A collection of short bits of inspiration (Will frequently update)
|There are short peoms here as well that don't necessarily have a topic, so I chose not to make them into individual pieces. Most of these are texts I sent to friends just because I wanted to write something...most of them probably won't make much sense.
Some of these are very disturbing, proceed at your own risk.
This name that I've been given, since my conception, never forgiven. When will I return to the womb? Always dark, dark inside that tomb.
EarlE, earlE, the BIRD gets the WORM. EarlE, earlE, WHAT IF I'M THE WORM?
EarlE, earlE, the BIRD gets the WORM. EarlE, earlE, NOBODY DESERVES TO DIE.
The dreams, the visions, the songs of the night, they dance to the tune of silence, a tune one can only hear when one martyrs themselves to the victory of the night. Captivated, the ship sets sail upon the peaceful waters of the undone, careful to dodge the heretical boulders of piercing noise. What writ was had that sanctioned this cause? Upon which horizon lies the destination? A mystery, an enigma, this toy called curiosity drives the ship on towards the underworld of abysmal satiation. Silence like a mother's quilt lay upon the ship in similitude of an apparition unseen by the eyes of the untrained. Onward and downward the ship sails, not knowing the correct direction, yet knowing that there cannot be an incorrect one. Calamity, light, she drew past the night and sat at the gates of dawn. Once more, ever more, this journey continues until the flutist of sorrow plays his last piece.
The beauty of eyes, the willing disguise
floats on the currents of time.
When shall we depart this broken heart
and leave our thoughts sublime?
Fear not, dear friend, the night grows warm
and the sun rises over the vale.
Send your dreams by their strengthened seams
before the long day grows stale.
Their beauty, it rivals the march of the moon
across the firmament high,
yet do not dismiss the birthright amiss
when shadow and star collide.
Fain be the one who observes the force
that sends the nightly commune.
Dust off your dreams, lay out your hopes,
and embrace the light of the moon.
Busy like every day, I would assume. Thy bones wax cold with exhaustion, thine eyes behold the undoing thy soul's fabric. Whence camest thou upon these barren wastelands of persistence? Wherefore goest thou, wherefore takest thine affliction in pain's bitter molding? Cast thy fears and thy sorrows upon the waves of slumber tonight, dear friend, for your respite takes its sojourns far into the morrow where the poppies dance the tune of the jovial and the sun casts its warming rays upon thy breast, glazing thy frigid soul with the Balm of He Who Commends. Dash thy plans, wither thy troubles, for a beginning must have an end and the sequence of time thinks none such of itself
Standing above on the cliffs of solitude, my sorrows flow freely over, terrible as their defective trajectory plummets to the sea below. The zig-zags of pain struggle throughout my head, impaling my desire to behold those I've bidden farewell. No, there will never be another rising sun, not in this tale. My skies have darkened, my sun eclipsed by the shadow of burdens and fear. I am afraid, afraid of time, afraid of existing another minute, for with the presentation of another minute comes the opportunity to fail once again. Flying. I've always wanted to fly, soaring high above the clouds in an effortless feat of aviation. But not this time. The sea was my target, death my appointment, and I didn't expect to be late.
I sat alone in the dark, musty chamber I built for myself, waiting for a meeting I knew would never come, yet time was an unwelcome pilgrim that I refused to associate with anymore, so why bother? Now turns into then, later fails to bring light into this darkened heart, my very soul chained to the mountain of woe. I caressed the blade in my hand as I examined the machine before me, it's inner workings unknown to me, but the purpose was loud and clear. If I plunged the blade into the machine, I and countless of my enemies would perish. Inevitably, those within the boundaries of the effect would perish, friend and foe alike. I was not worried about myself. Life is something others cherished, I have nothing. Nothing to lose, nothing to live for. If I wait, my life would continue, wracked by the pains of torment I am plagued by, my hands stained red with the blood of many. I make my decision. The blade takes little effort to thrust as it enters the machine.
"You can't save her, Ravint."
Those words rang through his head like a melancholy bell, echoing throughout his darkened thoughts. "Why not?" He muttered, no life in his voice.
"Because she doesn't want to be saved."
She clung precariously on the edge of a cliff, a look of defiance on her face as she screamed for help.
"She obviously wants to be helped. She's screaming for help."
Lorthen casually leaned back in his chair and lit up his cigar, puffing out a cloud of haze before responding. "She holds on for dear life, everything around her falling to pieces, yet she refuses to take the hand of any who offer."
A look of confusion crossed Ravint's face. "I don't understand."
"Some things in life aren't meant to be understood, Ravint, only accepted, albeit grudgingly. I've been at this for years, mate. There's no saving them, no saving her. She is fully capable of saving herself, right this moment."
"Why doesn't she?"
"Like I said," he spoke through another cloud, "she doesn't want it. She craves the pity, yet denies the solutions to her problems. A hand offered is accepted as a gesture seen many times before, but not good enough. She waits, fearing the fall yet fearing what may exist above the edge she has hung onto so long, the edge whose ridges have been engraved into her palms."
Ravint couldn't understand, the answer seemed so obvious to him. Lorthen gestured to a wooden chair on the opposite end of the table. Ravint slowly sat down, the thoughts so clear and evident through his eyes. If you're about to fall, why not pull yourself up? "I can see you've never experienced falling, dear boy."
"I've fallen plenty of times in my life."
