Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

Where they do all come from

Settling down, nestled on the roof top.
Flashes of lightning and thunder cries
caught betwixt the heart stops.
tease you for that searchy look in your eyes

You said I could talk to you safely
but how many people have I called lately.

Then I think I don’t care if you don’t care about us.
I tried the man I wanted to be.
I was off the mark.
Now I’m lost and cannot see.


My conscious is pale, paper thin
grabbing at thought for a seeming surmise.
I’m decades ahead, looking at where we’ve been.
try to compliment you, take your heart by surprise

How could I know the cost.
A throbbing sincerity now covered in frost.

Then I think I don’t care if I don’t care about us.
I tried the man I wanted to be.
Virtue, true and stark.
Now I’m a ghost of what you saw in me.


Nostalgia sulks like many dreams.
I hunted for reason in your heavy sighs
when I was together, tight at the seams.
praise you here then cut the ties

I tried for you, all those lies
however they’ve killed me, my own device

Then I wish I cared but I don’t care about us.
I tried the man I wanted to be.
Leave me in the dark.
Now I’ll make a monster of me.



The last summer

Breaking bones
don’t break your own

You stand shattered
saying I can make my own, I’m flattered

Through roads and highways connect
every word and thought I will dissect

And from this a conclusion
not a solution

Breaking bones
don’t lose your own

Now, breaking hearts
that’s where I’ll start


who are You
to come down from
Heavenly Gates
and name me Filth

who are You
to create and then
proclaim Broken
that which you designed

who are You
to demand of all
praise and love
by threat of Damnation

who are You
to make from
endless dark Peace
a bright ball of pain and suffering

who are You
who can be angry
jealous and selfish
yet Perfect

who are You
to hand out Forgiveness
when really
You must be forgiven

who are You
to create Hope
and then remove it all
with Divine Destruction

who are You

who are you
Nothing to me
for Nothing
is all I have Faith


You’d often sit in the living room chair
until the early morning.
Reading about things in which
I had lost faith years ago.

Sad and confused,
I would come talk to you.
You cared so much,
worried so much. I hardly understood.

Now, I’m around these people
I don’t even know.
And in the darkest night of my life
I forgot about you, I was entirely empty.

I think I understand.
I want to break down and plea.
Mom, I’ve been bad
and I want to come home.

But I won’t because,
well, you would smile and know
that you are right about everything.
And you know I can’t stand that at all.

Nine Ways of Looking at Her

The cabin is surrounded
by laughter and accusations.
Her paranoia sets in.
We are exposed.

In a swirling darkness of numbers,
Her conscious is nowhere near.

Her poison
has a taste and a sound.
It lingers and echoes amidst bitter resentment.

The heart is ablaze with humility.
The mind is empty,
stories are spun.
I do not know what I prefer.
Her attitude remains as
something to be admired.

The screech of the awkward, jagged surfaces
is enough to deafen.
Her smile still rises
way above the noise,
keeping me stuck in place.

I do not hate her but
Her eyes are characterized by a small regret
and too much pity.
The pity is a thing
to be hated.

Her body cuts
the crowd of black, magenta and ivory into ribbons.
Lines that can be easily defined.
She is pessimistic,
knowing that time still flows towards an end.

It was a creation of toxicity and lonesome
that resulted in pain.
Her nervous smile might still be
something to be recalled with a bit of fondness.

In the dead of the night,
nothing was happening
but it was going to happen.
The sweet scent of
Her warm embrace
fades slowly
as the light had from the day.


I figured that since it still applies today and that this blog is turning into a wasteland, I’d post this brief poem I wrote about a year ago.


The clank of lead and steel
Flawless simple machines
Guided by rhythm
Acid flows throughout
So painful, so sweet
A world where the man doesn’t make the machine
But the machine makes the man
Maybe I can iron out this concavity
Or evaporate vast stores
Of clandestine melancholy

that will go unrequited

Contained in a year-old composition notebook
Are ten thousand verses on unrequited love;
None of them can truly describe
The way that your eyes glisten in the sunshine.

So I’ll sit here and write,
Late into the unforgiving night
Every time I’m reminded of your visage and of your persona
Even when I know this is all merely my way of
Punching myself for not returning your smile.

Can I regale you with another story?
Another path that I could have traveled
Not the one that I so foolishly chose?
That undying sentiment of regret is just so prevalent.

When the clock strikes ten minutes to three
Right as the sun enters its deepest state of slumber,
I’ll find the opportunity that I missed
The things we could have shared
Eventually, I’ll find a way to get over it.