Part IV: Renascence

January 8, 2009


The degradation continues, breaking down the sediment of my entire life. This body is composed of opaque waters, but soon I hope this silt will settle with newly added contents, and my essence will resurge. Fortified and refreshed, I will be capable of certain triumphs over sincere demons that have consumed me for far too long. I will be more prepared to shed what has held me back for this entire life.
Surface Tension

We must communicate in ways to remain unheard–Uninterpreted. The poet seeks to contain all pertaining to feeling–Of feeling, of passion, of thought; all resting behind a cascade of words that will mean nothing to those who do not deserve understanding. Concealment; the taxing flask of imminent struggle tucked into the boot between the lines provided, a sense of alluring confusion rooted deep in the soil of the eyes.

A poet seeks to wretch words hardly worth what glows deep in the soul, although the goal is to capture experience in a sincere certainty. And these desperate times wail for epic measures; the decisions erected waste little if nothing is contrived from the muse, for the muse, by the muse. This is how scenes of life are captured in the closest entirety possible. This, I know is certainly fact.

Bread is manageable, but the heart pumps blood–Finickly set, yet the yeast sets in. Toiling slowly at first, they move unnoticed to the untrained cerebellum, eventually festering to the point of no return. Demons disperse but the stress sets in, the moisture of winter licking the cracks of pavement—EXPAND, and fissures appear, splitting lands of various priests, governors of qualms and vice. Spring is near.

Liquid of the flask fills the cracks, as spring requires a timely distress to regress, when a quake shakes the flakes of change, sullen memories overcome the hearts of the young. A special instance when bread is most suitable; feed them, and they will come! Rejoice in haphazardly constructed institutions of recovery; reality, it starts and sets again.

Forget the bitter taste of distain! Forget the enticing brace of lace! For heavens fucking sake, forget all you’ve been taught, for it will mean everything to so few so soon. Little do these letters know, they know much more than most. They say perspective says it all, but retro speaks of style. Fantastic shadows cast down on wind sills, the streetlight pervades the space provided – the barricade. The barricade. The sane are nowhere to be found in this resting silence that follows nourishing wet.

I seek much more than what is read in between lines; nouns, the verbs, the adjectives adding to the momentum–The Sun. The rays ensure certain elements of enlightenment, required to embrace what words these pages cannot convey.

Misery has no struggle to overtake so much, but still, somehow, we seem to find a sense of happiness. Feeling alive is sometimes enough. Pushing through, just to get by, day by day– today? The smell of wet wool and polyester saturates the fabric into a blissful state of decay.

I require certain expectations; satisfaction far under-weighs distress, as I seek more sleep than this body has time for. So strange, surreal even, as if feeling the same amounts to any difference in rest…

We cry now, her and I. But her eyes cast a blessing on the spring. Oh how spring soil seeks to be marshland once again. She thrives; wails and wretches floods upon the land. Irrigation and city sewers will be no match for them. Soon enough. Soon so soon. Enough. Is it enough? Rest now to overcome then, the time will come. Soon enough.

Dispense–Disperse many dimensions of change. Diverge from the machines; digress from their will and their words; cavalry of faith and of death. There is no God to master these shackles; it is simply a man in a dress. Fool made me a man no longer, I only rest this head on her bosom of clouds.

Mum, III.

Dear mother, as sickening as it may feel to me, I desire to help you heal your deepest of wounds and learn to live with scars of old and new. I wish to someday travel with you to show more of the world and to help you find who you really are. You have led a sheltered life, living in a haze of poisons and vices, and now that you can clearly see what is before you; it is finally possible for you to interpret events and other people in a reasonable manner.

Thankfully I resisted you, and escaped your grasp while I had the chance, so now I am even closer to returning to you fully equipped for what our futures have savored. It is only a matter of time. You and I have potential to rise and to become something unique; inspire and teach to learn and love and heal. Now, I consider you my mother only by birth, but do not be hurt. I tell you with all of my sincere certainty that the healed wounds you dealt have scarred and will never fully forgive our past experiences. But with this heart of mine, there will be in every possible future ample opportunity to create something new and refreshing. I would love to someday soon call you my friend, so that we may both enjoy our excrementous life changes.

I believe that the time for us has come; the stars have lined up in such a way for this recent past. Our lives have fallen apart, in substantially different ways, to enhance our ambitious aspirations for unmarked starts in the world. This is our grand opportunity to reach out and to take back what should have been ours so long ago. Like mentioned before, it is inevitable that our paths will cross again, and we will soar–Together, for a time.

Not a day passes that I do not think of you. Thankfully, these thoughts are not the bitter contempt I held onto to keep me safe for such an extended era. I have now come to terms, healed, and have advanced in the forgiving process as far as presently possible.

I do worry about you. Not so much worry of the choices you are making, because you tell me of them on a regular basis; you are finally beginning to think with a clear mind, are learning to sufficiently deal with your social anxieties, and have sincerely given up the toxins that consumed far too much of your precious life. What I do worry about is two-fold; the decisions you make that will set your new lifestyle and the way that you deal with this undoubtedly catastrophic change.

Mother dear, your body is going to start breaking down, and with all of the harm you consumed emotionally and physically, I worry of your potential collapse. I fear if you do not make certain changes, you may succeed in a mental rehabilitation–Quite a success in these days of this age, but it will mean nothing if you fail physically. Both mental and physical health is critical for your overall wellbeing.

Resurgence of the Thief

Silhouettes in the moon consume the view of hidden creatures that scurry about below the line of unscathed forest, so rare to eyes indeed, but even more so to speak of! Unseen and preferred unheard, in civilized life these creatures would be considered the most dangerous of thieves, under lords of questionable origins.


