Nachtlied IIDear Diary. i went for a walk tonight, albeit with much protesting and warnings to stay away from water. which is silly, because drowning is obviously low on my list of ways to leave this world. honestly, i've tried it before when i was young, [not intentionally, mind.] and was thoroughly unimpressed.
i went to that layered car park in front of that hotel they're building. it'll be finished soon, but no-one's around when it's dark, so it's quite alright. 6 floors it has, with two flights each. i dare say it's a bit of a job getting up, but i do. i took my ipod this time, just for the hell of it, and i'm glad i did. i sat down against one of the walls, and it was such that the hotel loomed up in front of me, all lit up [why they do this i have no idea, but it's very lovely to look at] like some abandoned tower, with its many floors and windows. i looked at this for a while, and then the rested my head back on the concrete. and what should i see, but the Moon perfectly in my field of vis
The Musicianyou asleep to music so soft, like fae fluttering over finest crystal, wings vibrating against air to form these sounds which enthrall you so. you're curious, and so you should be. after all, it's just music, isn't it? of course it's just music, harmlessThe Musician4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sounds, you can trust it, because it's much MUCH too pretty to be of me, yes? in fact, i won't even be here, i'll allow you to listen in peace. please, sit, enjoy.
she sits, a lone chair in cold emptiness. and so the show starts, a lone cellist, with bow in hand, he starts to weave. long slow sad notes echo forth from their wooden coffin, their make a picture of gray grimness and sorrow, hunched over his instrument as if clinging to it like an old man clasps his cane. his long gray hair and downcast head keep his face a mystery, just like the source of his grief, and so he becomes almost part of that which he plays. and play he does, softly and slowly, until she is almost ready to give anything, even if to know just -why- he is so mourn
BeautySo umatched,Beauty7 years ago in General More Like This
Among the sights that mine eyes hath beheld,
Do thee take thy place. Indeed,
'T is most hard a task to dissern weither it be
The coffin that doest adorn thou,
Or doth thou adorn it?
If I shall be allowed to see this,
Of utmost beauty each day, indeed,
E'en for countless ages would I cause
Mine eyes to gaze upon thee,
Until my bones rot away,
And ho! My spirit shall be left to linger in this place
E'en unto the falling of the very heavens themselves.
So still do thee rest,
Free from Life's cruel and unrelenting torture..
'T shant be so, for one such as thee,
For mortality is mearly wasted upon thy soul,
Whose radience shall be caused to shine e'en when
All life, indeed all creation,
Is reduced to dust.
Oh lo! How tempting thee doth make death appear!
As if thou seeks to torment the living for that action alone.
Torment thou do,
For if i could hope to attain e'en the slightest fraction of what thou posses,
So perfectly eveloped in black, soft touch of lace, then i wou
There's ash in my eyesthere's ash in my eyes.There's ash in my eyes3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i think i am dreaming, because i don't feel tired, or worn, but curious, and strong.
two rows of monks, chanting, becoming not persons anymore, but living conduits. through which their voices become not words spoken, but sound transmitted. passed one upon another and such and so on until it threatens to drown out all thought you might have, all planning, all vision, all hope, given way to the same mindless droning.
and there you stand. now i am certain i am dreaming. i smile to myself. i smile, because you are not here, and you are not here because you are you, and i am i. and if by somechance, somehope, some. how. you -were- indeed here, you would not be you, for you would never come here, not for i, at least. and i, being i, would never wish anyone here, you and not-you alike. and yet you are here, and here, most perfectly, are you. standing before me on chessboard marble, arrayed in all your fine apparel. precious jewels, shimmering hair, a mirage
I'm AstoundedAt how utterly deluded you are, and everyone else is.I'm Astounded4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I can't be what I'm supposed to.
and I will not apologize.
Because I can suffer quietly.
This is not even the tip of what I feel.
Because you don't get to see my feelings.
Because I don't want the entire world staring down my eyes.
Unlike some people.
I will keep my feelings private.
Because I, am a man.
Of Black Paint and InsomniaOf Black Paint and Insomnia6 years ago in Open More Like This
There is a place in the mind that I escape to at times,
Where the trees grow dark and thick and close
A place that smells of life and decay, a place wet and alive
That overpowering smell, like an upturned decomposing log
Every breath is wet in your throat, but you taste no grime
Sit flat on the thick gray grass and reach into the black pool
The mud is freezing and thick as you drag your hands out of their dive
Feel it squeeze through your fingers and slithering down your arm
Palms flat as they slide down your face, painted like the trees now
Reflection showing the contrast of white eyes against black
Stand again to walk deeper, past the bogs and pools
Past the twisted, whispering trees and the thick red moss that bleeds
Until your legs fail you and your muscles burn
And you rest there, chest rising and falling, flat on your back
Your eyes open to see that which you came to see above you.
