She was the eye of the storm: for all things in life had clarity when standing at her side, as if the sun wished only to save itself when the boy and his love lay in arms. Though when a distance separates him from the center of such a tempest, things go awry. shades of grey replace the azure sky. Wall clouds surround and threaten to spew twisters, where minutes before, her smile had occupied its space. Life no longer makes sense as thoughts are disrupted by a violent internal maelstrom, flailing and hopeless like the love you bare.
Sleep evades me, like the normalcy I’ve strode after
It hides in a crevasse, too deep for me to reach
The cracks swallow it whole, a natural disaster
All I can do, is get on my knees and admit defeat
Bottle after bottle, I find myself three sheets
And more to come, I’m powerless
I’m just a vessel for this demon’s treat
The passenger returns, it’s choice is drink.
I think this passage deserves a second chance? Do you?
“It strikes me now that poets are great sufferers; they seem to have more than double the nervous sensitivity of the average person. They may experience exceptional joys, but their sorrows too are boundless. This being the case, it’s worth thinking twice before you become a poet.”
To the city of San Jose, fuck you very much for spreading the “joy” of the holidays with a fatty-fine for my having to park in front of my grandparents house as we celebrated our Christmas Eve tradition. I hope you realize you have a major congestion issue and should resolve it instead of dishing out fines to hard-working citizens just trying to enjoy a fine holiday with the people they love, minus the goddamn government sticking their head in for their own piece! Can’t you take a break for one night? Who needs parking authority on occasions such as these? Think!
In vaults of fathomless obscurity
Where Destiny has sentenced me for life;
Where cheerful rosy beams may never shine;
Where, living with that sullen hostess, Night,
I am an artist that a mocking God
Condemns, alas! to paint the gloom itself;
Where like a cook with ghoulish appetite
I boil and devour my own heart,
Sometimes there sprawls, and stretches out, and glows
A splendid ghost, or a surpassing charm,
And when this vision growing in my sight
In oriental languor, like a dream,
Is fully formed, I know the phantom’s name:
Yes, it is She! though black, yet full of light.
Written by Charles P. Baudelaire
The wench who lies, claims a humanitarian prize.
Her philosophical cacophony, takes hold of thee.
“It’s not you, it’s me” she speaks in sparse varieties.
The meaning repeats and she nails the introduction.
Riding high on her studded saddle, specialized in corruption
She can say it’s for the best when there’s no data to attest
And with her word as a granite foundation there’s no life
To suckle from its breast.
My protoplasmic shell sits warm in the Summer sun,
while my soul lies trapped in the frozen tundra.
The two cannot coexist, without negating creation;
resulting in, psychological frustration.
An impasse in the innards of a ruined soul,
between warring generals of Good and Evil.
Time will not heal, nor will the Summer sun loosen their grasp.
Instead I remind myself of the days we spent together.
Remembering the good, the bad, and everything between.
A tickle of warmth, to break the firing line, a brief reprieve.
Living like a slave to buried memories.
We shined like the brightest stars
even on the darkest of nights.
Yet we never knew when to give up a fight.
I guess this is where I find the light,
or recess into the shadow-less night.
love… will I ever get you right?
It’s been so long since I’ve talked to her
The “old” her
Before my mind over-emphasized her grandeur
Before my self-destructive tendencies
Broke my heart in two cities
Half fled, with her, half stayed behind
Reluctant to commit at any point in time
Itself to the trials of deferring love or lust
for a tender heart, swept north in a gust
a primordial wind whose current lay ancient
with whispers of the Renaissance and darkest of ages,
with conflicting wisdom, not to be believed,
by anyone, but the naive: Me.
Then life became a bore without her,
without her in my hopeless arms.
I pressured and I endured
With fables of love, and the way “I LOVED HER!”
All simply a veil, over childhood insecurities
As if she were the light, and I, frightened by night
Feared the dusk when she leaves.