Drifting Towards Distant Lullabies

Black and Looming,

She peers into its soul,

The swirling masses of chattering teeth,

The slick palms of wrinkled futures,

The abyss.


The depths are scorched red by the core of molten wrath.

Harsh streams of sorrow taint its nothingness.

Forgive the sins of the sinners.

Why, it’s only natural.


Place your wrath upon the true believers,

Those who believe in living.





Where am I?


Just a little piece from someone I’ve never met whose words seem to resonate with my own emotions.

Finnished with it all

I love you, I swear, I do.

But I am not in love,

To you I have not fallen.

But standing is something to do alone

And it is loneliness that kills me,

So softly,

So slowly.

But when you ask

If you are enough for me

The answer is no,

Because I want to fall

To the frozen floor

And melt in the warmth,

In the arms,

Of the person

That I’m in love with.

But to that person I have never promised love,

And my promises they may never hear.

I want to stand with you,

As I have, so long,

But falling is freedom,

Is life,

Is hope,

Falling is a leap of faith

I have forever desired to take.

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Advice from a Tortured Soul

Whisper your sweet stories of love’s fallen desires,

To souls with unopened ears.

Litter your soul with the fragments of joy’s crashing glories,

Horde your heartache.

Oh, the heart – a swirling vortex of soiled marvel.

Query those familiar with Old Man Sorrow,

Those who have tasted enmity.

Old Man Sorrow teaches the tainted knowledge,

Bilks the ignorant and optimistic lover.

He holds the charred remnants of scorched hopes in his creased claws.

Oh, the heart – a swirling vortex of soiled marvel, burns with a sweltering passion for despair.

Blister the soul for kismet happenings.

Slake the soul’s desire for desolation,

Dispose of the glittering dustings of cherished memories.

Inevitably brutal, life is, I promise you that.

It is a callousness strengthened by fallen remedies.

Oh, the heart – a swirling vortex of soiled marvel, burns with a sweltering passion for despair,

bleeds from wounds resistant to all bandages but time.

The heart balloons with a sick satisfaction,

Let it.

The heart grapples with your nightmares,

Let it.

The heart chokes on your life,

Let it.

The heart dies.

Let it.