Mitch Mitchellson, The Mitchess of Mitchellton

The Clone

2012-01-12T23:17:00.000-08:00

We are but rays of light,
fleeting,
our ambience, a subtle heart beating.
Through fragmented glass we shine,
and are given life
but little meaning.

In the image of the sun,
divine,
we are shone upon the Earth.
Our being, skewed
through squinting eyes,
eyelashes cage our true figure.

We are but rays of light,
piercing.
Through the cracks we feign beauty.
To continue hope for those
who would not believe;
I am a lie and a necessity.

I
can’t
imagine,
I can’t
imagine.
I can’t imagine
a purpose greater than
merely existing.
So simple,
so minute;
sometimes I’d rather
not exist at all.

Why is it, father,
that I feel nothing?

We are but rays of light,
thinning,
on a planet quickly fading.
Made in the image of his image,
the sun is irrelevant
and so am I.

We are but rays of light,
innocent;
set upon this world for a purpose.
What if I choose not to continue
down my path-
would it be God or Man left disappointed?

We are but rays of light,
nothing more,
and there is nothing less;
I am a mere fragment
of what I once thought I was.
As a child of process, I was forgotten.

I
am
nothing,
I am
nothing.
I am nothing
more than the image of perfection.
I merely exist
as propaganda
to continue
a fable
that was once my parents.

I know why it is, father,
that I feel nothing at all.

We are but rays of light,
blinding
to your hopeful eyes, once unblinking.
Can those without souls
beget something
they, themselves never had?

In the image of the sun,
dimmed,
we will go out as well.
If I am to be man’s last hope,
I apologize,
but it ends now
when I...

Diary entry from January 2007

2011-10-22T00:34:00.000-07:00

I wrote this about a true story in which I witnessed a man die in a car parked within an empty lot where a Toys R Us once stood. It was my childhood store. I am sure it was for many others, but it was mine. I got my first bike there. I got my first videogame systems there. I went there everyday after school, if not to buy a new mighty max toy, magic cards, D&D box set, or some McFarlane toy, I went to browse for hours. The store was demolished after the roof caved in during a heavy snow storm. All that was left was this empty lot and the car that currently possessed it. It was winter (As the date suggests in the title) and snowing out. I am on the way home from a series of doctors and am stopped at a red light, passenger with my father in drivers seat. On the otherside of the intersection where we are stopped the lot rests with the car resting in the middle of it. I am staring at this car, daydreaming, when I hear a loud screech and see a giant SUV skid sideways and crumple this car. It caved in like an accordion. The man in the car was shaken about like a rag doll and exits the vehicle through the closed passenger window due to the force of the crash and died immediately. The other man exits his SUV and begins to swear and assess the damage to his own vehicle, not noticing another man lifeless nearby. Not caring. It seemed incredibly personal to me. I may be selfish in feeling that, but it did. So I when I got home I wrote this.
THE END

~SnowFlakes~

1 Worlds passing by my head
2 Spin into endless oblivion;
3 Dodging the windshield, they separate
4 Until, in another life, they meet again.

1 The winter glaze, it coats the land,
2 And within each flake their lays the dead.
3 Within each flake sleeps the memory
4 Of a wondrous and forgotten city.

1 And if this life is just a dream,
2 A little piece of a larger machine,
3 Then wake me, wake me, wake me please
4 With an empathetic push towards reality.

1 Through the night, the darkness glows
2 As the moonlight reflects off the snow
3 With a pushing wind to guide my way.
1 As the cities scream below my feet,
2 Above my head they glide with naivety,
3 And I haven’t got the heart to explain

1 In the cold, my breath turns,
2 Spelling my words out in the air.
3 Then they thin and they dissipate
4 Until there is nothing left to say.

1 Shape the snow into life,
2 Reflecting man or an angel, bright.
3 Or rest inside where it is warm
4 Looking on out at the cities storm.

1 Worlds passing by my bed
2 Spin into endless oblivion;
3 They turn and twist around my body
4 Weaving dreams into my drifting head.

0 Memories…

1 Toy store roof collapsed due to snow
2 With a mother and son trapped below,
3 My childhood is torn down for empty space.
1 Then seasons later a car is parked
2 Where the toy store was, an empty lot,
3 An SUV skids and can not break.
1 The crumpled iron and twisted metal
2 Is reshaped and forced within itself,
3 The man inside is given not a second to pray.
1 Shaken within and forced on out
2 To the ground as the people shout;
3 Poor broken hearts on that winters day.

