Pondering

A deafening roar, the crash of the spray
The blood in my head, it pulses and thunders

Thunders like a drum
Like the one in me

I can only live today, to work for my bread
The breath I take, it may be my last

Lasting in me
I scream for more

Post existential, possibly transcendant
What shall become of me, within my life

Selfish desires
One just like me

I walk a shadow, my footsteps light
My deeds go punished, I know not why

Others who fall
Used to it as they are

I try to comprehend
The lives others live
I try to understand
But the silence is so loud

In my head
In my head
Oh this confusion
Simply trying to be

In my head
In my

But the silence is loud

Nothing Is Sacred, All Is Forsaken

Yeah, this is one of those lyrical ones I warned you guys about.

Suffice it to say, it's fairly blunt with the message, and if you have read my Anubis Unit and other songs you can already second-guess what those messages are.

Do I mind?  Hell no.  Sometimes what you NEED is a tac hammer to the skull, get yer bell rung good and proper.  Maybe THEN you'll get pissed off enough to be proactive.

Take the fight to them, don't just bare throat and die.  Don't let them, the Powers That Be, the top-level executives who profit off of twisting laws and paying off political buddies, win by simply doing nothing.

You're just one person.  Taken individually, so are they.

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Nothing Is Sacred, All Is Forsaken

Your leaders have lied to you
Your faiths have all lied to you
Your friends all betray you
The television never told the truth

The government has lied to you
The companies have all lied to you
The beautiful all lie to you
The television never beheld the truth

The future stained, it lies to you
The dream has died, they lie to you
This dynasty under heaven
A house of cards
Waiting to fall

Future's wealth, it lies to you
The dream of the past, they lied to you
This dynasty under heaven
A burning husk
Wither and fall

The media newslets lie to you
Controlled streams of info, they lie to you
Carefully manufactured
The television now sells the truth

The charities you support have lied to you
The future is bleak, it's coming true
The dream has died, they all have lied
"Honest work, and honest pay"

The future stained, it lies to you
The dream has died, they lie to you
This dynasty under heaven
A house of cards
Waiting to fall

Future's wealth, it lies to you
The dream of the past, they lied to you
This dynasty under heaven
A burning husk
Wither and fall
The brass ring
This carrot on a stick
Destined to fall

The Glass Ceiling

So when I'm not working on Taboo 2 or workin' my ass off, I've been workin' these up in my state of delirium.  Just a whoooole lot of memories has surfaced while workin', and y'know what?


I ain't the only one who's been dealt an unfair hand in the land of blue-collar labor.


So I guess you can say I launched into more than a few of these pissed-off poems to get out, and my muse apparently approved of it.


So here's the first of 'em...hope ya like 'em all.


A couple of 'em are actually lyrical, spoken-word poetry, but you'll still get the point... 

To give you guys warning ahead of time, I've apparently used the references of bikes, walking, buses, and cars in two of 'em.  I'm just sayin'.

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The Glass Ceiling

What do you know of work?

Can you ever empathize with us on the ground level?
You up there, you executive types, you office types.
You look down at us during your lunch break, your coffee clutched within your manicured hands.

What do you know of work?

We walk.  We ride the bus.  We ride bicycles, sometimes used, most of them cheap, all of them breaking down.
You ride in nice cars.  Mostly new, some gently used, all of them working.

I can type fast, and without error.  I can file and answer the phone better than any of you.
So what's the difference?  What is that defining line between you and me?
Is it truly nepotism?  Is it that I don't know the right people, or have the right degree.

You make more than us, but we work harder.  We're here for twelve hours, you're here for six with a paid hour lunch.
Our half-hour lunches are unpaid, taken out of our hourly wage.

I am more qualified than any of you up there, and there are others who are as well, yet you look down on me.

On us.

I'd like to think there's some obvious moment, an obvious truth.
Do you truly think you're better than me?  Some of yours is down here too, working,
slaving
in the pit, here with me.

I have never risen to your level, yet there are so many of yours who have fallen to mine.

This isn't success.  This isn't what I want.
I have the certifications.  I have the qualifications.
But because of work history or looks, here is where I remain.

Watching as you watch us
Watching as you condescend to us
Watching as you enjoy us slaving away
And enjoying as I watch each and every last one of you fall.

Untitled 4

Don't ask, 'cuz I won't tell. <3
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I can hear it still, the fine music
The song of the day, as it plays
A song carved of sweet memory
And of bitterest cacao, this day
Sweetest balsamic, sweet as sin
And of the tea we drank that day
The tea she saw through, purest amber

I can hear it still, the sweet music
The cool, cold wind, yet never bitter
Only bittersweet, the sea air blowing
Blowing through our hair, her smile
Blowing through us, through our souls
And everything I wanted to tell her
Was right there, right there, glinting

I can hear it still, unforgettable
The music of her laughter that rang true
Of today, of today, always
And the taste of her lips, her flesh
The warmth of her close to me, in my arms
And of the sea, never cooling our ardor
But banked, always and ever smoldering

An Untitled Poem 2

Sometimes I haven't a clue what to name a piece I just churned out, I just do it and slap an "Untitled" on it. Perhaps some other time I'll figure it out, but for now this'll do.

Like any and all good citizens in this modern era, I feel a strange range of emotions when regarding mirrors outside of their chief purpose. I've written a bit of stuff on 'em m'self, and this is just the most recent.

My hands are on the wrong places in the mirror
I look again and the thumbs are upside down
I blink and they're back again, facing the wrong way
Why can't I see my palms, the lines engrained in the callous?
Why won't the mirror let me see it?

