Broken at the Threshold

There is a pristine chapel that clouds her visage,
channelling the love of those forgotten.

There is a bust of a man that answers her chamber
reminding the souls of the dead & rotten.

There is a portrait of assemblage that hovers in the gallery,
calling her memory to mind.

There is nothing more than a body lying here,
for some clueless neighbors to find.

Night Terrors

There is no release for me.
I want to scream in the night. I want to beg for a fight.
I want to punch their fucking skulls in.

I am left to quiver in the dark.
There is no one there to accept the hate, no one left to hear my fate.
There is gray matter, focusing on what doesn't matter.

They call me crazy by day.
My screams interrupt in daylight, they impede by the moonlight.
My screams never implore anyone to give a shit.

My screams are raging inside my head.
They can't hear what it is I need, or know the sounds that make me bleed.
They live to stop the bomb from becoming.

I am alone, just praying to scream, just begging for one sound to block the next dream.
I am alone, hating all that shows, hating the ignorant, hating all I know.

Destruction of Gray

Her heightened ignorance was total bliss.
Just imagine the dark clouds that she could miss.
As it sat there, patient, in its pale nimbus cage,
she would smile & play, never succumbing to rage.

She would dream of new monsters & sour delusions,
waking to relax, knowing they were all illusions.
Were these hints at the future? The waiting & the praying...?
Did this make Mommy cry at what the doctor was saying?

Surely, these thoughts did not enter her musings,
story books & math were all she found confusing.
She would cooperatore tomorrow, pick up her toys off the rug,
and make sure she had enough time to give Mom an extra hug.

She didn't ask many questions; she knew she'd be okay.
After all, she had her teddy bear, and tomorrow was another day.
So while her parents had to argue, and took the time to weep
the angel they were fighting for softly sang herself to sleep.

Dedicated to Her Enemy

Through the binomial nature of nomenclature
comes the stain of the past. It's no woner you hate her.

Through the corridors you file, being caught by denial,
and never escaping the clutches of Belial.

The past is still a dream, and no mortal hears you scream,
and the serpents still rise through the dust & the steam.

The future is still unclear, and it's still fraught with fear,
and still not a damned thing left that you can hold dear.

Ellipsis.

The deep set eyes of one who knows,
one who sees, but never shows...
The tunnel vision of one with faith,
but one whose thoughts are full of hate...

The only antidote is what these needles bring,
the joy that can come forth whenever you sing...
But these interludes & faint distractions only come so often,
and in the meantime all I see is closure in a coffin...

Bleeding now, the question stands,
the evidence is on these hands...
Slipping now, the question will fall,
and the casket will still roll down the hall...

At One, At Once

As we sailed into the seas of uncharted desperation,
there is nothg but your absence to cause exasperation.
While love was once a mystery, a journey not worth taking,
loneliness is now a forgotten friend, a pain not worth faking.

You took my hand and showed me strength never before on display,
and made me question everything, even how I'd lived this way.
Fear became the enigma, courage sitting on my shoulders,
where once I'd sit right in the back, I now show up much bolder.

So, how come when I've only just found you, you must go away,
if I want to keep on talking to you, I must learn to pray...?
I know I'll undertake this, though, with all that you have taught me.
I'll face up everyday, now, with these new eyes that you brought me.

1/4

I've been dead for 25 years
and way too many shirts are soaked through with tears.
I've been laughing myself through the anger
and everyday brings a brand new set of fears.

I've been dead for 25 years
and seen the demise of all my inspiration.
I've scratched words of faith in my skin
and everyday I'm closer to complete desperation.

I've been dead for 25 years
and 15 of those since childhood's end.
I've been told that I was unwanted
and everyday I'm forced to remember again.

I've been dead for 25 years
punching the clock as the system's new toy.
I've been sure that I was important
but everyday I know I'm just a scared little boy.