In Other Words: Fuck You by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
In Other Words: Fuck You
Decades
to clean up this mess,
to make ammends,
to restore what was lost.
And not a move was made
without expectation,
not a word uttered
without accusation,
no advice given
without disdain.
You cut your own flesh
and watched it bleed,
wrapped your fist around
your still-beating heart
and squeezed the life from it,
of you,
but not you,
your dreams
or mistakes
in one child
you never came to love.
Joan in the Belly of the Whale by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
Joan in the Belly of the Whale
And when you pulled me from the wreckage,
my body was broken,
my life still dripping onto the floor,
mingling with the glass and the metal and the salt water
that threatened to consume all that was left.
Your fingers curled against my cheek as you whispered,
"You'll live."
And though I could not allow myself to believe,
I knew you meant it.
There was love in your voice,
yet the sorrow in your eyes betrayed your pity,
left me feeling
hollow, naked, empty.
You swore you'd never leave,
yet I'd never felt so alone.
As you cradled me in the carcass of the ship,
my heart thumping against your chest
and the cage of my own,
I knew h
It was a matter of trust between friends, and I fear I may have betrayed it. Christy expected me to keep her safe, and while I did my part physically, I'm not sure she'll ever be the same again. She used to laugh constantly. Now, her expression is mostly blank, punctuated only by brief moments of hysterical sobbing. She won't even let me touch her to console her. I should have never taken her there.
Let me explain. It was about a week ago that I finally convinced Christy to explore the old steel mill with me. The former owners had abandoned it after going bankrupt, so it sat empty, just begging to be photographed. But me, I'm more
South of Cloud Nine by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
South of Cloud Nine
We're only ourselves when the sun goes down,
the breath in the shadows,
the souls of streetlights,
the bane of bars we never grace.
We're waiting on the shoreline
for any glimpse of the monsters
that stalk us in our dreams,
every ripple in the water
amplified in our chests.
We're talking to be heard,
not understood,
the words hanging in the air
just before our faces,
begging for a purpose
other than entertainment.
We're fighting off the sunrise
and any semblance of sleep,
reveling in our own company
and the youth we cling to so desperately.
We're growing up and growing old,
and growing afraid of tomorrow.
Suicidal Submarines by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
Suicidal Submarines
Picture perfect,
we are
names without faces,
words with no teeth
to cage us in.
We dwell
in the background,
unnoticed and essential,
the blocks upon which
you've built your life,
the shoulders that
hold up your world.
Ghosts, to you,
undesirables,
never seen and never heard,
until you lie down to rest
in just another room
with dirt-clad walls,
and we arrive
to install your ceilings.
It was sunny outside as I made my way down back roads and through run-down neighborhoods filled with houses that once belonged to the prosperous, only to be left in near-condemned condition after the oil boom wore off. What was left was mostly exoskeleton, and the stench of cooking meth stained several streets.
I wasn't there for the history, though. I was just passing through, in search of something a bit less tangible.
My friends were scared, and I was scared for them.
I'd gotten a call from Riley two days before. I've never heard her so panicked. She said she'd gotten in too deep into the whole ghost-hunting thing. Found something s
We were dumb in those days. Unnecessarily brave. We sought out danger; we thought it couldn't harm us. We looked for evil, justifying it to ourselves by calling it excitement, a cheap thrill.
We'd done our rounds to the local haunts -- Hissom Memorial Center, an abandoned asylum for the mentally handicapped; Rolling Oaks, a well-manicured cemetery with an over-abundance of shadow people; Sparky's Graveyard, the final resting place of an Indian caretaker, beheaded by the metal roofing of his shed during a storm; old Highway 97, where a young man was struck by a car on a rainy night, and his ghost still tries to make the trek home each time
Lovers and Liars by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
Lovers and Liars
You struggle to see
the soul behind the eyes,
but find nothing in the glare.
Is it worth
the constant trying?
There is one who
loves you
wholly and completely.
There is one who
found your heart
and nested inside,
mending the tears of her
new home.
You can find the soul
so easily in her,
see her care
so blatantly on display.
So why do you not see
she's worth the time?
Life In General by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
Life In General
We are as we are,
and we can aspire to be greater
or we can doom ourselves to be worse.
It's the ebb and flow,
a constant change,
unless you choose to be
stuck in stagnation,
a pitiful excuse for what
could have been,
what should have been you.
And we are nothing better than
what we hope to become,
though no amount of hope
will ever save us.
It's action, and
constant will to change,
an effort to be different,
to improve.
Our minds grow,
and we don't have to be the same
today as we were yesterday.
We don't have to be
stuck in stupidity, be
ravaged by so-called reality,
or be the things our fathers
always wished we woul
In Other Words: Fuck You by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
In Other Words: Fuck You
Decades
to clean up this mess,
to make ammends,
to restore what was lost.
And not a move was made
without expectation,
not a word uttered
without accusation,
no advice given
without disdain.
