Lay Awake

Stillness and restraint,

A body bound in ruffled sheets.

Living, but sedate,

Concerned only with its dreams.

Needful little wishes,

Faintly nibbling at perfection

For unresolved conflicts

Shrouding comfort in their impression.

Disassociate the brain,

In separation from the ache

Of toil’s jagged teeth

Dragging steadily while awake.

Restore and repair

The imbalances in the night.

Feeling and fantasy

Flowing inward, mind alight.

Purest completion,

Sheltered from the pangs of life.

Inverted creation,

Eyeless sockets stealing sight.

 

 

 

 

The Girl On The Floor

DrearyAnn dressed her thoughts

In renaissance corsets and faux leather boots.

So much the better to envelop displeasure

And dissatisfaction from critical abuse.

Daydreamed hours drifted on vainly,

Vaguely insane, with morbid visions juxtaposed

More vivid and vibrant than others imagined,

So blatantly tragic in sadness predisposed.

Dreaming of dreaming of such things

As the darkest of a single dream ever saw.

Laced with lavish desires entwined

With desperate needs towering overall.

Draped in dreary phantasms galore,

Alone and on her back reposed,

Around her and over passer-bys step,

Unknowing or caring what fantasies formed below.

 

My Little Ghosts

Ghosts, vivid as any indelible memory,

Opaque characters complex as any pain.

Whispering phantoms of fancy and debate,

Debased to be displayed within me.

Fragments of former friends and foes

Haunting the pensive moments of my mind.

Frequently visiting my somber silences

To stimulate my passive passions.

Enticing my impulses to aggravation,

My bitter hates and petty joys,

And long past my solemn recompense

They goad me into fits of familiar disillusion.

The remembered and imagined coalesce

Into perfect torments for my indolence,

So whatever quiet moments I acquire

Inevitably fill with vexatious rants.

 

Leave me be, but never go too far,

As long as I need to fill these voids.

As much as I move on, you’re still my ghosts

And I need your stimulation to survive.

Maybe once I’ve passed along

From one sad form into the next,

I’ll fill the quiet with better voices

And forms that leave me better vexed.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

Baby Brain

Reflections, and imaginary conversations

Close fitting clothes and coffee in a warm place

Daydreams unending, continuing over days

Alone in my head, talking to you.

Confessing my feelings, my thoughts and desires

Living out my fantasies and my fears

Opening up to you and to myself

Without even needing you to be here.

So vivid sometimes I can’t sleep,

So potent sometimes I can’t think,

When it’s you and me and no one else

And it’s really only just me.

It’s a need and an addiction

A substitute for intimacy

A safe-space for my emotions

Where only I could really hurt me.

My sensitivities are brought to surface

My fragile ego realizes it’s pains

My weaknesses and repressions, illuminate

And I see through my baby-brain.

It’s me and you at you-know-where

We’re playing freely without care

We’re pretending, so we can feel

Like Disney-land is really real.

 

Dear October

The calm and ominous clouds of October skies

Dark and gray, l’ombre filtre sur la terre

The bittersweet droplets of Autumnal rain

Cascading down pleasantly through the air

Silence weighing heavier over the season

le murmure de le vent, singing through the trees

Through my jacket sleeve, and caressing my hair

Gently pacifying my emotions in the breeze

Imagining all these things as my element

Forces of nature representative in me

Quiet gentle Autumn, Somber skies of gray October

Carrying and cradling me to deepest sleep.

She Only Appears In Parties

She only appears in parties,

Like an actress portraying a molly induced hallucination, she’s vivid, shimmering, and delightfully playful.

I can taste her aroma,

The tantalizing mix of cigarettes, vaginal secretions, and sweat. Potent, attractive, an ashy pit of decadence.

Yes, I like it a lot,

The bitter sweetness she contains of unfiltered filth and fun. Leather wrapped amorality, unashamed of her flesh.

Pleasantly annoying,

I admit the masochist in myself enjoys how she irks me, flirting and skirting around at her leisure.

I should have that,

I think, as though I could store her inside my dresser, Like I could call her out to play as I desired.

She’s like a rainstorm,

She’s ominous and pretty, only following the whim of nature. I like getting caught in her when she comes.

She only appears in parties,

The life on which she feeds and regurgitates back for everyone. A pretty apparition of social lust.

But nothing more.