Really Really Really Old Stuff

Found a few things from before college days. Three years+ old?

The scene's my lover,
straightedge talks and vignettes blow my cover,
these streets that lead me to the music lead me to my home.
chords are my lifeblood, frets are my bones,
and ill be right there with you as you sing along with me,
I am the thrum in your heart,
the beat in your brain.


----

So we collapse into some uneasy tolerance of each other, the trials and tribulations started with us and faced by us still lingering, weighing distantly on our minds. I go my way and you go yours, only tethered together through the troubled association of our kin while we deal with the ill affects of shattering and breaking. The days left that are spent together are constant reminders of the long-awaited inevitable end to which we will finally be free of one other, an end to which freedom will dull the mind and erase the memories. With time, each of us will forget and that same time will make shadows of us all as the stories of human existence repeat again and again, whether with us or without us. In another place the roles may reverse, with our unconscious mind screaming in quiet desperation while pain is passed on and by that way thus, our revenge will become complete, yet not on the one who came before but on the one who came after. Apathy ravages the mind and soul of own selves; blindness is the only crippling factor that lets us go on, uninterrupted. A cycle of brokenness entailing brokenness is the very core of cause and effect, creating a suffocation too overwhelming to subdue. Disintegrating faith through the ages sustains rebellion as the pieces that once fit rot away. Everything rooted in love brings about the downfall of soul after soul.


---

“When you’re just a child,
A year is an eternity
And innocence is your forever.”

---

Morbus


There is beauty contained in tragedy; which
attracts like moths to a flame.
This strange fascination with the horrific,
A juxtaposition of morbidity and desire,
Innate longing for glorification.

Red painted suicide angels;
The lucid eyes and frenzied faces.
Picture perfect surreal obsessions,
Lusting devastation, branded and burning,
Ivory flesh protruding bones; art.

Dancing silver blades; captivating,
Holding static reflections of stark naked souls
ripped open, life spewing forth.
The erotica within the macabre,
The spell of fading life; immortalize,
Forever captivated in this celluloid dream.


----



Pale skin permanently stained blue, he’s etching a star deep beneath his flesh. Its not blood he bleeds, but his inner demons. Dare he subject himself to conformity?
“Do I make you want to disappear?” he whispers, pressing harder, deeper.
Delusion is the only thing he weaves, cliches are his specialty. Velvet words from velvet tongue, its all an obliteration of reality. The eye can’t see if its shut.