Troubled Rocks

I am a rock at the heart of everyone’s storm

Yet I wish to be the torrent to consume them all

But alas I must maintain solid form so to bare everyone’s scars

Whilst my own tear asunder all that I wish to call sanity

Internalised to terms a sure fire road to self destruction

As all I have to console is a broken soul

 

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Comment soured on a hint

For the sake of a piece of lead, a second to travel from the moment that a finger twitched at a slamming door
A hand tightly grips the metal that sent the angel of death, the other had a shade of red as to the wound it pressed
Child nearby cried at the scene of the act with wide eyed innocence about to shatter with the fatal fall
The one with weapon gripped turns the barrel to thier own head, a silence follows the sound that causes his end
All for the reason that she demanded more than he could give, desperation for approval from one who would turn to another just as quick
For her happiness, anothers fatality the price

The Pub

The currents of emotion will carry a man many places and alas it may have twisted and traversed to move myself, but only to take me to one place: ‘The Pub’

Somewhere in England sits a humble building of strong construction, no more spectacular from the outside than any other pub you may see in the heart of any village but for the people it may as well aspire to palatial heights and be a church of good spirits. From the irradiating warmth of homely values that stems from the wood burning fire to the traditionally set bar of wooden construction, and in fine British standard a pillar of the building’s status sits proud… the Pool Table.

The food itself cuts levels above the pathetically minimal portioning of finer dining; quality ensured in every rewarding morsel that you allow passage to your taste buds, with no less than riotous applause from the heavy stomach that cements the ideals of a good, fulfilling meal.

Having been asked to educate on the elusively vague title of ‘British Values’ earlier in the day I would now offer anyone the merrying opportunity to walk into ‘The Pub’ and ask for a cup of tea, briefly depart their troubles upon the cheery landlady whilst the landlord prepares culinary delights to banish all lingering odours of ill will that hath stained the day. And always be greeted with a candid smile, an honest yet reassuring word and a good old fashioned manner that restoratively revives your better self.

All the literary panache that I have lavished so far upon this place may sound as an over abundance of praise and somewhat bordering on unbelievable, admittedly I do not doubt anyone over the age of eighteen has discovered a watering hole of similarly significant value in their lifespan to date, but I will explain my connection to this singular apparition of perfection. A number of years ago I attended college and during my daily chore of driving there via the back roads I passed a pub, which only after my business with the collage was thankfully concluded did I enter and order a cold drink, the poor buggers were stuck with me from then on!

I have dragged myself to their welcoming door in all manner of enlightened, disheartened and ungodly states over the course of the years that followed that first tentative entry to what would become a safe house from the woes of this world, aided by the lacking mobile phone coverage that has decisively severed my connection to the existence of outside forces whenever I need to escape the invasive reach of communication upon my beleaguered calm.

Two (and a half) break ups, a number of verbal disagreements with fellow humans, overall depressive avenues that led to the immortal request ‘I’ll take a bullet to the head please’ and every deep depressive moment I needed sanctuary, all the opening accolades of this text have been dutifully and deservingly earned in teabags, chips, cheese sandwiches and desserts.

So I regret to confess the reason for this post, as it signals the finality of a now only days long countdown before the current management move on, which as much as the building will remain standing and the drinks will flow it is for me a time to move on. It could be said (and proven) that unexpected or unwanted circumstances force us to adapt to the ever changing nature of our being, very apt as I now contemplate my next move in the momentous episode that is the loss of my (current) sanctuary.

So goodbye Pub, and for those who are leaving I wish you well

May in your new ventures you never run into a screwed up depressive type as I am, for sake of your recovering sanity at least!

 

Miss Smoking

The dame was red hot and burning daggers into him from framed eyes, ice in his glass positively sizzling from her glare but Edgar hurled the liquid back, vengefully throwing back every little red hot poker of lust to the slither of hell at the end of the bar. Unsteady step paused before each unsteady step towards the fire ball of feminine perfection poured into the clinging red dress, uneasy swagger a bad hangover from a third rate movie, the bitch artistically propped on the bar and still firing daggers.

The nearest heavy emerged from shadows, all finely presented in a thousand dollar monkey suit, chunky making waves as he waddled from behind Miss Smoking herself, words failing to convey the finer points of persuasion as something from a bad script choked the refined air. Edgar laid his fist on a chin with as little regard as Miss Smoking had for the drink she nursed for show, heavy taking a shortcut to the floor in vertical fashion, chunky repeating the performance blow by blow.

Miss Smoking emptied her glass in Edgars face with ruthless calm, the stiletto heel producing an audible groan from heavy, as her footwear walked across the fleshy attempt at hired muscle on her way to the exit, but Edgar knew he had her when she cleared her throat and beckoned with a seductive swish of the hips.

As she left his apartment the next morning a new heavy met Edgar at the door, as Edgar halted a fated attempt to follow Miss Smoking, it would have been a sad event if he didn’t laugh at the remembrance of every one of heavy’s predecessors he’d seen at his door, the scratches on his back a more pleasant reminder for the next couple of weeks.

 

Remorse and Regret

Remorse, the stalker of insipid motive for any who would suffer an undercurrent of rageful torrent, an inherent weakness born of ill willed fate as no man would with right conscious willingly choose to suffer such unholy levels of wrathful hate. Regret, the agent of painful recognition that exploits an emotional fracture and turns it a fatal form of flaw in severity and hurt, these for the stricken with loathing flames a sure fire way to self destructively incinerate.

For those born free of corruptions tainted touch, as free as any mind may be given the unavoidable fact we all have a flaw inbuilt, remorse and regret are offered honestly as a grateful window to look back, learn what evils to avoid in terms of remaining in good character, a method by which those souls positively seek to redeem and repent.

Some people are sewn into this world with a rotten thread to spectacularly ruin the potential of the rest, a tangled mesh to weave through life with as much control over their intrinsic beast as a scorpion has over its instinct to sting. That window twists frame and glass into an all consuming splintered and smashed portal to every past event that condemns, destroys and ceremonially damns that rare element called hope.

What use is it for a hurricane to look back on its fateful path of cruel destruction, a reaper of souls on the jagged scars of emotional pain it causes, when such forces are merely doing the job for which they are designed. A rage so deep and fundamental to the very warped fibre of a person’s collective self, as much their choice as the scorpion to be born of venom that debilitates all around it with it’s sting.

So in conclusion of this blessed wisdom, depressive recounting of storm torn and emblazoned logic, etched by fiery hand into the bedrock stone of an emotionless figure of life:

“If the path behind is only filled with the mines of emotional discontent, the daggers of past victims, innocent or not; Do not look back for fear the ghosts will not remain mere haunting, but become the reflections of our lesser selves in forms to burn our mortal shells, such is the nature of harm reaped by my regret”

Everything and Nothing, All as the world demands

Everything and all
A form for the masses
To blend and become
What beckons in the hours
A thing to pretend
A truth to defend
In the lies that surround
For I am what is called for
I am the ever shifting sand
A desert of pieces
That rearrange and bend
To meet what others look for
So my shadow in twilight hours
May spread wings and ascend
Til daytime brings me back
To the lie
To the form
To the illusion
Of who I am when I pretend