Heavenly

2011-10-22T00:26:00.001-07:00

The headlights behind me are glaring
like bug eyes through the darkness.
Following me past locations, familiar
on this long and lonely road towards nowhere.
A beautiful nowhere.

The cigarette in my fingers
emits a feint winding smoke stream
flowing violently in the wind
as it gets pulls outside my window towards
those distant blinding beams.

These steel insects swarming in
from every direction, glowing.
They all know where they are heading.
They all know whom they are following.
It is a beautiful feeling, knowing
that you are providing a purpose.

I apologize, though,
being the terrible leader
that I am.
Little do they know,
little, as they should.
I wish I were fortunate enough.

Follow me in the caravan
towards the end.
Faithful lemmings.

The streetlights sometimes
make me feel like something heavenly,
so radiantly vibrant.
Illuminating the road ahead.
Maybe, for once,
I am headed in the right direction.
Unlikely.

And I will take them all with me.

Space Fish

2011-10-22T00:11:00.001-07:00

Three. Two. One.
Blast off.

There is something special
in feeling insignificant.
It is not a matter of perspectives
and putting them into any sort
of silly order.
Not at all.

I know that I am mortal,
I know that I am tiny,
but I never knew the extent
of how
until now,
though that never really
meant much to me
at all.

It has nothing to do with
faith or fates,
nothing to do with
love or hate,
and nothing to do with
the future or extending
to the far reaches of space.

But it is just when faced
with the physical infinite,
when it is right outside your window
looking back in on you;
distance,
possibility,
nothing familiar...

You are faced with the notion
that all of this could
come in and crush you
and it would not matter to
the rest of the whole.

It is beautiful.

It is untouched,
never to be jaded,
always pure,
and I welcome it.

Come in
and crush me.
Swallow me completely.
Just never take me back.
Take me to the furthest reaches
of wherever you deem worthy,
and do with me
as you please.

Take me as far as you possibly can.
Take me to the end.

Sympathy for the Atom

2011-10-22T00:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Wind Chimes

2011-10-22T00:03:00.001-07:00

Those chimes again,
they sing along with
the snow falling
outside my window;
ringing at every
wild blow of the
hungry wind,
the ravenous beast
burying the world.

It seems the air itself
is supplying the music
for its own chaos.

A radical rhythm,
where one bell’s sound
seems to end, several more
begin.
All filling in each others' spaces,
welcoming in the monster…

“Lay this house to waste.”

They beg,

“Free us from this sill.
Take us away with you.
Winds lift us up
and free us from these walls.
Behind us,

“Lay this house to waste.”

They beg.

Space Case

2011-10-11T20:58:00.000-07:00

The sand,
it
slips
from between my fingers
as
I
try to
climb out
from the pulling sea.

It curls around my ankles,
pulls,
and swallows;
trying to consume me.

I grab
for
a familiar fig-
ure.
Her dress,
I
know it’s
seams,
her feet,
so
clean,
her hands,
gentle,
her hair,
flows
wildly
in the ocean
breeze.

Her face,
though,
is hid-
den
from me
by a luminescent
orb
so blinding.

Startled,
my
grip
goes loose
as I
fall further
victim to the hungry blue.

I know she is
pleased
by how
her brightness
is shi-
ning.
She wants
the
waves
to bind me.

As
the
water
changes
into
empty space
and reaches out
to wash over me,
she whispers
words
to comfort
me.
“We must be alone to be happy. And in our loneliness we will know one another. For we are not ourselves when we are not alone. Let the waves of free and empty space consume your mind and heart. Let it absorb your thoughts like a sponge by no means of wringing. We must let our own individual chaos’s burn out our individual selves to be anything more than ourselves. We must let those charred remains remain as they are. And though we exist near one another, that is how it shall stay. And that is where we can be together. Only in our loneliest personal moments can we be together. Alone together, together and alone. Me- Here I will fade upon this shore, melting within my sun. And you; you- There; down within your waters, drowning within your space.”

Suddenly
she lacked…
not
lacked,
but
rather
…
held less,
but just as much,
if not more
importance.
But
I,
I became
distracted
by
something
with-
in
my-
self.
Myself.