The pulsing, endless black of the abyss, wet paint across the sky
Painted black, turned fe
God of the StreetStepping off a curb at night, ever felt the feeling?God of the Street6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Hair blown all over my face the the wind, sneakers hit the street.
crunch..crunch. the sound of leather moving. bike gloves, old bike gloves. blue. same that i used to
play in. good memories. fists slowly closing, a wrist-pop. then silence, the silence of the city. car
brakes, footsteps on sidewalk, people talking. but not here, somewhere else. trench-coat's blowing
behind me, haven't worn it in ages, must look a sight. the smells, car exaust fumes, traces of food,
coffee. somewhere else. i like how my breath is just smoke, bits of my life floating away. what do i
care. i see alotta signs, neon, billboards. selling stuff, selling lies. but thats only if you go into
buildings, out here, its real. 'swhy i'm out here, i feel free. freedom, 'sall i want. i'm not smart
like some people. they could make up alotta fancy words, about how they feel. me, i just like it out
here. nobody cares. heh, people say i growl too much, can't help it.
Industrial Musingsthe rhythm of the pondering soul, you're transmitting.Industrial Musings6 years ago in Other More Like This
i can feel the bassline of your mind while you sleep, dream waves.
audio patterns or synapses fireing out of control, no difference.
the stream is steady, unfiltered, i'm recieveing.
do you wish it was
wish it wasnt
wish it was so
wish it wasnt so
are you there
are we there
wish you were here
wish we were there
can you see
do we see
what can you see
are we real
are we fake
are we here
what do you feel
what do i feel
what can we feel
are we feeling
and so you dream
and so i dream
and so we dream
and so we ask
what are you
what am i
what are we doing
here at all
i ride upon your minds flow, hopping channels, switching bands, what are you looking for?
is it peace, is it happiness, or are you only lost?
will i ever know the answers, or just float forever?
i feel you try to lose my grip, erratic signals, scared.
adjust the feed, volume tuned, precice.
Cold TeaPrologue: fuck you, Emos. aye, you heard. you whiney, moaning, selfish, self-centered, inconsequential wastes of perfectly good air. in addition to your fucking stupid hair, shitty music, and horrific poetry, you've also ruined something else noble. Despair. Despair used to be something noble, it used to be recognised as something creative, something artistic, something introspective. Poe, Frost, and many other writers used it frequently, and thus you gained an understanding, a window into the bleakness and the loss that they felt. now, because of you little shits, nobody dares write from the broken, numbed, or battered heart anymore, because they'll get likened to a bunch of spoiled brats who moan about not being able to stay up, being grounded, or juvenile romantic failures. well fuck you. i'm going to write what i wish to, and it'll contain more feeling, more passion, than a million of you could ever put together. this concludes my prologue.Cold Tea4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
What once was hot, nigh bo
a hell of a tale1901..a hell of a tale8 years ago in Horror More Like This
200 miles off the cost of New York…
A ship drifted through the cold night-time water, a small passenger ship of an even smaller company, it would be a few days before anybody noticed she was missing.
But this was no cruse in the sun…nothing stirred onboard the ship that's because nothing was alive to stir…if anyone could have come aboard her now, they would have said that this ship had began her voyage in hell. Doors creaked, left open in the apparent horror and confusion, wood groaned as the ship rocked gently in the water, and a faint sloshing could be heard everywhere. But this was not the sloshing of water…blood, dripping from walls, lightly oozing from the bodies, left where they had fallen, on been thrown. Everywhere they lay, lives…ended violently and quickly, surely, one would have thought, this was the work of something fairly explainable. Pirates perhaps? Or perhaps a wild animal had gotten loose somehow, as these ships often carried the rich and their outlandish cargo
Fuck the Bleeding.As it were. Such as it Drown Pretty My mirror image disgusts me.Fuck the Bleeding.7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Or is that my reflection?
You can't fuck away the
FrostFrost. That is what I think of when I see your image.Frost3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm sure to others, the word conjures images of inhospitable landspaces, grim and dead to the eye.
And ghost-feelings of sharp grass, fragile and breaking to the touch. Of numb fingers, stinging sharply the more they explore, aching to be warm again, longing to be spared the cruelty of Nature's supreme indifference.
So what possible compliment can being compared to such bring? Do I loathe you? Is this some sharp barb my mind has unconsciously meant to eviscerate your memory with? Do I hate you so automatically that your very image brings me nothing but thoughts of being chilled to my core?
No. Oh no no no. no, Heaven strike me dead if tis so.
Your countenance, reminds me first of a winter morning. Although I am sure you do not wish to be associated with it so, but I am quite helpless to change what comes so natural to me. Your gaze, not cold, but brisk, as you stare into space as if nothing on this world would make you uneasy. Set,