybe that was also caused by the ice cream, but nonetheless, they split.

Still around the store, down by the demo counter, it was evident conspiracy had been cooking. The salad dressing was nowhere to be seen, they were after all masters of disguise. The Cheese Whizz, who had heavily processed the situation, felt he had an answer. Meanwhile, out in the parking lot the steak was T-boned. All along their was something fishy about the seafood counter where the prawns were feeling shrimpy.

            It was generally agreed that the molasses wasn’t to be interrogated since it was slower than usual that day. The ketchup was a little behind the times as well. It took some peeling and a whole lot of squeezing to get any juice out of the oranges. Some would argue that excessive pressure was used. The blood oranges obviously had something to hide. Turns out the proof was in the pudding all along. That landed the pudding in custardy, but after all this was only the word on the shelves.

Stone Tears - A Poem

Wrote this many years ago but I still think it's one of the best poems I have ever written. It's also VERY long.

Stone Tears

Heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Release me.

Turn solid barrier

Of brick and stone,

Barriers that preclude my pleading call,

Trapped here,

Force to watch your fated fall,

To molten rock,

Made of worthless pain,

Released without shame.

And somewhere deep within the faded dark,

A light flickers faintly once,

Falters twice,

Alight and suffering with sullen pain, no more.

Heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Release me.

Is this the end of a beginning?

Or the beginning of an ending?

Never ending spiral,

Repeated a thousand times before.

Once more,

Forevermore,

No more.

The end.

Began again.

Hope for flaming wing,

—To burn away broken chain

That binds you to your pain.

Without a soul,

You’ll suffer so much more,

If I’m not here.

Even then, do not fear,

‘Cause if you scream,

I’ll be the one to hear,

So far yet so near.

Pain burnt away.

And here I lie,

Doing nothing for no reason,

When all I have to do

Is wake myself up,

And bring myself to move.

‘Cause I know,

I’m alive today.

Heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Release me,

Before it’s too late.

Take what pieces of my soul,

You may find,

Lost and left behind.

A pool of rot churning in a painful memory.

A charred scar, etched too deep to ever fully heal.

A pain all too real,

Left somewhere in the wake of time.

So now I find myself,

Picking up the pieces,

Shattered on the floor,

A thousand dreams I have had before.

Clear away what once was.

A thousand tiny cuts,

Faded scars, unnoticeable.

Atop a crumbled ruin,

Rebuilt to rise above,

I stand, facing forward,

Never straying behind.

I’ll catch you if you slip.

I’ll be there to break your fall.

Help you ignore the demons call.

So you’ll never have to feel,

Left behind,

Standing all alone,

In fear or failure.

On this crumbled ruin rebuilt,

I’ll be there to break your fall.

Heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Release me.

And something I never thought would happen,

Happens.

The minute so tightly wound in fine gossamer threads

Slips through.

The clock ticks once…

Ticks twice…

All is not still.

The day goes on.

And there in dawn’s rosy light,

A tiny teardrop mirror hangs,

Waiting for the fateful breeze,

And it will fall.

Perfection gone.

When all the world sleeps,

And wallows in its chosen pain.

In waking hours cry,

False tears that lack all art and subtle delicacy,

Of a thousand tiny teardrops.

So unexpectedly in dawn’s rosy light,

The weeping widow awakes.

The day has ended.

Heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Release me.

Why so fixed on keeping me?

It’s cold tonight,

But this time you won’t give up:

Not without a fight—

Not tonight.

‘Cause you know it’s all right.

This time you won’t be standing on your own,

All alone.

And when it’s dark,

You will have a guiding light,

Through the darkest night.

So step light.

You’re in control tonight.

In this storm of hate,

Abandon capsized ship.

You’re not drowning;

There’s a raft,

To guide you to safe shore,

Through this crimson sea,

Not so deep.

‘Cause the crimson tears

No longer creep.

No longer seep.

‘Cause you’re alive today.

I’ll step forward.

A certain step

In the right direction.

This I know.

The past behind me,

The future in front.

With this in mind,

I know,

There is no wrong way.

The right way is the way,

Right in front of me.

So heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Release me.

From all the images,

That haunt my dreams,

In waking hours

Or in sleep.

It’s all the same to thee.

Today I have woken up.

No taunting screams

Wasting me away,

Day by day.

I’ve let it go.

Today is a new day

To start to live again.

And maybe this time,

I’ll be something to anyone.

Faintly forgotten,

Easily remembered.

I’ll take the risk,

And make a difference.

