The grave that waits this mortal’s fall

Hollow kingdoms line a thankless grave

A line of ghosts to offset the column of fools

Silence screams a sonnet of failure in lonely eyes

Aside the cards set upon a gamblers hand

The odds do dagger the back of honest foes

Death hath summoned but the price fell through

I got half a deal and in shadows I saw my happiness fall

The grave half empty

The name half carved

A sentence waiting

But will it be by my hand or life’s that I leave this wretched coil?


Old Words Revived, Older Pains Revised

To the act of which we are all born resistant, a timeless protection for life that to few is felt as a curse and for the many a concealed safeguard

The thoughts of things more fatal a willing call however for those afflicted with that condemningly less positive nature

As for those afflicted it is to live cruelly comically screwed, for it is on the cliff we feel the only emotion we are allowed to enjoy

— ### —

I am everything and nothing, and all the world demands

The truth of my nature, safe behind a shield of lies

— ### —

To die three deaths at a lady’s hand is enough to kill notions of love

But my heart clings to failed ideals that will secure my pain for as long as I live

Relationship fallen to failure

Illusion of hope twisted into an endless void

Friendship sacrificed for another’s selfish jealously, or for the price of my own flaws…. something I will never know

But such sorrows my tearless eyes will never let fade so easily, as long as new hope is denied

So to wills of angels I am failed, and suffering prolonged by the length of time

An Ocean of all that can’t be escaped

Awash in the oceanic base of all negative’s filth to drown the wretched of all that manically held sanity a sane man would have cherished more so not to feel the malicious pain stinging when that sanity becomes like innocence the victim of unwilling sacrifice for survival’s vicious march into dragging grounds for sinking dreams now mere hallowed screams of unforgiving pitch that burns a thousand loud volumes of regret’s painfully persistent memorials for those dreams now bitterly a deeply resounding pitch in every charged cursed dagger held to the sand flowing throats of bloodless strangers that look vacant from the mirrors hatred hung with gleeful intent to torture its victims

But loveless lies the drowning wretched with thankfully sharp knifes against desert flowing throats with much held relish once cautiously kept for the dreams whose now cursing echoes sharpen the blades that with desperate pleas in wanton tones may sever the ties torturously chaining them to this existence of emptiness reflecting from hatred’s mirrors at every damning turn we make in passionately energetic running from the source of all we know we are to blame for the solely damning reason that such ghosts are without merciful break for which we on bended knee and fractured fragments of life lost we beg are and forever will be forced to roam

For in hollow eyes the idea it rattles with resounding degrees that now we alone have had cruelly inflicted around our necks a stone to weigh eternal with the inherited pain from all others that are now freely flying from beyond the barbed borders of negativity’s filth who’s barbs with each spike trigger an immeasurable point of pain each miserable second we force breath in the muddied waters of our imprisonment

    So now to suffer

         So now to feel

                 All the world discarded

                          But life ensures I will never be free


Unfiltered Vent (Sorry folks!)

So shuddering cold and with the stinging self resentment strangling any ability to even vaguely consider the purpose of living I lie foetal style on a freezing floor

Fresh marks on my arm and the consideration that if my skin wasn’t as tough as it was I would have the ability to leave more bloodied marks on my arm!

Guilt rampantly slaughtering my very soul for the fact that trigger I never wanted in my hand was pulled again, the old rage burning hot in the chamber until I found myself verbally terrifying a room full of people (oddly fun in terms of feelings of having power over others)

The fact that I feel quite good after letting loose… worrying to say the least!

And the term ‘wraith of god’ I have replaced with ‘Unholy Wraith’, in case the big guy gets offended! (referring to myself with ‘I am a merciful god’ still sneaks in on occasion but I’m working on that)

 And why?

After I’ve made myself suffer for my sins it dawns on me, a crushing realisation that I’ve known for years (yes I said years!), I’m not guilty by means of life been an arsehole

Yes your honour I will make my plea; Not Guilty

It was life your honour, giving me nothing but dark corners and demons to turn to and no faint trace even of a glimmer of anything on the positive side of the deal

Yes; I know we should all be positive and shit about the warm fuzzy side of live, love and happiness but…

Happiness gutter punches you, love holds a dagger behind its back and the warm fuzzy stuff turns into a hell hound and mauls you without warning

Depression tells you straight it wants to kill you, rage is no mystery with its intentions and hatred plain old just hates stuff… no mystery, lies or deception

So yes I want love, happiness and all that positive bullshit in my life but I’ll never fully trust it (don’t know what trust is nowadays anyway!), so I’m condemned to live with demons and dark corners whatever I do!!

Fuck you life, with bells on it to boot!!!


Lonely Tombstones and Dark Storms

A lonely tombstone on the edge of the abyss brings a deathly air to tediously dragging ceremonial events

A solitary figure casts a creeping shadow over the grave as the days light is corrupted by nights threatening presence slinking across the grey skies above, bleak words spoken in monochrome tones blandly tell the span of a life lived in best intentions, unintended sins heavily evident in the lacking numbers present to send off the mortally expired person; six foot deep with no tears shed and not even the falsely redeeming whisper of a mournful cry

Grave diggers idle wait in slumped pose as leaning on muddied shovels they take long drags on cigarettes, their grunting conversation and blank faces as much emotion as the grimly played out celebration of a life will know

Rain falling with shattering force upon the lone soul there to take note of another merc fatally felled in battle upon distance shores, having fought for empirical reasons viewed scornfully by the mass public such wars are meant to serve, a mass public protected from horrors and nightmarish mental scars such faceless soldiers are sent to far places to endure

The following wake somehow an even more condemning show of depressions worth as that lone soul hunches over a bar, a bottle of vodka tightly gripped as its poison is splashed messily into a shot glass, the fifth refill in as many minutes of a shameful display that draws indignant sneers from passing observers and merry revellers who know not of/care not for the reason or the cause

Every happy laugh, sincere demonstration of abundant love and smiling verbal exchange a stinging reminder of all life’s bounty the hunched figure desperately wishes they could feel again, no more even a faded ghost of hope that they will find such things as horrors and nightmares jaggedly cut through the illusion this world is so kind

A lonely tombstone on the edge of the abyss

An empty coffin rests six feet under

Its supposed occupant mercifully granted freedom from irredeemable acts with the illusion of death, now without name or history in the endlessly crushing tide of life

A bottle of vodka and a shot glass the only way peace will ever again be found