Grimy delight,
Sullen thoughts.
And an angry night.
Fury boils beneath-
Blood surging.
Petulance brims,
Wringing the skin-
Sweating, perspire,
Desire fumes with sin!
Misdeeds are wrought
As thoughts swell.
This skull becomes cramped,
Sinking down,
Seething in
Calm. Relief.
Sensation now takes a neutral state.
There is no need for wrath
In the presence of such a pretty grin.


An owl, she peers down on her prey with such trained eyes-—She must feed her young at this time, every night. With skill such as hers, she eats and feeds when she pleases, but still only takes what she needs. Brilliantly, her kind has been both worshipped and feared in all cultures across the sphere of Earth. The lessons civilized peoples could learn from such distant kin…


It is here I wrest in sullen rest, recovering–No! Fallen in, back into a rotting stupor of mind. Once again. Oh, and how I loathe this all so common and bitter state, yellow grin and grimy face tarring out this poison of eyes.

This silly grin of my childhood has been washed away many times over; leaving now endless stubble as perversion that collects more dirt than can be removed. It seems what little did remain of a child by this girth has fallen into a cascading oblivion, out of desperation, desperately now seeking lighter hearts to restore the vanished potential.

This body has forgotten childhood! losing what little did remain somewhere in the abyss, but yet without feeling adulthood. Not yet meeting the proper criteria for civilized adulthood; There is no desire to absorb, obtain, or maintain such silly expedients! I have surpassed such lugubrious places in life! Pushed to take a parent’s place, I have lived too much of that adult life from a child’s mind–Now, I will never understand the eagerness of children seeking to take their parent’s roles. That is not bearable living! in this culture of death. In the least bit, it is slavery. I refuse to ever again take such unwilling roles! I will stagger and suffer on and off of streets and roofs and rooms of fellow friends, although I feel more and more like I fit nowhere at all.

My friends and my family, we seem to be more and further apart. No. Many more times I feel as if I have pushed my self away. I choose solitude for myself. Solitude. I choose vagrancy for myself. Vagrant living, the bohemian’s life!

I take comfort in the exhilaration of music, degradation from vices, and the companionship of unique minds. Monotonous conversation bores me. Imagery and sensation in character and word, in use, enlighten the mind, and these are the folks I surround around this self. It is a shame, pitiful disaster, as this child’s rearing into servitude, that there are so few who think so clearly.


There are sensations that linger more easily recognized and filling each and every moment with plentiful experience. Still this body aches, and a place to rest this soul is nowhere in sight. I can now confide and seek momentary comfort in others, but any long-term commitments are merely delirious. Any thoughts of something consistent for me, especially with settling down, are ludicrous! So here I reside in limbo–Neither in Heaven or Hell, but containing the worst qualities of both; unbearable servitude, the searing flames of loneliness and uncertain desperation overriding fluctuating desires.

Seemingly there never was childhood. Instead of growing into a cultural set of mores and a sense of self, the sense of self took place too soon and a pace was set too quickly for any cultural chains to clasp very tight. I have broken free in many senses of the word, but despite and beside such make-believe chains, I have barred myself in and swallowed the only key.


I have always been quiet,
And creativity has taken deathly blows
For such ignorance.
I do not daze often,
But I take far too long
Seeking which words to speak.

My actions are impulsive,
Selfish, or even selfless;
All dependent on where my mind resides at any given particular place in time.

Friendly, yes.
Happy, at times.
Bitter relationships with only loves:
Fine coffees, brewed beers, lovely wines,
Distilled liquors, and premium tobacco.
What’s the ratio?

I come quickly to conclusions and assume,
More often than not,
That people develop boredom
Or become hapless around me—
Or perhaps, it is I with them.

Either way,
I have a strong distaste for both
And do not want my precious hours wasted.

I am vain and self-centered,
And therefore,
Believe I am great.
I have transcended conventional thought and belief,
But yet I am struggling to convey it in all so many pages—-
Conceive sentences to volumes of absolutely nothing,
But yet I am so protective of these pages.
This is my sacred text.
Reminding me constantly of
Love, vices, torturous and bitter sensations,
Tedious fleeing doubt,
Momentous reeling thoughts,
Seething villages of memory—-

What wrongs or rights?
The purging that is ruining
My former life and bearing
The most glorious embryo
Of what has yet to come!

I may not be truly happy—-
But satisfaction and a writer’s duty has taken priority.
Hail this life!
Capture lucid thoughts and convert them all,
Passing through the cerebellums net,
And strained to fall into certain strains of sincere placement!

I await an awakening! This ego has tired long ago of such everlasting slumber!


The momentum building here is growing restless to discomforting limits. Tedious? Not. Overwhelmingly frustrating at most, but not ever without reason or purpose. Everything is quite lucid, but I seem unable to react to anything–At all, ever. Stale—-All sensations grew, until hours ago–Over a dozen as of now. I have seen and conceptualized why the shell is reaching the breaking point. Incubation has very little preparation remaining.


Mature. Reaching limits.
Dream, of something beyond.
Grow. Exceed all limitations.
Seek. Discover the fabrications,
Admire or destroy the seams.
Enhance the way life seems.
Re-order. Fit any desired purpose.
The mediums at disposal are infinite.
Disposal? No.
Create discreet amounts of waste.
Displace all bodies that get in the way.
Meaningless ambitions are to be tossed,
Let them dissipate and accept no loss.
Gains meant for further insightful gloss,
A protecting layer dispatched from heart.
A moss they are,
Grow always facing North,
Guide and direct in unheard of ways. But,
Silence can be just as effective if given the chance to-
A sacred message,
Meant to convey the best of intentions-
Maintaining sensations,
But keeping it from view-
Depending on
The blind sight of those who know not what to seek.
To keep a secret. Shush. Lull.
Resolve will meet all that is sought.


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