The Dread of Ye

Dirty mirror

I hate this feeling:
The dread—
This fucking dread—
Knowing the anguish to come
Now that this void I tried so hard to fill—
That was filled with your goddamn voice—
Is a void once more.
The ennui is so real,
And I abhor it so much,
I find myself raking at my skin
Just for a moment’s reprieve.
I’ve become a masochist,
Delighting in my own torture
As I stand in a room face-to-face
With the one face I never wanted to see again;
But my faith in myself is shaken—
Motherfucker, you moved me when no one else could—
And now I treat this void as a vat:
I pour anything and everything I can into it,
Even knowing most of it is poison,
And with each drop I become less myself
And more what I always saw in that filthy mirror.
I know they see it, too:
All those eyes on the street.
Their whispers somehow reach my ears,
As loud as jet engines that block out all else,
So I’m forced to stand trial,
Listening to all their ridicule;
And I, only ever asking how I fell this far,
While recognizing the one strand of hope in my life—
Yes, I’m talking about your goddamn voice again—
Is now broken, never to be repaired.

A Perversion of Human Will

black-angel

I take my seat at the mistake of the century,
A willing bystander, discomfited,
But curious of my own prophesying—
Heralded eons ago but never heeded—
To challenge my own prescience,
Even though I acknowledge the futility
In humoring such an action.
Never one for disguise,
I’ve laid bare every feeling,
Every thought to illuminate your transcendence,
So imagine my shock when,
Like a pollution of my sentiments
And a mockery of my adoration,
You stole the words from my mouth
And offered them to another.
As though a progeny of the debased,
You have settled for the undeserving,
Squandering your radiance,
Your gifts;
And very soon, I fear,
Your body will be forfeit
And something alien and unconsented
Will take hold of you, dragging you further
Into the abyss you yourself acknowledge
But plunge into headfirst,
Because fear—
Fear is a potent drug,
And you have not the power
To break free from it.

Not All Love Stories End Well

Butterfly suicide

I am the luckiest human alive
To have found my savior,
My redeemer,
The one who keeps me alive
And shows me this world
Is not always ugly,
That there is something to live for
Amidst the horror reels
And insipid greys.

Yet, as the years have ticked by,
I have felt your scorn,
I have seen your lows,
And I have realized
That in all your greatness,
You cannot satisfy my self-deprecation,
Cannot fill my voids
Or consecrate my insecurities;
And every effort I make
To use you as my medium
To transubstantiate my sorrow to joy
Has failed miserably.

What I could never admit—
Because it would invalidate me
And prove me the fool I know I am—
Is that I placed you on a pedestal,
Expected you to pull me from the maws of hell
Without ever raising a hand to grab yours,
And in fact, I jumped right back in,
So that no matter how you chased me,
You would never catch me;
I would run your feet bloody
And your lungs depleted of oxygen,
And still convince you
That you should have done more to rescue me.

I was the luckiest human alive,
But now I exist in your colossal shadow,
Shuddering, teeming with anxiety and despair,
Always dreaming of you,
Reaching for you,
And killing myself over and over,
For I know I had one chance,
And for however blessed I was,
I am damned sevenfold now.

Last Resorts

Tear

Sometimes I think about leaving—
Not even packing up or bidding farewells—
Just leave as I am:
Heartless, hopeless, alone,
A failure.
My life has reached Armageddon,
With everything laid waste by a nuclear holocaust
When the atom bomb dropped before me,
Incinerating every trace of freedom and tranquility.
I have grown weary of combat
And watching the mistakes pile up,
Like I’m bearing witness to Prometheus
Or Sisyphus, but I cannot offer help or rescue.
This field, once verdant and soothing,
Has been razed and sits barren,
Insipid,
And only my tears water the ground.
In a word, I’m seeking to abandon,
Because it’s a better choice than the alternative.

Mourning Callisto

Ursa Major

Hello, Callisto.
That is your true identity, is it not?
One sworn to a cause
Noble and righteous
Until fate set upon you your falseĀ god,
Who stole from you your innocence,
Your future,
And impregnated you with your demise.
Fealty given to one who would spite you
For a single mistake—
Not even of your doing—
And let you become a monster:
Roaming, unloved, solitary,
Belonging to neither womanhood nor the animals,
So that Olympus itself is set against you
And those you love the most,
Hunters to slay you at your most desperate.
And finally you stagnate,
Like Ursa Major in the heavens,
The world you knew far below,
And you yourself no longer a part of it;
But unlike poor Callisto,
Raped by circumstance,
Your fate was chosen by your hand,
And so when you are frozen in space
There will be no healing waters to dip your feet in.

