Poem: Joy in Death

I don't count seconds and I don't count joy.

I count this life that has gone from the inside the soul

that is ripe and torn from the boy

who used to live only save by The Son.

Of sin and despair in the final hour

wishing he lived no more, dreamed no more.

To finalize the tower of bitterness while sour

by the thorn, by the sorrow and bore.

Take away this sanity,

save me from myself.

flavor away this agony

from the time when I'm dead.



When everything isn’t enough.
And the pain breaks you inside.
Though I feel I can’t go on,
I still cannot not even try.

It doesn’t matter that I can’t feel,
cause this torment won’t let go.
As everyone ignores my soul,
and heaven is flipped upside down.

What is this in my head,
wish I at least knew its name.
cause it knows me well,
knows me well too much.

I forgot who I used to be.
I don’t think I am anymore.
I can’t understand how I can breath.
Or am I breathing at all.


Poem: White Noise

White Noise

The cat tied to my tongue, now he plays a silent tune
of sorrow and regret, no money, none coming anytime soon.
I’m slamming into walls that I, myself, have built.
I grabbed the sharpened blade when aiming for the hilt.

White noise between my ears, a pen without a pulse
nothing sounds like me at all; the scribbles of impulse.
Perhaps this isn’t me, perhaps these words are true
refusing to spill out, the self-imprisoned muse.

Surprise, surprise, he’s gone, my one and only friend.
A cursed, punished tongue, keeps silent til the end.
Perhaps it is because the ground quivers as I walk
Or maybe it is the way my face gives way to gawk.

I’m not old, I’m only twenty-one
But all these thoughts that steal my bed til up comes the sun
they push and pull me every which way but never force a movement
Not a twitch, not a wiggle, not a step towards improvement


Hopelessly Human

Hopelessly human are we, little more than flesh and blood, a mere mortal being. Large enough to exist, though small enough to never know why. Hopelessly human are we, crowded into one place, gazing at the same vast sky, occupying the same space for the same allotment of time. Hopelessly human are we, living on one suffocating planet, while other worlds tower above us, throwing off light and harboring mystery. Hopelessly human are we, existing for the sole purpose of enduring the unknown, from birth until death, only to end up in the same sized hole, with the same amount of regret. Hopelessly human are we, for this will always be our fate, from the warm comfort of a mothers womb, to the cold stillness of a darkened grave.


Epileptic Trance

In an epileptic trance watch the sick man dance, as he preforms for a howling crowd. Twitching in despair, as he foams from a slack and contorted mouth, viewing the onlookers from distorted eyes that only hold a stare. In an epileptic trance watch the sick man fall, collapsing steadily into a huddled mass, as before cruel faces he begins to shake and crawl. In an epileptic trance watch the sick man weep, reaching out with helpless hands, convulsing as he gasps for air and struggles to breathe. In an epileptic trance watch the sick man die, strangling on vomit as he begins to turn blue, and fight against his stolen mind. In an epileptic trance watch the sick man dance, as you entertain yourself with his luckless fate, starring intently with your thieving eyes, While on the center stage the sick man lies fighting for his life. In his epileptic trance the sick man danced.


Poem: Blackest Night

Blackest Night

The Blackest Night Beckons.
It enslaves my every fiber with the chains of solitude
and pulls me into a vortex.

The air is stagnant; polluted.
Molecules of thought float above my head
expanding into the surroundings.
Cognitions slam against the mirrors
then reflect with a mighty bound through my eyes
into every axon on every neuron of the body.
I am an entity composed of electrical signals.
Electrical signals that sometimes hurt.
In Blackest Night they claim a power to keep me floored.
Existence, in this moment, is a joke
because of these electrical signals
whose patterns erupt at 800 pulses a second into a collision with my well being.

Existence, in this moment, is a joke.
The Blackest Night Beckons.