#poets diary

skipin the aching daydream

To you brewing me caffeine

Hoping this weekend

Is more grand than hope

And the small affirmations

Stand to invoke, into this space

We creatively made, with violent haste

Nihilists in denial and

Sipping chamomile

Playing house like a child

Screaming ideals into the quiet

Yet tryna make amends

Wishing this is a nightmare

To wake up and make the cycle end.

Please send me home, I’m alone

I never ever meant to speak in that tone

It’s the pressure that’s weakening my bones

unknown intentions are the

technique to your throne.

Yes I’d bend time

to when the air was clear.

This is a chronological series of excerpts of poetry and journal entries that all relate to one another, or have some sort of thread connecting them all. Most are self fulfilling prophecies... go figure.

— late 2013—

I can’t have a sense of belonging with anyone anymore. I will always be detached... never integrated.

Before I would exercise a charisma that everyone appealed to, but nowadays it’s different... as I slowly coming to grips with the parts of me that are indeniable.

People want that charisma, they want to open up and feel as if they can resonate with someone. But they haven’t realized sounds only echo in empty caves.

— 5/2014—

I ache at the potential of old friends. Burnt bridges. How much better things could have been, how much grander life itself would be...

The fact of the matter is I am the one who set fire to a screaming child who was afraid to let go. But now when I look down, I see his burn marks.

Such a horrible pain and regret at such a young, formidable age. A wound without closure. You were the friend who helped me stand against the world. Only for me to push you to the ground and begrudgingly walk away. You were my greatest and most valued friend. To which I am now ruined, because now I know I will never have such a relationship like that again.

— 7/22/2014—

I visit Alister’s grave.

His body was lifeless, suspended by some invisible force within an open casket. The casket is made of roots and wrap his body like a rib cage.

Ironic, because ribs protect our vital organs.... yet, vital is an unnecessary word considering how I’ve been surviving.

Am I surviving? Or am I just wasting away? Soon I will fade into the background of the very reality that holds me together.

— 8/2014—

A new encounter taking me by surprise. Out of the calm eastern sea, a lion crawled from its depths. A giant, just, and ever most intimidating... yet fain, and fearful.

An innocent air, curious... cunning... open. I could see in its eyes a whole new perception, different than its kind.

— 8/2014—

The ocean girl. Harlen. I await for her. I can hear her presence through the air... she is out there in the ocean gracefully walking upon its surface.

I fear sailing, drowning, just to reach her.

Life is water, you can drown in it very easily.

Idealism... a downfall. But a tool. A futuristic sense, blinding us to the present. Insight detached from reality. While life can drown us, our dreams can suffocate us. Because reality is like our air.

Such perception is unnatural, but I suppose we all have our gifts.

I will be consumed eventually with something, and everyday I must fight being eaten alive. Consumed with an idealism shrouding ourselves with hopes and dreams that will amount to what?

Nothing.

— 9/2014—

There is a peace within belonging and a remorse about those behind. And an anxiety about the love that will unfold in the future.

The lions folly is entertaining, giving me a glimmer of hope. Yet something else is tugging at my heart that I am scared of.

I now know the answer.

I am scared of love. Maybe easy, but ambivalence rules infinity. And the end of infinity is certainty. I am never certain, and I don’t want to inflict pain. It scares me, but I’d rather bare others pain than my own.

Scared of loosing myself, my values. Slowly I am already seeing how Harlen will affect my future.

— 10/2014–

We will all lose ourselves. All we are will be lost, and we’ll realign ourselves to who we need to become. Needs become desperation’s, and desperation’s will destroy you.

Even in belonging and freedom you will feel the sting. Because liberty lies in death. Life confines my selfish tendencies that all humans are born with, such blunt rashness will take away my humanity... and become something entirely different.

All that is holding myself back is me. I am chained to this world. The realm no one desires to see. This existence forces me to be alone and want nothing but liberance.

Deliver me from my hell.

I am lost because I am found. Found by those I wish my future hold, but lost to know nothing will change.

I am scared of hope and loosing hope, but parts of me are starving to reanimate itself. I am horrified to see all this play. As aggravating as it is to watch, my character is deceiving, and the actor is truly psychotic.

— 2016? —

A new set of eyes pulls the metal tighter around the chain in my heart. I stand in wait to see how I’ll be strangled. Questioning if this is the monsters bite of if it’s just me being consumed with this tourchuous mind of mine.

—4/2017–

A tragic thing it is to start this page with stains. I guess it’s sad because when things lose their potential to be beautiful that thing loses who they were trying to become. The future self dies and all that was needs reformation. All that is... is now something completely different.

Just like ink on a page, life stays with you. No matter how much you shut your eyes.... because your other four sense will capture the sins and transgressions. My mouth I am washing with coffee and my hands I am soaking with soap. But I can still smell the oil of your skin and I can still taste the salt that lines you flesh.

Am I alone? Or am I surrounded by lights and alcohol, designed to blind out my consciousness and leave the only thing holding me together in the dark.

— late 2017—

I’ve been guilty my whole life. Maybe only recently I have reason for the feeling, but it was birth that planted this seed in my chest, it’s roots have been burrowing down through my sternum. They fill the empty space in my lungs and crowd the pulsing of my heart.

Maybe my tears are just my blood getting pushed out as the roots occupy more and more space in my body. And the blood the fishes from my nose is it’s warning sign of the chronic internal hemorrhages.

Something predestined. The guilt that had driven me to feel alone, disconnected, yearning to connect. But human connection is nothing but a mere mirage. Yet I year for it. I know what path I set down long before I fell.

—2018–

Where does my future go?

It seems to be caught up in the past... what ever self discovering it destructing elements that I have made, sentimentally haunting me for the rest of my life.

The chronic fear of loss... where did you come from? The only place left to look is way with in... the scary thing that I found. The one gem that would be a stone from Hell. Forged from my blood. The blood of a sinner.

—late 2018–

It’s the silence that speaks to me. Maybe because I know what it feels like to have air run its fingers through the hair of vocal chords, but all that comes out are inaudible whispers. I understand that frustration... when your lips can’t shape the sounds. Sounds that are your only way out of this hell.

You have the key and the lock is in front of you. But you are paralyzed. Maybe from the unknown that is beyond the door you are about to open.

All the monsters you’ve seduced into this door... locked away... will come out like you’ve prophesied long ago. In some demonic vision that’s plagued your entire life...

Would speaking be that bad? Even when you’ve chilled around the fragile frame just to get around to avoid opening that damn lock.

If I can’t open it... I will never hear your precious silence... would anyone else ever even consider it?

Would your silence compile and grow until it became tangible?

—2019–

Floating in this prison we call a mind.

A projection cast by an array of neurons.

Tethering us to the physical plane through our senses.

What is consciousness? Is it the projected image? Weightless? Drifting in the sea of dark illuminated by a sense of self?

But will this space ever really close? Why is it that the closer we come to touch the farther away we'll feel?