Woke I from an abstract dream of childhood
As I watched her fall asleep.
There is no pain like a silent lullaby
And God works in mysterious ways.
The Compassionate Adulterer to His LoveCome live with me and let us prove
What pleasured springs eruct with love,
In thorn and furze, the bracken dew
Can wait an age; it waits on you.
But ours is terse, its timely birth,
Whelped by the sorrows of the Earth
That girdled skin round workday bones
To slight our kinship with flagstones,
Can broach the deserts of decline
And palliate this sin of mine:
Oh let the nymphs and dryads be
What touches thee, tastes poetry.
So let us lie, the sheets are strewn
In purple riot, the heart of June
Seeps softly in sumac and myrrh
Embedded with a scent of her.
If she sleeps, knowing all, she sails
Adrift a sea of stars; the tales
That serenade the thirst unseen
Are ghosts of garbles—never been.
And though our twine is verboten,
And dawn will cite this fear of men,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
The Old WaysThe old are always protecting themselves
in the way they speak, shouldering words
as they soldiered on through pink and pittances,
buffeted by diminution. They dice their words,
dealing only as little as it takes to enamel flavour,
retiring the rest into Tupperware paraphernalia, repairing
to the bedroom, inaudibly behind a hardcover, which bides its while
where the wind blows, bartered by borrowed air.
Always the unheeded precautions: the seasonal stew
may babble with solicitude, never gusto
while the julienned aubergines justify every austerity measure
- each a testament to the Great War -
the quiet war of animation and attrition
as winter finds a comfortless corner to die.
Each a Diogenes to his own cause, saving scraps
of dignity in misplaced parables and promises of bequeathal:
the old play the precarious sport of procrastination.
Enumerating the fears of the same dogeared journey,
the prognosis of the situation is hardly original:
'When I was your age' - begins the fated period d
Connecting the DotsI've dealt in death with you. We knew the bill,
and going Dutch seemed okay. Colouring in the spaces
perhaps resolved the stasis of these outlines,
but now this painted portrait subtly repines
for life, for what small art is born of drowning faces.
Submerged beneath your throes I held a beacon,
ambling between your toes I worshipped Eve,
so saturnine, whose lips of time could not preclude
this fruit of mine. Alone at last, the senses brood
on rectitude, while nameless lovers leave.
Would you care for a lie? An explanation?
You must have your own, mine are gormless -
it was not passion, merely impassioned:
irrationally cherished, rightly rationed.
When did our days perceive this lacking
rousing spore on spore, spire and steeple?
Evoking the strange and sublime to embrace
the earliest preserver of people.
We’ve dueled with death and dice. But who can blame
the shamefully bored of rolling one too many times?
I knew the rules as they were spoken
and you let them be, bare, unbroken.
Death of a YearWe stand on the footstools of yesterday’s promises,
peering into the blue harmony of a timeless aubade:
the new year separates us from the old;
their rustic charms and world wise baubles
are fading, falling, kissing white December’s brow -
the magic is in wane, the Wicca in the wine
offers little relief in way of innocence;
instead the remembrance alleviates the holidays:
what a time it was, what a place it was –
what paradise it was - that spectre of Insouciance.
Last night’s basting, Jacobi’s painting, the real thing -
sooner or later everyone becomes a thing:
objects remind us of piecemeal courtships,
passion in a pendrive portends the minimalism of the soul
once feather driven by the heart dregs of Tasso – Toulmin
explains the six elements fundamental to each argument
with little claim to why we’re arguing and
even lesser qualification of why conflict needs a structure.
Structure, edifice, complex, fabric, battery cages
The Cycle of PassionNever knowing eyes never did haunt us
’Tis our own ditty which fails to daunt us;
The amorous rose or the lovebird’s lustre
Leaves but two shades for a season’s fluster,
Yet the poet’s pen is perchance guided
With rabid romance, nature unprovided -
For summer songs are bare conversation
Betwixt life and long winter’s predation:
Pale thirst for passion or higher power
Quenches its quaff in the quiet hour,
The soul’s tragedy is in demanding
Liberty lost from body remanding
Creation’s cold woes and callous joys, cannot grace
Vanity’s visage or the selfsame face,
In vain, we swallow the daily smother
To love ourselves, we love another.
Sleep Well, My SoulSleep well, my soul, the light has passed
’Tis dark, this closing hour,
Rest in peace, sweet life, at last
Let your toils awake a flower.
Dream deep, asleep, of each roving wraith
Which sought a home in thee
And sigh a little, for the wasted faith
Which were born of you and me.
And smile beneath the mourning ground
As the world clasps morning’s glory,
For the moon still dotes the earth around
And the sun gilds another story.
And then, in a squall of rain and rue
Lament life’s sole severance;
For god and men, we wept them true,
Slighting our Reverence.
Creepypasta Fandom in a Nutshell. Creepypasta, creepypasta
Serve me up some creepypasta
Give me a side of scary story
With a dash of blood and gorey
Don't forget to add the raging fangirls
And of course don't forget the ranting ant hills
Never forget the sexualized psychopaths
The Mary Sues and the wannable crazy laughs
The endless hoodie wearing OC's
The neverending monochrome copies
The horribly drawn webcam art,
That looks like a 5 year olds fart
Add in a pinch of sexism,
Because any female character will be put into a prism
Don't forget to add the elitism too,
Because if you don't follow the exact rules creepypasta wiki will reject you
Forget putting any real effort into any OC,
Because the popular ones were made in just 3
Minutes, that is
You don't even need a real story
Just make one up or copy from Toby
Forget any effort at all, just give it some abs and make it stand tall
I Find MyselfI find myself in my bedroom walls,
Silent and ever watchful.