And I saw it.
And I saw;
I
saw
the creatures
of
the sea
transform
be-
fore
me
into. into.. into...
planets
and
gasses
all spinning.

I saw
creation
born
and fall from grace
so gracefully.

All spinning,
all spinning.

Cre-
a-
tion
born from within
and
all around
me.

A universe born by
me
just for
me.
on-
ly
for
me.

The waves
became currents
of something
else

e

n

t

i

r

e

ly.

Stars
and clusters
of such
spectacular texture
and harmony,
How
the-
y
seemed to dance
with-
in
and
ar-
ou-
nd
one another.

The water no longer crept,
but it was
space
that inched further
up
my body.

It no longer pulled
but rather,
it
altered
the existence around me.
And I felt no
need
to fight it
any longe

r

r

r.

I let go;
I
let
go
of the beach
and I
let space
swallow me

e

n

t

i

r

e

ly

as the final wave
washed over me.

I exist here
no more.

One day we shall meet again.
I hope. I dare to pray. We can keep faithful to our obscurity.
And that we may exist. Exist alone. But to exist alone, together. Two separate entities in a common irrelevance. We shall be Irrelevant to one another and to the world around us, but that being the factor that we may relate upon. Loneliness.

The Ride

2011-10-11T20:48:00.000-07:00

I’mmortal.

…I broke the Ouroboros.

The tides seem to have a life of their own

as the waves gently suggest my boat

into the night.

Always into the night.

In the distant horizon

I leave my past behind;

my future is uncertain-

it runs a parallel line

with all my other lives.

“All your other lives?” You may be asking yourself.

I have witnessed so many beginnings and ends,

firsts and lasts, and the alphas begetting the omegas.

I have brought this world to its end so many times.

And as I continue this pattern- I may never die.

I ride the tail of the Ouroboros into a new creation

as long as I find the point where its tail’s ingested.

When the universal design is most perfect,

when the culmination of history deems it,

and the buildup of so many personal energies

combined within my own personal universe

finally tells the greater whole that the moment has come.

But this is all mere reflection.

All that exists before me now

is an endless body of water,

me,

and this boat.

What is left of my universe?

I fear that I may have distorted

such intricate design

through far too many lifetimes of tampering.

~ The edges of the world are doorways

into other plains of existence

allowing the sun to exit through the back

and supplying the moon with an entrance

so that she may take center stage again.

Reflecting from the water is a glittering infinity

when the sunset curtain parts and a galaxy

opens up above and below me.

My boat ripples through space.

My body floats along

towards the directionless nothing.

Hours become days as

days turn into months;

months fade into years

as years ease into a meaningless stasis.

Eons pass and

the sky has been completely born anew

so many times over that I have learned familiarity

to be pointless.

Every star has faded from existence

and been replaced

by another star

born from the destruction of the previous.

A wondrous thing, cycles.

It is how the universe keeps itself alive.

I wish it would die.

I wish I could die as well.

One or the other.

It doesn’t matter in the end.

Time. Time. Time.

It comes and goes,

it possesses us,

and it passes us by.

It takes us by the hand

only to take us into the deep ends

within the oceans

that I now know as the vague laws

and concepts that we once thought as absolutes

where it drowns us.

I now see immortality as a mistake

an incalculable amount of lifetimes too late.

Meditation. The universe has a pulse. It contracts and expands. It is breathing. The breaths used to be getting greater and greater, inhaling more nothingness and exhaling space. But, as it was designed to do so, it is now taking shorter breaths. It is slowing shrinking down on us. It will continue to do so until the lungs collapse and the spine supporting this universal body breaks. It will fall within itself and as the stomach swallows and digests it, all this compacted and collected mass will be pulled into a single spot so tightly that it will explode and re-expand again as a new life-form entirely. This is the body that they seem to call god, but it is just a series of currents, vibrations, and energies. That is all of what makes us up. Veins, the life force that we throw ourselves into. We ride these currents and paddle against them. We choose alternative routes. In the end though, we are all a part of the same circulatory system. We are all cells, a dismal fraction of a larger body. But at the same time we all possess our own personal universe; this fantastic energy that surrounds us and makes us up. It is constantly being altered as well, and has its own pulse that combines with all the other energies that contributes to the great whole. Whenever two universes merge within the chaos of the great whole, they are altered and will never be the same again. These circumstances can be from anything as minute as a random brush of a stranger’s elbow on the sidewalk to a new deep friendship to the great embrace of a lover and bringing new lives and their universes into this great whole. Energies are combining and clashing, they are moving and even if we don’t notice, especially with the more minute combinations, everything is different. Your personal universe is altered.