My hands are facing the wrong way in the mirror.
I can't look up I know he's looking at me
It's trying to tell me something but I don't know
I can't understand what he's saying, communication
It's broken down between us, but I must know.

My hands are on backwards in the mirror.
A subtle message, clear of restraint and fear
He wants me to know, he needs me to know
And I'm honestly trying to understand
But the vision is unclear and the mirror is dirty.

Stone Bastard 1-7

I don't know, don't ask me. Just somethin' I wrote recently. Seems like my life has been full of ups and downs as of late, and as always there's the potential for so much to gain...but also the potential for even further disasters.

Nothing to do but to go forward with it. Yeap.

Instead of doling all seven pieces of this out, I figured meh, fuck it - just give it to you guys in one big gulp.

Swallow it all down, dear. There's still dessert, y'know?

Stone Bastard

#1

I died last night in my sleep.

I'm moving, I can feel my eyelids blink, my eyes move, my fingers twist.

But my back aches, and I can't hear my heart anymore.  It's quite strange, realizing how much our heart fills our ears, a background song that barely anyone recognizes.

My good ol' buddy ain't moving anymore, and I'm so cold.

So cold.


#2

I was dead as I walked about.

I see people going about their daily business, and appear to do so as well.

But I hurt, I hurt so much it burns.  My heart is dead, a stone rock within me, though I want neither food nor water nor rest.  The noise of the city fills me, but I still ache.

I'm just not me anymore, not really.  Don't know why, nor if I deserve this.

Hurts bad.


#3

I am dead, laying on my bed.

I'm still pretending to be alive, even now in the quiet of a restless night.

My neighbors are interesting, and the city never truly sleeps.  Like me it's a dead thing, but unlike me it's so noisy.  I can hear quite plainly the arguments and grumbling, the sounds of living, loving, hating. 

Hearing better.


#4

I have died, but I'm still here, ambulatory.

In a park, watching people as they go about their lives, unnoticed.

I miss this, miss being one of them.  My heart has stopped, its' thunderous noise replaced with the noise of others.  I don't like this, but I can get used to it.  Guess anyone can get used to anything.

Sitting still.


#5

How dead must I be, if I'm still here, still me?

A new, unsettling thought has entered my supposedly rotting brain.

My heart is dead, but I'm alive.  My body is dead, but I'm alive.  But I'm not different than others, not at all.  Perhaps I'm simply more aware of it now that I can't hear my own heart?  I have to figure this out more.

A frenzy.


#6

Now that I'm dead, I can see it visibly.

My options without a heartbeat, without a shadow.  So limited, yet so open to definition.

I'm dead, this is true.  I'm dead now, through and through.  Yet within the scheme of things, I have discovered a wondrous thing: worlds without end, choices to make and follow through with.

Time moves.


#7

Dead and buried, good and gone.

All is well 'twixt right and wrong.  If I'm there and I'm here, then from whence have I come?  Was I always like this?  Was I always only going through the motions?  Dead all the time?

Without reason and with plentiful joy do I now live, dead as I am.  To redefine my life as I am, to live as I wish, even as dead as I am.

My heart skipped a beat, that's all it did.  It's still dead, stone cold dead now.

But it plays, it PLAYS!  Such wonderful music as I've ever heard.

I heard it, I hear it.  The noise of the city, the noise in me.

Joyful, painful, and full of rage.  Loving, hating, fighting, needing.

And with each line do I make new rules, as I wish, wonton and willy-nilly.  Thither and hither, heckle and jeckle.

A world of my own.

This world of my wishes.

Do I need anything better than this, finer than this?  My palate is ablaze, my senses overloaded.

My heart is dead, my brain is aflame.

My tale does not end, even as I have already ended.  Perhaps yes, perhaps no.

But with each new line, I will continue.  With each line I will learn more, hear more, be more.  With or without my heart.

A Boot Shaped Poem Again

It's always the same thing, isn't it?
The dull grey that occurs afterwards
The hangover from emotional letdown
Always the same thing, time and again

Like a boot pressing down on your trachea
It'll fill you with wonder and light, only to hurt
To break, to rip and tear your very soul out, yet
We are constantly attempting to feel it again, unable
To differentiate between the true feeling or a facsimile
But rather, it's something that we seek, all of us, whether
Or not it's something that we actually need. In fact, some
of us are better off without it. So is it our biological endeavors
That pushes us to consistently try and try again? Are those who
Burn out and fail, never to try again, better off than we hopeless ones?
We romantics, sensitives, blind to the pain that even now haunts our weary
Hearts ?                                                Then let it be, and let it hurt, and simply
Do    as                                                  we can to let it hurt, to revel in that pain
and see                                                      to the pain never lessens or dulls, but
rather,                                                           that it hurts simply to remind us that
we are                                                           alive, a thing that we take for granted.

This Poem Is Shaped Like A Boot

Sometimes, I write a poem and it flows out in a certain way where the SHAPE of the poem is more important to me than the content. Stupid and slightly autismal, I know, but still...I don't write poems to make sense (most of the time), I write 'em the same way I dream. If that makes sense to you, then that makes one of us.

This Poem Is Shaped Like A Boot

I am not a number
I am not a statistic
my value lays not in intent
but honor, word and deed
my explosives are paper
my blades these pens
and with these words
they shall know
I need not be a unique snowflake
but the droplet that breaks the dam
the last straw of a broken camel's back