You cut your own flesh
and watched it bleed,
wrapped your fist around
your still-beating heart
and squeezed the life from it,
of you,
but not you,
your dreams
or mistakes
in one child
you never came to love.
Joan in the Belly of the Whale by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
Joan in the Belly of the Whale
And when you pulled me from the wreckage,
my body was broken,
my life still dripping onto the floor,
mingling with the glass and the metal and the salt water
that threatened to consume all that was left.
Your fingers curled against my cheek as you whispered,
"You'll live."
And though I could not allow myself to believe,
I knew you meant it.
There was love in your voice,
yet the sorrow in your eyes betrayed your pity,
left me feeling
hollow, naked, empty.
You swore you'd never leave,
yet I'd never felt so alone.
As you cradled me in the carcass of the ship,
my heart thumping against your chest
and the cage of my own,
I knew h
It was a matter of trust between friends, and I fear I may have betrayed it. Christy expected me to keep her safe, and while I did my part physically, I'm not sure she'll ever be the same again. She used to laugh constantly. Now, her expression is mostly blank, punctuated only by brief moments of hysterical sobbing. She won't even let me touch her to console her. I should have never taken her there.
Let me explain. It was about a week ago that I finally convinced Christy to explore the old steel mill with me. The former owners had abandoned it after going bankrupt, so it sat empty, just begging to be photographed. But me, I'm more
South of Cloud Nine by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
South of Cloud Nine
We're only ourselves when the sun goes down,
the breath in the shadows,
the souls of streetlights,
the bane of bars we never grace.
We're waiting on the shoreline
for any glimpse of the monsters
that stalk us in our dreams,
every ripple in the water
amplified in our chests.
We're talking to be heard,
not understood,
the words hanging in the air
just before our faces,
begging for a purpose
other than entertainment.
We're fighting off the sunrise
and any semblance of sleep,
reveling in our own company
and the youth we cling to so desperately.
We're growing up and growing old,
and growing afraid of tomorrow.
Suicidal Submarines by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
Suicidal Submarines
Picture perfect,
we are
names without faces,
words with no teeth
to cage us in.
We dwell
in the background,
unnoticed and essential,
the blocks upon which
you've built your life,
the shoulders that
hold up your world.
Ghosts, to you,
undesirables,
never seen and never heard,
until you lie down to rest
in just another room
with dirt-clad walls,
and we arrive
to install your ceilings.
It was sunny outside as I made my way down back roads and through run-down neighborhoods filled with houses that once belonged to the prosperous, only to be left in near-condemned condition after the oil boom wore off. What was left was mostly exoskeleton, and the stench of cooking meth stained several streets.
I wasn't there for the history, though. I was just passing through, in search of something a bit less tangible.
My friends were scared, and I was scared for them.
I'd gotten a call from Riley two days before. I've never heard her so panicked. She said she'd gotten in too deep into the whole ghost-hunting thing. Found something s
We were dumb in those days. Unnecessarily brave. We sought out danger; we thought it couldn't harm us. We looked for evil, justifying it to ourselves by calling it excitement, a cheap thrill.
We'd done our rounds to the local haunts -- Hissom Memorial Center, an abandoned asylum for the mentally handicapped; Rolling Oaks, a well-manicured cemetery with an over-abundance of shadow people; Sparky's Graveyard, the final resting place of an Indian caretaker, beheaded by the metal roofing of his shed during a storm; old Highway 97, where a young man was struck by a car on a rainy night, and his ghost still tries to make the trek home each time
Lovers and Liars by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
Lovers and Liars
You struggle to see
the soul behind the eyes,
but find nothing in the glare.
Is it worth
the constant trying?
There is one who
loves you
wholly and completely.
There is one who
found your heart
and nested inside,
mending the tears of her
new home.
You can find the soul
so easily in her,
see her care
so blatantly on display.
So why do you not see
she's worth the time?
Life In General by blackcherry-chainsaw, literature
Life In General
We are as we are,
and we can aspire to be greater
or we can doom ourselves to be worse.
It's the ebb and flow,
a constant change,
unless you choose to be
stuck in stagnation,
a pitiful excuse for what
could have been,
what should have been you.
And we are nothing better than
what we hope to become,
though no amount of hope
will ever save us.
It's action, and
constant will to change,
an effort to be different,
to improve.
Our minds grow,
and we don't have to be the same
today as we were yesterday.
We don't have to be
stuck in stupidity, be
ravaged by so-called reality,
or be the things our fathers
always wished we woul
We were dumb in those days. Unnecessarily brave. We sought out danger; we thought it couldn't harm us. We looked for evil, justifying it to ourselves by calling it excitement, a cheap thrill.
We'd done our rounds to the local haunts -- Hissom Memorial Center, an abandoned asylum for the mentally handicapped; Rolling Oaks, a well-manicured cemetery with an over-abundance of shadow people; Sparky's Graveyard, the final resting place of an Indian caretaker, beheaded by the metal roofing of his shed during a storm; old Highway 97, where a young man was struck by a car on a rainy night, and his ghost still tries to make the trek home each time