Too bad I am the only one left alive

within the greater whole.

There hasn’t been another soul for so very long.

Nothing contributing towards the greater whole

which means no more energies to bring upon a great reinvention.

Nothing contributing towards my own personal universe

which means stasis.

I just lie on this boat and wait for my own personal pulse to slow

and fade

and die.

I don’t know if this will ever happen though.

I think I may have done something terribly wrong.

Nature, forgive me.

How I miss age and counting down the years to my death.

All those ambiguous concepts.

Oh; how this world bores me now.

There is no end to the Ouroboros.

The tail cannot be removed from its mouth,

but rather the ring that it makes up can expand

infinitely.

The universe will still end where design has set it to begin-

without ever beginning if extended far enough.

Uni-Verse.

Entertained

2011-05-18T02:37:00.000-07:00

I think I may have selective hearing
because the greens and the yellows
are becoming less and are growing mellower
as the purple sounds are becoming more
and are growing louder.

I find it fascinating, this…

I find that I am masochistic in this way,
my torture for my own entertainment.
And it numbs me, this over-stimulation.
It numbs me,
feeling too many emotions.
It numbs me to the point of feeling no emotion.

This city has eaten me alive.

I have been worn through my sanity.
They are creeping up again,
those past complications.
I am going to miss those lonely, gray days
when everything grows lush and vibrant.

My head is light, my chest is heavy,
and the air is growing more and more crisp by the day,
I think I am already missing winter.
I wish I could have loved it
while it was still here.

I think I love myself.
I think I love myself.
I think I know who that is.
I know who that was,
but that really isn’t relevant anymore.
I don’t know where to end
because I don’t know where to begin.

I wish there wasn’t a hierarchy of emotions
so I may love those that deserve it more than I can
before I learn to love myself.

Myself.

I am sorry.

Globes

2010-10-16T22:38:00.001-07:00

The marvels of science, dimensions and relativity.
The future is up in the sky, but the universe is flat and revolving.
The earth is round, or so my globes lead me to believe.
It is hard to keep objective when everything begs for an opinion.

If you don’t pick a side then you are everybody’s enemy.
The future is oil as opposed to engines run by steam.
The world is littered with grids, or so my globes lead me to believe.
It is hard to keep obscure when everything begs for my attention.

Particle accelerators are trying to recreate time’s beginning.
The future is leading towards our end in a vacuum of the purest irony.
The seas are haunted by serpents, or so old maps lead me to believe.
It is hard to keep recluse when there is so much that begs for creation.

And it is all so finite.

Angels have died at the hands of critical thinking.
Religion started the wars but science supplied the weaponry.
The Earth is so small and fragile, or so my globe is leading me
to believe, and wonder has come to such a sad dissipation.

Viruses, Us.

2010-10-07T00:59:00.000-07:00

We did it.
We did it for the good of man.
You and I,
though we may no longer exist;
we finally did something pure
and good
in our own destructive way.

The voices rang
in our ears, “words, words, words, words, words.”
You and I,
We could only ignore them,
we could only subside our obsessions
for so long
before we finally had to bring them to silence.

We were told that
it would be
either you or me.
Well we showed them;
we both went down together.
By our hands alone has
the threads of reality come undone
and we re-started it all.

They call us unnecessary evils;
they know what we are,
they whisper our titles
behind closed doors.
“Devils.”

We were destined to devour
and give into our instincts;
our existence was viral
and our hunger, insatiable.
Please, if they just let us devour
and quicken the pace
so the system may start over;
it could have been so much easier.

We were told that
it would be
either you or me.
Well I didn’t very much
feel like continuing that game.
I had long since grown tired
and had no intention
of living forever.

Unnecessary evil?

The two of us,
we were hardly unnecessary.
You and I,
we were born to eliminate the other evil.
I have come to realize though, that
only then,
once one of us succeeded
does he truly become unnecessary.

The two of us,
we were born into this world,
but you and I,
we could only come to an end
by the other’s hand.
Once one of us is gone,
what would be left
but a meaningless eternal descent?

I had a better idea.