And so should you,

But even if you don’t,

I’ll be there to break your fall.

Tonight the Darkness draws near,

But do not fear,

Even if your light begins to fade.

Don’t give up.

Don’t give in.

I’ll give you some of mine,

Still burning bright.

You’ll see, it’ll all turn out all right.

Heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Release me.

Can you not here my plea?

Curdled blood drips,

A viscous volcano,

Ready to explode.

Raining down emotion so long stowed.

Why do you cry for me,

When I’d take a fall for you any day?

From the wake of past’s collision with present day,

Comes future’s greatest strength.

So don’t cry for me.

Even if I’m bleeding through.

Soon or later it will clot,

And things will come through.

A wound, no matter how deep will turn to faded scar.

Down this lowly corridor,

The shadows whisper in the dark,

Anxious for all to hear the secrets that they keep.

Here they come to try to take you away,

Here they call with many a feeble lie.

Here I have come to listen to all they say.

Chanting mirthless tunes in the surrounding gloom.

They call to me,

Though I have taken heed.

They call for you.

But I have warned you.

Bones unbroken,

Stones unstained,

By blood unspoilt,

Will never fill,

Two empty tomes.

I’ll keep my promise,

Even if I’ve broken it before.

Not this time.

I’ll be here,

Whenever you need me.

I’ll be here.

You’ve made me cry before,

But I know I’ve done the same to you.

And even if you never come,

At least you know,

I’ll be here.

This time,

I promise.

And I’ll try my best,

To keep it.

Now heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Will you not release me?

Can you not hear my plea?

From far above,

Looking down, way down.

I can see you falling,

Drowning in the darkness.

A vacant soul floundering.

Though you’re in reach,

If I were you, and you me,

We’ve been here before,

Would you do it?

Risk yourself, on my behalf?

My hand’s outstretched.

Ready to pull back,

Just as you leap and miss,

Fall forever, struggling still.

But I promised I wouldn’t,

So here’s a helping hand.

Pray for the crying spider,

Who will have no dinner tonight.

With all things said and done,

Finally cleared up and set straight,

I will walk away and leave your memory behind.

You still have so much to work out in your own mind.

You may think you’ve woken up,

From dreams so cold and dark,

You’re drenched in bitter sweat.

What you don’t realize is that,

The true horror never really ends

—When you wake up.

And all this time you’ve been awake,

Your life’s only real when you’re asleep.

It’s a hell you can’t escape.

It’s a never ending dream.

It’s called reality.

Wake up.

You’re looking tired and afraid.

Lost and confused.

Step outside and take a breath.

Look up at the clear night sky,

Above or below,

It’s entirely up to you.

Perfection does exist,

Rippling cool and clear,

As if in reach.

Or shimmering high and bright,

So far away.

It’s up too you,

So take your pick.

Will you settle for what’s near

And almost pure?

Or what is out of reach

But complete?

It’s up to you,

So take your pick.

Now heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Release me.

And as I walk past

Eyes so filled with hopeless desire and misplaced morals.

I think of you and all you could’ve been.

And I remember now,

The last time I saw you,

You were crying tears of blood:

Fresh and crimson they fell.

Your eyes were open—

But filled with desolate vacancy.

Blind to the path before you.

Blind to the path before me.

Together we could’ve cried.

But I could still see—

Even with eyes tightly shut

So no crimson tear would flow.

A lament for our empty souls.

Deep within,

I always knew when you were lying.

Even deeper still,

I knew it wasn’t you that was lying.

It was me.

Always me.

Me—the promise breaker.

Me—the compulsive liar.

Every time it was me,

Never trying.

Always lying.

And all the while you were the one

Quietly dying.

Suffering from all the emotion I’ve never shown.

All the emotion I have never known.

All the emotion you will never know.

Quietly dying.

And now I realize it’s finally time

To accept that this is what I’ve done.

Now heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Will you not release me?

How long must I beg for your sympathy?

Today I woke up

And listened to the only sound,

Even in the darkest night

And brightest day;

Through angry haze

Or happy phase,

That can set me straight.

—The sound of rain

Drumming lazily

Against the windowpane.

No matter what,

No matter when,

There is no sound

Closer to me

Than the steady rhythm

Of rain drumming lazily

Against the windowpane.

Standing all alone,

On this vacant shore.

I watch the ebb and flow,

And deep inside I know

Here’s one casualty

This torrent will never claim.

I will walk away without shame.

Hopefully more will follow with time.

In times past,

A silence was established.

