The Abomination. Pt. 1

Lingering behind his every step,
like a trailing worm, he’s left
a path of destruction.

It was never his choice;
he’s done nothing wrong
but simply exists
at the wrong place,
at the wrong time.
At all.

He has done nothing by his own hand,
but rather had set forth a series of events
unknowingly.

Emanating from the center
that he has become,
an expanding wave of surrealism
envelops the world around him,
deconstructs creation,
and recreates it as his own,
of his own mind.

The very same place
he is afraid
to exist within.
Now there is no where left to hide.








(I was not born for my father,
simply of my father.
My life is for him to mold,
not to own, for him to hold,
not to stone. .
Once I step out into the world
my life becomes mine,
and mine alone.)

I remember when I was little,
the world seemed so big,
that dog, he seemed so mean,
and the ocean seemed so deep.

I remember when I was little,
a ball of paper could be anything,
the sky, she seemed so vast,
and the attic was so dark and mysterious.

A portal to another world
that lived in my head
and my head alone;
where the world would leave me alone.
The world would leave me alone.

I remember when I was little,
an idea seemed so real,
human was so super-human,
and we were all made of steel.

I remember when I was little,
a word meant so much,
and touch, it never scared me
like it does now.

I remember when I was little,
I could escape in my mothers hair,
hide in it as she rested.
The world, it would just leave me alone.
The world would leave me alone.

I remember when I was little,
I didn’t need ambition.
I could just exist, create,
and admire all that was beautiful.
The world was once so beautiful.

I remember when I was little;
I had no expectations
because I assumed everything would stay the same.
Then everything changed.

The world got smaller,
I grew foolish ideals,
the oceans shallowed,
abstractions lost meaning,
the sky grew barriers,
the attic lost magic,
and the world could suddenly find me.

Ideas grew empty,
people grew weak,
and steel isn’t actually the strongest thing in the world,
in case you didn’t know.
Words are just words;
I won’t let anybody touch me.
I won’t let the world find me.
The world will never find me.
I can’t hide in my mother’s hair anymore,
but I have so many other places now.
I am never going to tell.
I am never going to tell.
I am never going to tell.
I am never going to tell.

I am never going to tell.

I have a world in me.

I have a world in me.



It keeps me safe, sane, and insane.


It keeps me hungry and constantly hunting.


Curious and constantly wondering,
creating, and hidden.

Entertaining the Atom Pt. 1

It all began with an atom,
a single menial being,
insignificant,
all alone in an ocean of nothing,
all alone in an ocean of nothing,
all alone.
No time to pass through,
no movement to get by,
trapped in the timeless stasis
if that were somewhere to be.
All alone in the absence
of every granted concept,
Oh, how it must have had been so lonely.

Oh, how it must have entertained the thought
of never knowing itself.
Drown it out. Drown it out in a cosmic storm
of creation. Split and separate,
just look at what turned out.
Look before you; look at this brand new world.

Devils and angels, heaven and hell;
God was born from its solitude.
Planets came to be and died,
radiating the surrounding space,
finding rotation and sustainable habitation.
Monsters and men stood erect
and finally discovered the atom existed,
but it didn't take much longer
to forget it was there,
for it to have become an afterthought;
it must have been so lonely.
All alone in this chaotic everything,
all alone in this chaotic everything,
all alone.

Oh, how it must have entertained the thought
of never knowing its children
who only knew it as a weapon, only loved it
out of fear. Split and separate,
just look at what turned out.
Look before you, look what they made you do.

Look at you.
All alone again.

I am
a Pollock painting









Give me something abstract.
Give me something metaphoric.
Give me something without
colors, words, shape, or sound.
They all hurt the same.

Give me something new.
I want to be excited.
If it can turn me on like creativity once had,
then I want it;
as long as it has no meaning.

I want it to push me further;
this thought that makes me so lonely.
Does the result make the trip worth it?
Sometimes it seems so very necessary.

I need something open,
something without walls or boundary.
I need something that exists but doesn’t,
something I can formulate to no end,
question to no answer, and lead me nowhere,
yet, everywhere else in the process.



Grow.

The shrink.



Then I want to throw it all away.



Welcome all, this is my kingdom
of fantasy and surrealism;
I numb myself with experimentation
into hypothetical situation.
I draw them out so I may feel them,
and finally relate to the world I live in,
even though I am so disconnected;
this place would be boring, if I were to ever know
what boredom is.






The vibrations break me down
and, cell by cell, recreate me.
Now a mold of color, word, shape, and sound,
and I barely hold any form or consistency.

The vibrations make me up
as within everything existing.
Weaving patterns, sleeping dormant,
I don’t quite know where this is going.

All I know is
I have become a product of myself;
a victim to experimentation.
I create who I am as I become what I create,
and am beginning to question whether it’s worth it.

I will sabotage my own mind and body
just to find that certain feeling I need
to attain that concept I have been
searching for.
Moving towards a marvelous self destruction.



The vibrations shake me unconscious,
gently towards a new confusion.
Through said confusion I attain a new irrelevant truth
dire to the make up of my own personal universe.

The vibrations wake me up
violently back to this land of the anti-surreal.
Where I was born and where I will lay to rest,
here, a grave for the wonderless.
Uninspired.
Unimportant.





Grow.

The shrink.

Then I want to throw it all away.

The Mute.

I have trouble filtering all the disappointments
my chest aches with every thought of
what could have been
had I only been more vocal,
had I only been more honest.
Now I look into every possibility
with regret.
I see myself making the same mistakes.
I see myself making the same mistakes.

Something that feels this strong
can crush you,
and beneath this weight,
this familiar make-believe
anticipation,
you are crushing me.
Don't lead me to lead myself on.
It is not your fault; I am just
a fool in love with the idea of this foolishness.
A fool who needs someone to make him a fool.

I cannot shake this obsession,
but i can shift it at will
to somebody more friendly to my
frail structure, someone who can
accommodate my ideas of possibility.
And someone with whom
I may forget.
With whom
I may forget you.
But I find myself making the same mistakes.
I find myself making the same mistakes.

For you were the very same thing.
You were the very same thing
as she was,
and as she will be.

All a victim to my silence.

I am beginning to grow scared of myself again

Distracted

Transfixed,
the word does me no justice.
I am sorry,
but the emotion is indescribable,
all I can relate to you is obsession.

I wear my surface on the surface,
but what is inside of me
stays as hidden as my insides.
I am sorry, I want more for you,
but that may take time
if you have the time.

Love,
it has become as shallow a word
as hate, as need, as will.
There needs to be an alternative
that can truly express
my sincerity, and how I feel.

Maybe not.