That we digest what we could of this world,
and that we spread this anomaly in the system
that you and I were.
I wanted to fuck it all up,
pick it apart,
tear it to pieces,
I wanted the system to corrode
and for the infection to be irreparable.

For it to shut down,
shut off,
and start anew-
back to a time before we both existed.

We did it.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
You and I,
we destroyed it all;
we made them scream,
cry, and beg.
One by one,
until the system came undone,
we killed every man, woman,
and child.
We fought, and we won.
We did it for a new world,
a better world
without us.

We were told that
it would be
either you or me,
well we showed them;
we both went down together.
By our hands alone has
the threads of reality come undone
and we re-started it all.

We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
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We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
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We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.
We did it in hope that neither of us was to be born again.

Trees and Such

2010-09-07T01:25:00.000-07:00

The breeze moves the trees in such a seductive manner.
They dance and they sway to a song no one else can hear.
The leaves are plucked one by one at the moments
where the rhythm is most wild. When the dance is most violent.

And over many seasons she grows to trust him more,
he grows to care for her deeply,
and this dance just isn’t enough anymore.
Every spring he returns
and stays through most the autumn,
eventually needing to leave
her bare skeleton behind;
waiting for her to be born again.

Though she stays firmly in the ground, rooted in the soil,
her branches tease and seduce the breeze-
her, naïve and unknowingly beguile.
With their wild movements
of her limber branches release her foliage.
Her children
sail the tides of his winding winds
as she looks up at their games from beneath.

They flutter around, spiral up and down;
they jump and they glide
in circles or from side to side.

The breeze pushes and pulls, taking the lead.
Trying its hardest to uproot and pull its complacent significant other
elsewhere.
He wants so badly to take her somewhere she has never seen,
to show her that there is more than this silly little Earth.

He tries and reasons;

he tells stories of colors beyond her imagination,
past the horizon where the sky is a smear of textures
and glows a pink milky chroma.
Oh, and when it touches the day’s blue
and the orange from the East, as it melts behind the mountains,
how it glows, how it explodes into a glorious line of white,
then fades away into night.

“We get sunsets here, she replies.
We have our own days and nights.”

“It is not the same.”

He tries to tell her of past and present civilizations,
the wonders of the world and mysteries of modern science.
He explains how there exists lands beyond the sea,
and amazing stories all of the fascinating people he has seen.
He shares his amusing tales
of the hats he has blown from heads,
scarves he has removed from necks,
rain drops he has pushed into peoples’ faces,
and storms he has guided over cities.

Oh, and for fun, how he loves
to prove the meteorologists wrong.

She is still not amused.
In place of curiosity,
all she experiences is fear.

“My love!” He cries, “Stay by my side!
We can dance, we can sway,
and we can watch your children glide.

“Come with me, I beg you,
follow me, would you please!
I swear I will protect you
and all your beautiful leaves.
You may root into foreign soils
and taste new and rich minerals of the Earth;
if there is anything you desire,
I will bring your there. “

But there was nothing…

“Fine then…
“There is a castle in the clouds, whispers the breeze-
far in the distance, long past the horizon.
There is a world beyond your own,
a tower of crystal and water which you will never know.”

He speaks low and in a bitter tone,
until this point, she had yet to hear
but it still hasn’t really dawned to her
though expressed rather clear.

He offers her one final dance,
she accepts,
and this final sway most violent of all;
he removes her branches of all their leaves
and carries them towards the clouds.

They skip and dance,
they spiral and spin,
not one of them looking down
at the tree, now left alone,
forever rooted in the ground.

Listening to pretty Music

2010-09-01T18:13:00.000-07:00

A hallowed voice shrivels in tune
as it tries to reflect the mind
that rests within the head
which analyzes the heart
the mouth is speaking for.

My heart is in my head
as my brain within my chest
confuses every emotion that
runs through it.

I don’t know what is a product of what
in whichever order anymore.

At this point, is it even important?

I am not blind.
I just see too much.

I soak in the surrounding atmosphere as a whole.
The pieces connect together
with lines so thin; they seem as one smeared image.
They intrude in on one another.
They can no longer exist without one another at this point.

So this hallowed voice
in quivering verse
echoes through the room.
And this is what is interpreted.

Is it right to blame myself for what is misconstrued?
Am I correct to connect what is so loose and shapeless?

As the notes are pressed
and strummed along with rhythm,
the voice ceases to let the atmosphere
take a mold of its own.
Then it ends.

