Denizens of Self

               On the outskirts of un-reality, out of time his
hair grows, each inch a landmark of living. Eyes open
                   only the ghostly light of monitor bathes
                his sullen body, which has sunk into the
             recesses of his shattered psyche. Dead,
                         to all but his fellow leeches of
                      the utmost despairs. Who see
                          oceans of turmoil lurking,
                         hidden, beneath the dire
                                 flesh of innocent
                                     unliving men
                                       mirroring
                                      themselves
                                       and laugh.

A Moratorium on Dreaming

Madcap dreams of long lost ghosts,
twisted visions of a face reveling in glorious sepia 
these memories a fog,
for future laments and past loves.
Who truly is the ghost?
I the grief-addled crater of a man?,
or he the face that flashes across my view?

madcap dreams of the merest of touches,
twisted visions of melancholy, once love.
love as real as the bed I rise in,
shaking,
crying,
willing myself to be lost to the sleep.

I wonder,
how long before I lose the memories?
and I am left,
with the bed I rise in,
gasping,
paralyzed,
willing myself to be lost to the sleep.
to madcap dreams of a single look,
twisted visions of need and want, for me alone.
but the tears taint my memory,
leaving only the wisp of a former beauty,
long faded,
but not long past.

This one is another reflective poem which I wrote in a fever-dream day and night my hands tapping away my petty emotions, but I hope you enjoy regardless of my cliched emotions

Starve, Go mad, or kill yourself.

I have lost myself,
each stroke of my pen,
each click of a key,
merely lives to extend your memory.
My thoughts extend to yours,
I think no longer for me but you,
your loves,
your hates.
I hate-
love you,
you stare at me with inky eyes,
in the reflection of the pixel dawn,
I see you looking back,
eternal in word and memory.
me?
I am hopelessly mortal,
and I choose to go mad,
staring into the centre of a bittersweet daydream.

Hi all, I haven't updated in a while, but I figured I would with one of my favorite poems I have written and it is dedicated to those who can't be with us in body, but are in mind.

The Spark That Bloomed

the path to the day was paved like any other,
a tradescant mess of hope and low self esteem.
it crept up on me,
a lone landmark
 on an empty road.
the memory now enlightened,
apart from the truth of the rain-scored day,
stands erect in the senility of the forgetful teenage mind.
the conversation was a coherent diatribe of honesty,
that meandered to and from the sublime to the tragic,
with the rise and fall of each wasteful breath.

we ended up in the ruins of a long gone time,
not unlike ours.
but licked with the flickering hand of hate.
there, alone amongst the glassy carpet;
surrounded by the brain-vomit scrawlings-
of our fellow drunks and fellow human beings;
was a pocket of flowers,
each bloomed with the kiss of the sun gracing each petal.
unique in the uniformity of their splendorous beauty
shining within the confines ruins of this crumbling faith
they stand everlasting.
Hope,
in the crater of my pockmarked mind.

All Things Must Pass

One misfired neuron,
A small muscle twitch,
One misplaced ditch,
And your gone.

The Tragic Lifespan Of A Delicate Flower

she was taken by the cruelty of time
I wondered for months on the could-be
Never truly seeing the would-be
fooling myself
now I sit here
she is right beside me
casual in her beauty
a beauty that only seems to bloom in my eyes
she is talking about what has-been
the clutches that keep her
the hurt the grip inflicts
with its firm handle on body and soul
she is a mere toy to all else
but she comes to life before me
“what do you think?”
my chance
loosen the grip
nurture our blooming
“you guys love each other no matter what right?”
“yes”
the moment withers
my hopes left to rot
on her african inspired rug
dead for all but her to see


A slightly depressing one here, but one I felt I needed to write it, get that one sappy overwrought love poem out of the way, I would dedicate this to my one lone follower but I feel it a tad inappropriate so I dedicate it to those who have been in similar situations to mine.

*Click*

I used to be a romanticist
Sickly sweet cliches rolled off my tongue
“Look on the bright side”
But now I sit alone
I am surviving
living
breathing
one wheezing death
of a breath at a time
I am now rational
alone from the crowd
just murdered my hours
perpetual clicking of no value
looking
liking
but never doing
now I just stare at the wall
at the crack
running across my vision
a scar on the yellow wall
I detest it
but respect it
at least it’s doing something
*click*

My tribute to Charles Bukowski and his amazingly sparse but profound writing.