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| A Literal Offense |
| 09.28.04 (1:37 pm) [edit] |
Letter by letter, word by word, line by line, Until my inner self is spilt within these pages. ... and you mock me... This is me, here and now, a part of me, In each and every drop of this ink, .... and you belittle it... My feeling, my fear, my thoughts, Dreams, ambition, desires, all that is me, ... and you degrade it with iinsult... Perhaps in your mind poetry has messed me up. Perhaps I do live in lines of a poem. But I disagree... In my mind it is the poem that lives with me, I give it life and freedom with release, How dare you mock me... You do not have to accept me, It suffers me in the least. I would only hope to be seen for that which I am, And see you for that which you are. So why do you hide? Hiding away from me, When I am here in full view for you to persecute... Why is it,, that when you look at me,,, you don't look at me... When you look at me, you don't look at me?
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| Poetry |
| 09.27.04 (7:52 am) [edit] |
![]() =http://img39.photobucket.com/...
Ash Hopper
It's an enchanting thing to bask in moonlight.
The nights when it shines so bright
That you can see everything
In that spellbinding glow.
To dance beneath the trees,
In and out of shadows
Disappearing into darkness
Then emerging again to rejoin the stars.
The grass beneath my feet
Watching the gentle breeze
In the willow as the moon
Breaks free and is seemingly
Only just beyond its swaying branches.
Almost close enough to touch.
The air filled with scents of autum,
And in the midnight whispers
Of chirping crickets and singing tree frogs.
It feels almost like a sheltered captivity
Comforting and protecting in the silence
Away from all mortal invasion...
And yet with a distinct awarness of discovery,,,
I am here...
Sleep
Sleep,,,
I long to sleep... To have peace in my mind.
A settled spirit seems an unreachable destination.
The comfort of having my heart rest from its'
Meloncholied emotional journeys for a time.
To simply sleep and dream...
To dream that sleeping dream.
I would sleep with the stars on a bed made of moon.
Or simply locked away in darkness with no door
To place the metal key.
A satin bed with a wooden top
Burried deep beneath the discovery of any human...
Just to sleep
Death and Passion
Both experiences that can be pushed to darkness
Death and darkness
Passion and darkness
Would I be necro to want to mix the two?
I feel,,, no.
To reallize one's mortality and one's immortality
In combination with one's desires.
To wish to carry one's passion into the beyond.
Is not a morbid thing I think.
Only a reallization that there is darkness in both
And embracing it can only further my mortal experiences
Blood
And my mind is filled with life...
Thoughts of blood...
The sound of a heartbeat,
The vein that pulses upon your neck.
The warmth of your fingertips,
The hardened appendage that flows full with it.
Blood...
That dark metallic taste upon my lips,
The scent consuming me to uncontrolled hunger.
The velvet feel, soaked upon my skin.
Taking life into me that I will possess,,,
Even into my death.
Church Bell
The Church Bell echoes in the distance,,, with each toll I feel that underlying message as the blood rushes from my heart leaving me witha cold sense of fear...
Hell is coming...
Another reminder that I walk around knowing that Death waits just around the corner of a turn I'm soon to make.
A Writers Thoughts on Love
Love... an invention not yet invented yet demonstorized and terrorized by a society full of loveless entrepeneaurs Who are obsessed with it's possession.
"To own that which no one else has."
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| The Passionate Professor |
| 09.22.04 (1:00 pm) [edit] |
![]() =http://img39.photobucket.com/...
Is it death, that stabbing breeze,
Cuts me like a knife.
Love, it is night, just as Peck said.
The land of the dead,
Holds my love tight.
Perhaps not, Perhaps so.
What does the heart know?
To journey there and back again.
A fools proof is only an idea,
And thus a wise man's the flower
Which blooms within your hand.
To suffer confusion at all cost,
An intricate thing is the mind.
A secret is here, a riddle more so,
The Passionate Professor will know.
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| Red on Gray |
| 09.10.04 (9:39 pm) [edit] |
![]() =http://img39.photobucket.com/...
I am happy to be here with you. Here in this place where I am all alone. Poisoning my mind, you, peculiar memory that seems to linger as a disease that has no cure.
I cut my wrists today, just to see the color red and taste the bittersweet essence of life upon my tongue. A beautiful dark shade against all of this gray and nothingness. Sitting there watching the splatters on the ground create a beautiful work of art. At first in vibrant glossy color and then eventually drying to dark almost black in this darkness as I lingered there watching, unable to move my eyes from it.
I reached out to feel it upon my fingertips as if to prove to myself it does actually exist. I felt the crust of it's dryness and in saddness I withdrew my touch.
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