Built from a twisted mosaic,

Rebuilt a thousand times before,

A thousand and one times more.

Destroyed no more.

Bullets may fly.

Silent screams may cry.

But louder still—

Voices of reason will speak out.

Delaying or with a little luck,

A little faith,

A little understanding,

Subtle black,

Smeared red,

In intensifying dark,

No more.

Forevermore.

Now heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Will you not hear my plea?

Release me.

Late one night,

You were walking down

Some well trodden road,

When you heard some silver instrument play.

Your mind was in a daze.

Misty haze.

Moon’s gentle gaze.

Before it was all too late,

You were shaken awake

And spared an unfortunate fate.

By whom,

You never knew.

Left neither trace nor clue.

Left not even expecting a simple ‘thank you’.

Gone elsewhere,

To be another miracle.

And even if this miraculous spectre is far away,

Unknown as shadow in the night.

You pause to offer some silent thanks.

A prayer for whoever passes good deeds in the night,

Witnessed only by the moon’s gentle gaze.

Misty haze.

Ages pass and history,

Doomed to repeat itself,

Echoes either tale of honourless failure

Or noble valour.

Ancient armour clad knights,

Settleling worthy quarrel

Face to face.

Steel to steel.

Shield to shield.

Face to face.

And may the better be the victor.

In times past,

A battle was fought for honour.

Now we realize

In times present

—Honour is worthless.

Forgotten.

Lost.

Ignored.

Blades bent and rusted.

Screams never heard.

A passing shot gone amiss.

Neither victim nor offender

Coming face to face.

Pain unknown.

See it on screen.

A million miles away.

Agony ignored.

Honour and valour lie buried

Underneath a thousand years of rot and decay.

Clutched in the skeletal grip of an age forgotten.

Sixteen miles away

From shell-shocked chaos.

A bell tolls,

Not time of day.

Hollow emptiness

Of wasted shell.

Unworthy death.

Hope is lost.

Another soul

Summoned by

The sixteenth knell

From one hell

To another.

—Human race,

Accept it,

You’ve lost

All face.

Now heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Will you not release me?

How long must I beg for your sympathy?

I know I’m getting what I deserve.

I know so much has led up to this.

I only pretended it was hit or miss.

All along I knew I didn’t have a chance.

I dug my own grave.

Suffering now as I did then,

But I promised I’d clean it up,

Before it was too late.

Now it’s too late.

I denied all along,

But in the end it all came back to me.

‘Cause it’s the truth al the same.

For days I watched,

The mirror image ripple,

Ripple and fall.

Looking back at it all

I really was.

Not all I could be.

Would be.

Should be.

Doing nothing to make

My could be,

A reality.

Defeated before I even begun,

By a rippling image in a mirror.

Don’t be like me.

Don’t fail before you’ve even tried.

There no need to hide.

If you need it,

I’ll push you forward.

So take a step,

One small risk and you’re alive again.

Didn’t you know?

You’re alive today.

So dry these empty tears.

Your soul is full and bound to overflow.

Stand up and step up.

Be whatever you could be.

Would be.

Should be.

I’ll be there.

Even if you stumble.

I’ll be there,

To break your fall.

When you watch the sun set,

Do you think back on all you’ve done?

Was the day good?

Or was it bad?

It was whatever you made it.

Are you proud of it?

The damage you’ve done.

Or the goodness you bring.

Do you wish for better?

Or are you grateful for what you’ve got?

With all this in mind,

How well do you sleep at night?

What will you do today?

When the day is done?

Now heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

Will you not release me?

How long must I beg for your sympathy?

In the loudest of silences,

I took the time to listen,

And drowning out all other sound,

I heard the wraith’s scream.

With pain coursing through my veins.

So bittersweet.

I embraced sweet defeat.

Hell’s so much better,

With viper venom in control,

So bittersweet.

And I heard the angels' cry.

An echo so deep,

The pain ceased to be

So bittersweet.

So I stood up and chose to defy

This bittersweet lie.

The pain within,

So bittersweet.

No more.

Forevermore.

Now heated flame,

Burning brand within,

I beseech thee:

One last time,

Will thou not release me?

Turn these barriers,

My barren prison,

To molten rock.

I beseech thee:

Hear my plea.

And at long last,

My wish fulfilled,

The heavy walls

Flow as freely as

Stone Tears.

And now at last,

I can keep my promise

And break all your falls.

And I thank thee,

For finally setting me free.

Stone tears

Fall freely

Fall feebly

Without pain…

Nevermore.

Forevermore.

No more.