For the Love of All Gods

Castle burning on water

Weeks have gone by
Since you stole the color from my life
And imbued souls undeserving
With a sunrise they could never comprehend;
And I, venerated above such trifles
By gods, titans, and demons,
Have deigned to feel your suffering,
To deliver unto you ascendancy
Into a dimension surreal and provocative;
But you would distort me with your mutagen,
All the while professing truths
That you systemically deny,
Enabling a festering corruption
To warp you into a numbed fabrication.
You wade through filth to prove your points,
Which adulterate you in reparation;
Like this you subscribe to asceticism,
But your throes do not invoke absolution,
Only further transgression.
Would I could rescue you
From this punishment you have endured immemorial—
Like a diseased Ouroboros—
But I have fired every bullet in my gun,
Sacrificed every bone in my body,
Appealed to every god whose name I know,
And still your willful incognizance
Usurps your kingdom with absolute dominance,
So, in my cursed transcendence
I will leave this kingdom to be razed
And keep my eyes heavenward,
All the while the smell of the ashes
Rising beneath me like tendrils
To infect my nostrils
And remind me of the ruin I left behind.

Moments of Weakness

Faceless

I always hoped I would be something more:
Something deserving of the blessing
That bulldozed into my life,
Filling color in where once there was grey.
I had striven to be a better man:
Strong, never succumbing to the detrimental forces
That feast upon my weaknesses
And wreak havoc on every good thing in my life.
It was my puerility and cowardice
That drove me to wailing like a banshee,
Crying out, tossing my burden to others
In hopes someone would carry it for me.
The cost that I pay for these sins
Is decimating, but the blame is my own,
And I will not look back—
Will not give in to the paranoia
My demons instill in my mind.
Forward is the only way,
To prove there is strength
Among this pitiful mess,
And maybe, when my penance is served,
I will find myself back in your grace.

Rage and Penance

Shadow lights

I am not ashamed to admit I love you,
That every action was to impress you,
Make you look at me differently,
Dote upon me your affections;
And the truth is—
Regardless of what the prevaricators say—
That I worshiped you unconditionally.
It took one mistake,
One fleeting moment of self-centeredness,
For you to turn your back on me,
To cast me from your presence,
Your life,
Your home,
Exiling me to the cold and dark
Crevices of the universe,
Where you made sure I would bear witness
To all the love you had for me
That now you give to others;
Yet somehow it is I who is profaned!
I have been slandered and demonized
As I am forced to watch you cavort
With those you cherish so much,
Who wound you every day of your existence.
I am not the monster here;
Can you blame me for the acrimony?
You have stolen everything from me
For all my days over a singular mistake,
While your despicable new favorites
Are granted clemency for each of theirs.
Is it a wonder I’m so hateful,
That I lash out
And seek to prove how much better I am
Than your pathetic pets?
By now you have made it clear
That you would do nothing with my devotion
But conflagrate it with your wrath—
Your ungodly rage and penance—
So how dare you accuse me
Of any wrongdoing or evil?
You, who has the adoration of the world
And could never possibly fathom
The sensation of being denied your attention.
It is not out of hatred I do these things,
But out of unrequited love;
And after this wicked eternity,
The fault is no longer with me,
But you alone.

Recurrence

Monolith beach

So long after leaving this field
To rot and decay,
Devoid of precipitation,
Now laid waste even in bloom,
Your voice has echoed
Across this Morphean ether
Where my emotions lay dormant,
Imprisoned by reason and selfishness
To conserve the well-being
Of a deprived host.
Stirred from inertia,
The shock bolsters a stress long suppressed,
Detonating and crumbling this construction
Before your tenacious, anchored feet:
Mere rubble beneath a deific monolith,
Threatening to mummify what remains
In a sarcophagus of unrelenting ignorance.
Despite these pleas you volley
In hopes of I don’t know what—
Comfort or reassurance, maybe?—
I must not engage in this kabuki,
Because I am far too jejune
To maintain posture in the face of your desperation.
Prescience is a curse, despite what they posit,
And though the shaman foretold your fate,
You sought to play god yourself
And craft your own future.
Now, when all has collapsed,
Your gall in turning to me is repugnant,
For I gave you warning
And you chose, at your peril, to ignore me.

HBV

Female dark angel

I am hatred incarnate.

Blood-soaked sins of my past
Plaster red this acrylic painting
Of vivacious colors matching
What I saw in those vibrant eyes.

No scent,
No glimpse,
No memory
Can every deliquesce from my perception.

This, like the paraplegic’s legs
Or the seeress’s vision of war,
Is my unholy curse, wrought by imprudence:
Negligence toward my better judgment
And a rapacious desire to elevate from my caste.

It is a railroad of mistakes that have left me jaded—
Barreling down on a locomotive,
Only to realize the tracks have been laid
And I revolve in an infernal circle
Around the crux.

Around you.

And though I abhor the path I am on,
I cannot step off, lest I face the truth:
My soul yearns, not for forgiveness
But to forgive.

To yield is to pardon you,
To proffer up what you never had the heart to request
Because, in truth, you do not need it;
You do not require my absolution to subsist
Or carry on an empyreal life,

And despite my laments, the hatred I have assumed,
I have not the heart to forgive;
And so I do not fear death,
For I am already in hell.