Poetry

Poem: Sleep Paralysis

Sleep Paralysis

Greek bodies,
The marble pales in comparison
I think I’m awake
Auditory hallucination
Chirping buzzing white noise
I long to be a child
I long to sink in my bed
Fall through the earth, birth me bloody
I pray for my own sake
I once thought my keyboard was played
by dancing children while I slept paralyzed

Speak into my mouth, listen to my ears
pulsating colors and buzzing white noise
Auditory hallucination
There’s is no cool side on my pillow
the grooves of my fingerprints are being filled
by beautiful bundles of silk
I’ve felt I controlled it
I once thought my keyboard was played
by dancing children while I slept paralyzed

Poetry

The Voices Are Talking in Unison

I was sleeping,
I was awakening, as the voices were talking in unison.
I was laughing,
I was crying, as the voices were talking in unison.
I was fighting,
I was passive, as the voices were talking in unison.
I was screaming,
I was silent, as the voices were talking in unison.
I was shaking,
I was still, as the voices were talking in unison.
I was standing,
I was falling, as the voices were talking in unison.
I was desolate,
I was content, as the voices were talking in unison.
I was breathing,
I was decaying, as the voices were talking in unison.

And then the voices were surrounding me and so I fled. And now that I am underground, the voices have left.

Poetry

Hell Looms Brightly

Hell looms brightly when your own end is what you seek, heaven will not forgive you but hell will be waiting while in confusion you will meet. It will be a shock and a disgrace as you cautiously step inside, with the rope still around your neck and a tear still swelling in your eye. Hell looms brightly, once you have paced the empty room upon the decaying floor, feeling nothing but impending doom and the scratches carved within the door. Hell looms brightly, as you strain to scream in a voice that has no sound, but heaven keeps it’s gate locked tight, while hell stands open and spacious enough for a well placed crowd. Hell looms brightly, once you have decided to leave this world by your own desire, but keep in mind that hell will be waiting to greet you in your confusion as you are guided towards the fire.

Poetry · Short Stories

The Angels Are on Fire

Here the shadows are falling as the voices are calling straining to a whine. Here the bravest of men are running scared searching for a way out, groping for a sign; and the angels are on fire. Here the weak are crushed into scattered dust, as the strong stand tall and thrive. Here there is no hope as tears form rivers that never run themselves dry; and the angels are on fire. Here life is close to death and the living close to dead, as images of loss and pain go running through your head. Here chaos takes the place of order and resentment the place of love, here we are forced to exist in torment as god watches from above. Here we are lost and confined in the mire waiting to be free, but the angels are on fire and can no longer hear us scream.

Poetry

Poem: The Core

The Core

It’s cold
Maybe it’s just me
I’m here, not here
A tunnel of memories
Detaches me from them
I’m not like them
I’m a freak
I only walk
I only breathe
I only eat
But I speak, only softly, whispers that are lost in existence
But I feel, only gently, reaching out towards the gravel
The cold gravel, Black; demeaning, humbling,
The cold gravel, fingers crushed between rugged stone, the crunching of bones
Breaking Breaking Breaking; bones breaking
The Cracking echoes violently pounding the ear drums
A reminder that I’m not good enough
The sun does not rise if it peeks out to the view of my crippled self
I need a hole
A damp dirty distant detached hole
Deep in the earth
So I can crawl on my bleeding knees, to the earth’s core
Where no one has been
I want to be where no one has been
The core. Feel the Black heat of death
Cold isolation in life. Isolation, Isolation
I want Isolation, I need Isolation
But they pull me , Why do they pull me
I’m not like them
Why do I like them
The Core, I will crawl to the core, and burn
Burn with black light, burn away and crumble
Crumble in the core

Short Stories

Deep Water

They had always been very close, six year old Caleb and his pretty young mother, a perfectly inseparable pair. Caleb’s father Adam was ten years older than his twenty six year old bride. He had cut himself out of the family picture the day little Caleb was born, finding a wife and son to be more of a hassle than a joy. Young Caleb loved his sweet and gentle mother very much, and since they both had no one who cared for them their whole world revolved around each other. They were both very sweet and happy people, but sometimes Caleb’s mother would breakdown mentally. Sometimes he would see her weeping alone in the garden or the kitchen, and he would sneak up behind her and throw his small childish arms around her pale and slender neck, and rest his face in her hair which always smelled of fresh rain or the sweet lavender perfume that she always wore. And after a few moments her sobs would quite themselves, and they would listen to the sounds of the day, the wind rustling through the tall and sturdy trees, the small listless blue birds singing their perfectly timed songs, the distant laughter of the children playing in the house next door, or the slow even ticking of the kitchen clock.

One night as his mother was tucking Caleb into bed he noticed a Serene look in her soft brown eyes, that he had never seen before not even in her happiest moments. He found the look strange since she had been so unhappy lately. He could see a calmness in her eyes, that seemed out of place with the excitement in her voice. And gently leaning forward she kissed his forehead, and told him how much she loved him. And he held her close never wanting to let her go, but she slowly pulled away and turned off his bedside lamp and said goodnight. And in an even lower voice he could almost hear her say goodbye. After carefully closing his bedroom door, she walked quietly down the hall and into her bedroom. She walked slowly towards the bedroom door, and took out her best dress and gently laid it onto the bed being very cautious not to wrinkle it. She then slipped into the bathroom and ran the bathtub water, and after it had filled almost to the top she got inside fully dressed and slit her wrists wide open. Caleb’s father had been working late that night but he arrived about six hours after his pretty young wife had taken her own life. He came in through the back door of the kitchen calling out for his wife and son, but he then realized that they must still be asleep so he decided to wash up before breakfast. And once inside the bathroom he screamed in shock, the bathtub was well filled with now ice cold water, and seemingly all of his wife’s blood. He ran for the phone being careful not to slip on the blood and water soaking the floor.

The funeral was the next day for it was unusually hot for that time of year. Caleb was devastated and could barely stand of his own will, he was mostly leaning against his father. Her body was small and lean in her pale silk dress, and her hair was loosely braided to the side. And there were thin bits of silk tied where she had cut herself. Caleb began to cry violently as he threw open the lid of the coffin, and crawled inside, expressing a deep wish to lie beside her and sleep in her arms forever. Kicking and screaming his way inside a general cry arose, the women where hysterical as the men tried to free the boys fingers from the inside of the lid. And after much force and calming the boy let go, and passed out in his fathers arms. Months went by but little Caleb was never the same. And one evening as he was walking through the woods where he had always followed his mother, hiding from tree to tree he suddenly remembered something that his mother had told him when he was very small. She said that when people die we should never be sad because one day we will all meet again in heaven. So with this in mind Caleb walked over to where he knew his mother’s favorite tree would be, and kneeling down he took a deep breath and smiled, letting himself fall face first into the deep water of the pond, knowing that he would be seeing his sweet and gentle mother again. He was found the next morning.

Poetry

The House of The Dead

In the house of the dead, men pace their gray rooms behind locked gates inside barred tombs. Here they weep and pray for god to save them and release them from their pain. In the house of the dead, men walk on bare cement, they talk or read, or sit alone and suffer with regret. In the house of the dead, these luckless men will come and go, some are here for life while others in time will return to their homes. In the house of the dead, they are all the same, they are one, hopeless and lost as they walk in line remembering a day when they were young. Here they are confused and broken, as they pray and tread in the house of the dead.