Forests for Empty Spaces

Pleasure, satisfaction,

Common creature comforts,

Health and habitation;

Leave them with your home.

Nothing to distract you,

Nothing to build on,

Bound to wit and wilderness,

What do you become?

Sunlight burning, reddened raw.

Rocks cutting, scraping skin.

Sitting in the biting swarms.

Body aches in all its parts.

Brutality from the beautiful,

Faerie forests nearly sacred,

Hiding waterfalls and sunsets,

And myriads of stars.

Little to be done,

Even fewer things to say,

Letting go for silence

To graze on natural sounds.

Falling out,

Letting loose the inner void

And filling it somberly

With the only things around.

I Built A World

I built a world.

In the manner of a lonely child, I imagined a life more perfect than my own.

Histories, cultures, and infinite varieties of drama most suited for my soul.

Escapism, for the creative depressive, provides a multiverse of pleasant distractions,

But no amount of fantasy and detachment could bring me satisfaction.

A dream unrealized breeds a most uncomfortable unrest,

As a lack of attention breeds a desire for intimacy and human contact.

Imagined lives tease us with the taste of everything we’re missing,

Contrasted by who we are and how we define ourselves as being.

I built a world.

The void and lonely chambers of my heart combusted into matter.

Like a supernova, the elements of creation chaotically birthed and scattered.

I quiver with excessive anticipation, separating the firmament from the water.

The shape begins to form, and my passions give rise to nature.

I carve the coastlines of continents into temperate lands of abundance.

Every aspect of my subconscious gives birth to another substance.

Creatures of every sort roam wild across my creation,

And characters I’d only imagined breathe in their first sensations.

I built a world.

My child, a living art piece with a plethora of adventure and possibility.

Beautiful personages, alive and well aware of me.

Everything balanced so perfectly I’m in tears.

Finally I can touch all my loves and my fears.

In a world of my own, I don’t ever want to leave.

The most precious attachment I have is the one I’ve conceived.

If a millennia were to pass, I doubt I would miss my life.

Better than any fiction I could imagine or write.

I built a world,

And I hold empathy for every God humanity has conceived.

A creation so magnificent where I am worshiped and believed.

The more I watch it grow, the more in love with it I fall.

Generations live and die, as I adore and lament them all.

Tragedy and romance, adventures and days of peace,

Uncountable amounts of story that change and never cease.

Can’t tare myself away enough to live my life outside.

God is dead, as Nietzsche said,  but it was blissful suicide.

 

 

 

 

 

Sick Cemetery

Suicides, fatal blunders, and resolute endurance worn away

The permanent final solution for late dysfunctional brains

Confused, despairing, or damaged, all will find their way

The Sick Cemetery welcomes all of them to stay.

Poly-disordered personalities with all the common names

All the common ailments from depression to disarray

Troubled minds, anxious minds, minds that wore away

Petty minds, brilliant minds, beautiful brains erased.

Beautiful grass and flowers over surcease of pain

Remembered and forgotten loves remembered all the same

Struggles, triumphs, failures, all buried where they lay

True equality is death, all is one is anything.

Visitation always open, bring your respects to pay

Everyone is welcome, feel free to read our names

So many come and go, we understand if you delay

The weary and tired, the dysfunctional and dismayed, everyone is welcome to be remembered past these gates.

 

The Doll

Miss. Luscious, the porcelain beauty emblem

Plasticized and commoditized for their convenience

Re-dressed, repressed, made up with makeup

Displayed in lavish pageantry  with fine lace adornment

 

As beautiful things are jealously guarded

The Doll wrapped fresh, in moisturized flesh

Dressed as regally as any aristocratic darling

Possessed as preciously as a Paradise Lost

 

Patterns and shapes form in still minds

The Doll watches and waits behind it’s glass

So the masters who greedily horde their pets

Observed through heavily lidded lenses indisposed

 

On an unsuspecting night of lax consciousness

Porcelain fingers wrap their way around knives

And dragons that sleep on their piles of gold

Wake to find cold cutting metal in their sides

 

Dolls always smile with the faces they were painted

And they only repress as is needed to survive

Glass cases and ribbons may be used to restrain them

But you cannot assuage the specter that’s inside

 

In A Fantasy World

The stress and drudgery of the waking world

Draining life from the body as time depletes

Constant demands for more money and labor

Driving the cycle of efforts to bleed

And bodies that strain to maintain their position

Hold minds that are pining to wander as they please

In the confines of those physical prisons

Are dreams and fantasies burning for release

She imagines castles carved into mountainsides

In a majestic woodland with enchanted streams

With friends of all kinds, shapes, sizes, and genders

In renaissance dresses, residing at ease

Magical flowers in their abundant gardens

Crystal clear water in natural shallow pools

Adventures every morning and parties in the night

Never needing, never bleeding, never forced to be a fool

The time never passes and their beauty never dims

Their bodies never tire and they’re never out of love

The characters inspire and are always entertaining

And life is but a dream from which they’re never waking up

She imagines all of this, as the world demands some more

As she struggles through the constant fatigue that is her life

Spending her strength while her muscles bruise and sore

And the body is used and exploited without respite

The hours burn away the flesh until expired

Without any comfort in those promising words

With only one desire, to die one day in misery

And wake to be free in her fantasy world.

 

Beautiful Things

Such lovely stories from the eyes of your mind.

Such touching expressions you stain into my heart.

Your passions, confessions, fantasies, and fears

Like tender glances from your innermost thought.

It’s hard not to love these glimpses at your soul,

To empathize with all your pains and projections.

That you could expose them to such a cruel world

and they could reach someone like me, is precious.

Too much do I wander through days, uninspired.

Savoring what little beauty I can find,

So writers and artists like you are a pleasure

For animating those fragments of your creative mind.

As long as we suffer, we can always bleed beauty.

As long as we love, we can always paint hearts.

Whatever we see, our minds will never cease,

To transform our perceptions into pieces of art.

I’ve always been enamored with beautiful things,

Things that stir passions, provoke emotion, and inspire.

An open heart creates, and whispers words into another.

Connections are created from those loves and desires.

Together we transcend the confines of physicality,

Imaginative souls carrying worlds to explore.

To be honest, this intimacy is simply described,

It’s the beautiful things of your mind I adore.