I find myself in the worn living room floors,
Beaten down until used to it.
I find myself underneath my bed,
Understanding that I am my own monster.
I find myself looking at the door,
Wondering when it will open.
I find myself peeping through the window,
But night leaves nothing in my sight.
I find myself in old conversations,
My heart finally still.
I find myself stamped into black words,
Wishing for white paint.
I find myself in moonlight,
And beg for the sun.
I find myself in a dream,
After all of this nightmare.
I find myself crying,
Because you are still there.
I find myself hoping that this,
This is the last time.
I find myself turning from you,
There is no use lying.
I find myself smiling,
I find myself a lost cause,
I always find myself
Waiting for you.
There is a weight
You asked me to hold.
(Just for a while,
Just for a while.)
My tendons strain and snap,
I lack your Atlas strength.
The crushing force of gravity
Makes me weak, makes me sore.
Take it back, take it back,
But you’ve gone away.
I’m sinking down, I’m sinking down.
The water rises to my throat.
Pushing down, rising up
Drowning and drowning and drowning.
Take it back, please take it back,
Where have you gone?
I’m pinned beneath this weight,
With water to my nose.
My lungs fill up with salt,
Choking and screaming and breathing
Only freezing thickness of water.
Where is that mild friend oxygen?
Where has he gone?
My stinging eyes are blind here.
I cannot to escape, unwilling
To shed this leaden snare
Wherein I dwell confined.
I grip it tightly.
Surely I will die,
Sweet air has left my blood
I lay back and let black water take me,
Frozen fingers loosen on Your weight.
And all at once
it falls away
I watch i
School is endingGood bye, dear school,
Good bye, and thank you
For all knowledges you gave
Good bye, dear school yard,
Good bye, and remember -
Our memories will stay with you
Good bye, dear teachers,
Good bye, and please -
Keep pieces of our souls
In your hands.
Bring our past,
Bring our childhood
And share with sucessors
The Girl Who Was Afraid To BeShe speaks to me fondly
of passions and talents,
of guitars and stars,
with such breathless intensity
then stops short and
for speaking at all.
All because somewhere in her life,
someone she loved broke her heart
her beautiful words
and telling her to
keep it down,
People aren’t born sad.
We make them that way.
I couldn't see the consequences-
As I tried to trust my heart
I just couldn't resist-
The blind love that ceased my wars
Helping me let go of the struggles-
That I foolishly held in my hands
I freed the thoughts that quarreled-
Tears fell in order for me to stand
Truth can be the worst enemy
Lies can be the strongest ally
Harmony isn't immune to tragedy
Because you made a myth out of your apparent humanity
Mistakes can never be renamed! / Scars can never be erased!
Compassion is used as bait! / Two sides to every face!
A piece of peace is caged! / Watch the bridge burn away!
I'll desecrate the meaning of “passion”
You redefined my every moral
There will be no hesitation
I won't need anyone -anymore-
I ignored the risks-
Of handing over my hope
Killed by a kiss-
Turning my world to stone
I believed in your deceit-
And I fell too hard
My mind endlessly screams-
holding rosaries I'm thinking about realms
unknown to most
where the pattering rhythm
of your feet are dizzying
around in my head.
where the ashes of omissions
and pockets full of posies
come tumbling down
in the palms of our hands;
they're the prettiest things
that we've ever made as lovers
because these we were once
withering petals on decaying flowers
but now they're mementos
of lessons we learned together.
And now we're dancing below
the bellowing breath of suspicion
with the eyes of the versed
sifting through our words
looking for clues of something more
in the syntax and semantics
of whispered affection.
Feeling the movement of watch guards
shifting weight through the hallways
tenses our shaky breaths
as our hands squeeze the others'
both in fear and allegiance;
desperately holding on
to what we've made.
And the reality of silence
is that expression is non-existent
so to make love play dead
underneath howling wolves,
and anxious soil
It Was Never You...It really wasn't...
And I know that I can twist this truth as much as I want...
Whenever I'm sober, when I know I can put up that fake plastic smile;
Just a few formal words that burn like acid from a liar's lips!
"Differences in personality, a divergence in ideals..."
Please, fucking, SPARE ME!
Because when I look in this mirror, I know.
When I see myself looking back at me, I know.
Right here, right in front of my own blackened self;
Those eyes that both reflect and stare into my dingy soul.
I was the problem.
I was the instigator.
I was the perpetrator.
And when I had broken every last bit of her,
I was the one, who let it all fall to pieces.
So please, you don't have to feel sorry for me,
I am a bastard and I've got a very special place in hell waiting for me...
- Word of Chen, Darkest Hour, 16th February 2015
AlcoholicYour tux is the color
of a coal miner’s face
after a long, hard day of work-
something you’ve never
had to experience
yet you talk as though
you’re just as worn out;
your trivial chit-chat
is turning syrupy with every sip,
although your sentences
aren’t getting any sweeter
you grab another glass
of the effervescent liquid,
hoping the sea of people
will turn to black coal,
and it will be dark enough
for you to fall asleep
as you walk tipsily to the bathroom,
the overpaid opera singer
belts her last high note- a bit too high;
your crystal glass shatters
into a thousand pieces
And with it, you shatter too.