A City I Fear For

Fearful actions fools shall master

And as for the infant city

Caught in the crest of the world

With vain loss, pure recklessness

A dare, a deed, a desperate day

Drink to the blind, my city

For tragic words shall tempt the strong

An endless memory never lost

Even though your hope is gone

Understand, dear city

The sacred universe shall ail thee no longer

Though light will deny

And memories all aged to dust

A gentle sleep falls over the life

Ignore it, beautiful city

Their screams of pain are not for you

And graves shall learn to be your friend

The time shall come, my city

But now sleep. It has no power yet.

Neverending

An ancient evil never dies

The blood of blind falls to the lies

Secret rage stains our hearts still

Desolate hearts yearn to kill

Lightning fast hands trust to find

A foothold in the night of mind

So such perfect immortal sight

Broken down by urge to fight

Strong fate follows this old tale

Deadly reasons to no avail.

What Happens in My Room

The room is cold, broken, and holds bad memories, but it is mine. The walls and I have much in common. We are bright and distracting, crammed with vivid colours and pictures, but we are unfinished and may never be. A black closet holds my darkest past…a knife, a match, a coloured string. There are shelves crammed with stuff even I don’t understand, and though it may be spotless, if you look closely at the precariously stacked books, candle, incense, and clothing, the room well reflects the disorganized one who claims it. A drawer near the floor holds my life; years of insight into my mind is gathered there. This is the part I need the very most. For excitement and anger and all the feelings I’ve ever had are carelessly tossed into this drawer. I guard it as though it actually contains my soul. And, I suppose, it does. My room is mine, and I share it with those I welcome into it’s darkness. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I must be careful not to think too much. I write and distract myself, and I am at peace. But someday I know it will all be gone.

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A young girl sits in a white nightgown amongst the ruins of an old dwelling. Around her is decay and the charred remains of what may have once been someone’s home. Piles of ashes lay quiet and undisturbed around her, staining her dress black. The place she sat was barely recognizable as a room, for two of the walls were reduced to rubble and the ceiling stretched on forever into the night sky. A mist hung low on her, but she did not shiver. Feeling as though she were in a dream, her mind had been wandering and she had been considering anything and everything in the world. What was the purpose, why was she stuck here, what are these mad thoughts she cannot chase from her mind? Images haunt her wherever she turns. But here, in this place, she could let her mind rest. Her eyes scan the debris, and without realizing she had been searching, she found what she had been looking for. Beneath the decay of the fire, a piece of charred paper was sticking up; the only object in the rubble not completely black. She gently took the paper from the ashes. A strong night breeze caught the note, for she mustn’t read the words that were written. But she reached for it, crumpling the dying burned paper. She felt as though her life was sliding away from her as she considered the words from long ago, from piles of secret thoughts all devoured in the flames...“Someday I will die. Who will read my thoughts? Will anyone ever care enough?”

She barely felt it as she dug the knife into her heart, spirals of red staining down her chest.

Tale of a Monster

Upon this spot in this deep wood

A beautiful young child stood

Hair rich dark half down her back

Lips of red and clothing black

And on the weary path stood still

For she could not see past the hill

Her mother’d warned her too right

That she had best stay home tonight

But she thought to have a surprise

And wonder yet; did she realize

The man abreast the dusky field

Was not as she her life had sealed

And far across the trees down low

Where the golden flowers grow

He brought her there and she did feel

At last perhaps her soul he'd steal

Now she did try with all her might

That little girl put up a fight

Her mother and father weep

As she will see forever’s sleep

Grapefruit Juice

Death by Candle sitting in a fortressed land

Death by silence or death by sand

Peaceful minds maketh things that all the world can't see

Yet death means so much more to me.

Not all bad and not so sad

And of course, I am surely mad

But fear is so unlikely needed

For why is survival so heeded?

It's no surprise your thoughts are blank

Their fears and troubles dark and dank

Ne’er shall i quite comprehend

Why we all so hate the end

Death in a small room, burning bright

Death for us who see it's right

Until you see me another night.

I remember...

I remember the fall sky with purples and pinks and blues, hiding under quiet clouds that seem an afterthought. The taste of autumn in the air. I remember the peace that was there, but only when I was alone and the entire world was just me, the woods, the marsh, the train, the sky and the dying sun. I remember itchy mosquito bites and fires and how everything seemed to be okay, only it wasn’t. I remember crying myself to sleep each night as their voices rose louder and louder, angrier and angrier, and in my mind . And then the terrible sobbing that tore me apart even more than the yelling.

And then I remember things I don’t want to. I remember the sickly sweet smell of beer on his breath as he towered over me. I remember not knowing what to do. I remember what it feels like to give up, to quit, to turn your back on all that you had lived for. I remember running, running....running forever.

I remember the first time I whispered into a dandelion, its seeds gently falling into the wind. They all flew away, leaving me standing with a dead ghost of the yellow flower it once was. I remember wishing I could be with the seeds for just a moment, that I could fall with them and I would never have to worry again about what I would see.

I remember when innocence was everywhere, and I was innocent except not at all. I remember my own delusion about what it was to be a child. I remember enough to know that they are not true, but I hold onto them with everything I can because they are all I have.