eclairs

depression is like eating an eclair with no cream inside. Some higher up power is playing games with you, and decided to suck all the marrow out of the bone, leaving with you just an empty shell of something that could have been, and is supposed to, be delicious. Biting into a hollow husk of dry bread and bittersweet chocolate with no cream to smooth over those rough edges. It's meaningless. It's not what it is anymore. Then what are you?

surrender

lost, confused, alone
the soul drinks in slumbers from muddy waters
foggy emotions and clouded mind
a life lived with no memory left behind
why is freedom a state that must be lived alone?
another white carnation in a military zone

ugh

My indecision is ridden
with the derision that is hidden
within visions of grandeur,
an innocent by-stander
crowned king, just to ring in
the many poison stings
that cover the throne that he sits in.

and while there are many terrors in the dark,
none so despised or deadly as my heart,
and while we feared the monsters that had creeped under our beds,
age has come to see that, rather,
they all live in your head.

We all contemplate the intentions
and inflections of the galaxy of this dimension:
the reason of breath as we search for a direction to run.

though my lines are too tight,
you should understand, that in lack of flight, comes contraction-
mere distraction from the importance of for what we fight: satisfaction.

storms

I'm going about this all wrong.

Strange as it seems - I can't write for you. No rhyme, no meter can contain that irrepressible beat of yours, nor your wry smile nor your quick wit. There is a part of me that yearns to capture you in the light, but I see that it is not to be. When I think of you, my mind can only bring up darkness, in shades of creeping greys and translucent blacks. If you were anything, you'd be Thunder.. lying in meditative repose until     CRACK! 

and then you're off again, chuckling on the wind, searching, drifting to unleash that soft-spoken but hard-hitting wisdom of yours on willing victims, but also, often, on unsuspecting passerbys, who shake their heads in confusion of the exploding knowledge.

I can't spin songs for you, dear. 

But I'm heartened to know you're only a wag and a bark away,

the loveable Stray.

engineers

the instrument is rusty,
the mechanics dusty from neglect,
for reasons that intersect and twist to define
a line for a lack of rhyme - a knee jerk response
that echoes in its lack of want.
Don't stop your wailing yet, child,
You're not done failing yet, child,
there is much to be awed, to be learned
and while you sit seen, unheard,
you listen to the sound of life whoosh -ing past,
as you dive into a life that would never last.

boggarts

destroying your enemies is normal. natural, even. why wouldn't you wipe out your antagonizers? smacking the toothy grins out of their dull, meaty faces that thud with a thick hollowness.

but what if..

                  what if Cruelty had a different face? What if it could take on any shape or form? What if it could be anybody, from the President to your next-door neighbor?

what if it looked like your mother?
what if it looked like your father?

and what if it looked like you?


They knew. They knew that our greatest weaknesses lied not in avarice or in tangibility - they knew our greatest weakness sprung from mental twining of logic and faith. There was a gap in all of us; the connection between the physical body and the intellectual brain was gathered in the effervescence of our spiritual flames, that which burned and flickered in both staunch protection and coquettish passion of the heart.
And within those flames, warmed faces spring alight, and Their greatest weapon was to be able to take on the forms of those faces.


So what if your killer took on the face of your brother? Your lover? And it was you or them. You or warm blood splattering your hands as you thrust the blade past the crunch of your lover's bones, reading the beautiful anguish of their face, twisted up into a pained expression like a crumpled flower that you crushed into your palm with rigid reluctance. Rigid reluctance!




The wild howl of survival calls.