Friday, October 28, 2011

Youth's Manic Chic

To see you age; through smiles of stainless steel,
To see your salted skin begin to pale
and the glint in your eyes become vulnerable tears,
I couldn't bear it.

So I look through a tint,
at everything as if,
we were all here for solitary immortal moments
captured in ephemeral photographs,
where no blood can seep through potential cracks
like yours did.

You say these are the good days, the ones they talk about that fade,
where music blasts through our ears so loud
the echoes of silence sit in the background like reapers and wait.
And our day of death hides behind the last meander of fate
not known until the turn has been taken,
a footstep before your final feat.

So you turn up the music inside your head,
of romanticized life; full of lust and life,
and leave all the dying souls behind.
And everything dying, like you, is something to be forgotten.
They’re just inconveniences never to be wondered, or pondered.
And all the gaps you jump over, that you never look at,
have captured and ensnared you, yet I still don’t look back.
And I never think about it, the gaps I’ll eventually collapse beneath,
The gaps where you lie now, underneath youth’s manic chic.

Thursday, August 25, 2011


We're all alone filling the gaps of the silence.
but what's so bad about the silence?
we realize we've accomplished nothing but hopeful encounters
full of potentials and failures that shaped our lives with their reactions
to our pitiful attempts of desperation to create an appealing temptation
that would lure them into our lives so we could stop going to sleep alone
and dreaming alone because our worst fears started to show
that there's no such thing as anything and sand will never again be stone
as we look to our aged families we realize everything disintegrates
as they cling to their unrelenting routine and fading characteristics.
And what do we do when we realize that our whole life's been wasted?
cling to the knowledge that other people have illuminated
and further realize our minds have melted into a pot of a frenzy
where people buy and sell so they can feed their families
families they've created because they felt they had to
because someone might have mentioned that they should do
so we all have no time because we waste it on each other
as we convince them to buy the things we're selling so we can buy the things that they are
and we insist we play an instrument so we pick up a guitar
and pluck strings to make the hollow noises that the others do
and some realize this so they make a different noise
and then they buy your cd and copy the very same thing
so then again you're part of it, feeding into the monster of time consumption
so we've no time to feel alone, because the music talks about the things we do,
like a pat on the back that tells you someone else understands
because no one has any time, we're all too busy,
blocking out the inevitable silence we'll all fall into eventually.

Sunday, July 3, 2011


I don't know if I'm doing right
I don't see how I'm not,
Yet there's so much emptiness beneath
the plotline life revolves.
I feel I've fastened myself to
a crowded conveyor belt line,
where every broken piece moans
about it's contiunal lack of time.
All the pices built the same
progress towards ends pit,
Amd once the end is known, the pieces recede,
into a state of passive panic.

If only they could realize, a piece is only a part.
The bigger picture expands far beyond what is seen or taught.
I've tried to come up with what it is, i'm meant to become a part of,
but all I see is people projecting what's considered normal:
Broken records playing out the repetitive stream of routine,
They all seem to get confused with how things are and how things seem
so seemingly obvious that everything is obviously completely fine,
as long as there is a coffee break,
and an uneventful nine-to-five.

Friday, June 24, 2011


There are those that use their eyes to mirror their souls, and the latter to use it on occasion to seek the soul of the person who hast stirred their curiosity.
and what if i was to keep the use of mine as a medium of constant observation?
That no revelation could be had through the curiosity of others,
as i was always the searcher, and never the pool of thoughts that one could simply dip their hand in and retrieve the hearts murmurs.

I cannot think of one instance where someone has seen inside my heart.
If i were to leave it on my sleeve, vulnerable in the blackness of a pupil,
it would surely grow cold and wither in these mediocre conditions.
How can the average hearts that surround me, steadily beating within sleeves of frail cotton look into a heart buried so deep?
I can only presume that the love I feel should be kept within myself.
I love as if I loved with all my heart, a person in a last life which I never have to grieve.
A love so protected, no knife or daggered eyes could pluck it out.

These eyes have been on constant watch,
as if they were the everlasting ripple in the water of a hidden well,
and my heart, hidden at the bottom, could not be seen under such furious waters.
And if this water were to glass and mirror, and my heart be seen,
I think it should shatter to a million pieces.

Monday, May 23, 2011


You wear you're clothes a certain way, as if it makes you shine.
You're silence doesn't echo mystery, it just blotts out your pathetic mind.
All the quotes you like to say are stolen from a grave,
and the things you read to make you smart, dumb you every day.

You speak of things you've researched, stuff you're really interested in,
you debate your points in black and white as if you knew what you were actually saying.
You've conjured up an image, conventional to the norm,
as you spew your words out into the ears of the "lesser informed."

You've gotten to a point where you've been idolized yourself,
and you walk among grey analagies of people who live only to aquire your help.
You're a master in persuasion, and justified your pathetic views,
I've never hated anyone, until I met such a douche as you.