"No, not falling from the ground to the ground." He leaned forward, looking Ravint dead in the eye with his keen blue eyes. "I mean falling, tumbling through chaos and space yourself, falling off your own cliff. You never will understand the fear of falling until you fall. What did your parents teach you about the stove top?"
"That it's where the food comes from."
Lorthen grinned. "Yes, but there was another as well."
"Don't touch it when it's on?"
He gestured triumphantly. "Precisely! Did you ever touch the stove?"
"No, because my mother told me not to."
"And did you know why?"
"I do now, it's because it was hot."
"Very hot, but you didn't know that. Your mother bid you to stay away from the stove and you did, so you never truly learned to fear the stove. If you had found out yourself by touching the stove, you would have been badly burned and experienced the fear, the memory etching itself into your mind, never to be forgotten."
"I don't see where you're taking this."
Lorthen bowed his head, then looked back up. "She touched the stove, mate. She's still touching it. She doesn't want to stop because she's afraid of the wounds she'll have, even though she's making them worse. If she were to accept help, she would reveal those wounds. All she can do is decide that yes, that stove is hot and yes, it would be in her best interest to remove herself from its presence."
Ravint glanced back at the girl. "I think I'm beginning to see."
Lorthen leaned back in his chair once more, taking another puff. "You may be right. You're beginning."
I hear it, hear the call of the forgotten vale, shimmering memories of distance reminiscence. It's not too late to exit this forest of reminiscence, not too late to embrace my dreams as herald of the dawn. Caress my face, young sun, soothe me into your new horizon
Child of the mist, thy dreams are secure, yet what forebodeth this mishap, this treacherous jewel in the circlet of thy heart? Canst thou comprehend the mystery presented before the judges of righteous fury? Nay, only One comprehendeth, yet certain ones begin to believe in those enigmatic frailties associated with the birth of new emotion and traitorous ability. Come, cast thyself from thy pedestal, dust thyself off and become one with the mists once more for the time grows late and Mother Earth beckons her children home.
Zorn spread his gaze wide, glory riding upon his shoulders like a mantle of hope. The sun beat down on him, yet he was not afraid of its effect upon his flesh. Stopping, he gazed backwards at the trail his feet have left upon the sands of the White Desert, the thin trail disappearing off into the horizon. There was nowhere to go now but forward. He continued onward, the broken blade still clutched tight in his left hand in a last gesture of finality. Another chip fell off and the searing pain grew, yet nothing could overshadow the euphoria that flowed through him, electricity springing through his veins. He had done the impossible, he had conquered his fears and challenged the invincible.
And he had won.
All his life, he had dreamed this day would happen, his childhood molded by anger. Anger, yes, the familiar feeling that had driven him, and now suddenly, it was gone. Everything. The euphoria, the memories, the glory, all gone. Anger, the one emotion that had driven his entire life, had fled and left nothing in its wake. His life had been lived in anger, but now that it was gone, what was life? He sank to his knees as another chip fell off of him, burying into the bright desert sand. Almost his entire arm had crumbled to dust from the sun's brutal rays, and the other was following closely. He looked up to the sun and threw back his hood, letting the rays fall upon his pale face. He thought he would feel the pain, but he simply felt tired. The flesh on his face began crumbling and he dropped the blade, following it to the ground. The people, they would change, they would take care of each other and rebuild, they would choose someone to lead them. That man simply could not be Zorn. He had nothing left.
He closed his eyes and grasped the blade beside him, taking hold of the fabric of his robe and rending it with the blade, exposing his bare chest and torso. His entire body caught up in a white flame, eating away at the moisture of his flesh. He felt no pain, no sorrow, no regret. He opened his eyes and thought he saw a man in a white robe standing beside him, watching him intently. Zorn closed his eyes again and exhaled the last breath from his lungs.
Sitter of the Grass, behold this verse
And bask in it's glory and splendor
Do not forget the time we met
Nor deny the moments so tender
I find on the days of the Withering Green
That the coils of time do match
When hither they came through the mists so fain
Yet I am one they cannot catch
Above, in the clouds, the angels call
With trumpets luxurious and golden
Their call drives deep and penetrates my sleep
And my jubilee, I cannot hold in
This clock we share, our threads entwined
Never to be removed
The days press on like a lovely song
With nothing more to prove
So sit, Sitter, and enjoy the best
Which only you deserve
A loving queen with a golden sheen
Of which, I live to serve
As the experiments ended, I gathered my thoughts.
Why was this happening again?
Let them take my heart.
It's quite used to being broken anyways.
Torture the peasants
make them suffer
sew them back together
to make them tougher
Boil the meat
of the children down the street
who will ever know?
Why must we wait for our enemies to arrive?
When on the morrow, we dine on the flesh of our brethren?
Forget the wars, put off what you've learned,
for we've only just begun
I've wandered these lands endlessly
where has my hope departed to?
My friends have gone, my will has crumbled to ashes.
My heart, why must you gather on this dusty ground?
This is where I keep the pieces of my shattered soul.
Leave me in peace, vagabond, for I am beyond reconciliation.
"Daddy, where has brother run off to?"
The last inquiry ran through his mind like a mocking tune
He sat there with his head in his bloody hands
as he was tormented by the light of the moon.
This fountain I've created
It brings me such joy
For where else can you behold a pile
of dead girls and boys?
"William!" she cried, "William!
Why do you play such games?"
But what lurked behind her lover's tree
was only a shell of her husband-to-be.