WordSwordSwords Word Sword Swords

2010-08-16T10:28:00.001-07:00

.

I guess the question is
are you really happy
with what people know of you,
and are you happy with
whom you really are?
Are you happy with what you know?

You see, knowledge is power,
but not all those with power
possess knowledge;
knowledge is truth,
but don’t let truth limit what you know.

Life is a series of moments, yes,
but that’s become so ambiguous.
People seem so content with so little.
People seem to give meaning
to moments that hold no weight in the end.
These moments then become
a meaningless blur of time;
contorted into this vague confusion.
Time and space have become irrelevant.
Theory remains theory.

I am so confused by what I know,
and what I think, and
I am so confused by what I know,
and what I think I know;
I just want some me time.

I just need some reflection.

.

Bubbles

2010-08-09T09:21:00.000-07:00

My breath
leaves
me
in curious orbs,
floating
towards
the surface.
Like
an
army of ants they march
in chaotic order,
each
with
a purpose.

I see the sun,
wrinkled,
is slowly
blurred
from my vision
as
the distance
grows,
and is
filled in
by this
cool and soothing
liquid.

I reach;
I
reach
for something
that I know
isn’t really there.
My arms act
and
react
to themselves
in
instinctive manners.

They wrinkle
the world around me,
turning it slowly,
making
me
dizzy.
I can’t help
but
react
more violently.

From my arms,
leave
such curious orbs
joining in the confusion.
Mixing
in with
the
last
of
my lungs air,
I can no longer tell
where my breath is.

They float up
towards the sky,
or down
towards the sky,
to
the
sun,
wherever that
may be,
and release,
combine,
and merge
or
something.

At this moment
I don’t
care...
I
am
just
a bit
confused
and
I
am
tired,

as the panic ceases…

I think
I should
sleep
for a moment.

The Abomination/The Artist?

2010-07-12T12:25:00.000-07:00

~

He wanted to witness something beautiful
from the inside
looking out
at the rest of creation.
He wanted to create a comparison
of this surrealism he had come to know
against the world his body exists within,
but his mind had long forgotten.
He wanted to feel the warmth
of his creation
licking his skin.
He wanted to make something
truly beautiful
which everyone may experience.

~

The smoke,
it still billows
thick
like black cotton pillows
as they rise
up into the air
and meld with
what was once a baby blue sky
slightly tickled by the sun.

A sun,
it appears,
is what this planet
had become.
The flames
tower
to the heavens.

And now
the sky is hidden
behind
a darkening tint of gray
turning black
as the ash of the Earth
falls back to its place in the world
where it was lifted from.

Replaced by itself,
the planet reconstructs,
but
as something completely different.
What was lush is now desolate,
and what was once alive
is now choking what is left
as all biology
is suffocated,
encased in an ashen shell.

~

He didn’t mean for it to go this far
but once you create something so pure
and wondrous;
the way the flames dance and sway
like a seductress
looking to rob you of your senses
by means of overloading each
with a lust for innocence;
it would be a vile crime against universal design
if it were to ever be kept contained.

He just wanted to connect
his consciousness
with the collective
by means of expression.
But rather than becoming
a part of their thought,
it seems he pulled them into his.

~

The smoke,
it still billows.

Then from the flames he emerges-
And
lingering behind his every step,
like a trailing worm, he leaves
a path of destruction.

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,
of his perception of his own image.

The very same place
he is afraid
to exist within.

Now there is no where left to hide.

~

It is hard to say
that he was never meant to exist.
Though he knew it as a fact,
it was hard for him
to understand
because he did exist.

He existed…
It felt wrong to him.
It felt off somehow.
As if he was somewhere
between this plain
and another that felt all-too-vague.
It is either too complicated or too simple
for the human imagination.
Maybe he was born at the wrong place,
or at the wrong time,
or in some other way
against design.

But he existed
here, now, and in this body
with this mind.
This had to be
because it is.

Maybe he is a tool of design
or the hand of nature
fulfilling his purpose in creation:
To undo it entirely.

Or maybe he is taking
complete advantage
of humanities free will
given to him by God at the beginning.

Either way,
what is
is.

Or was…

~

The smoke,
it still billows
thick
like black cotton pillows
as they rise
up into the air
and meld with
what was once a baby blue sky
slightly tickled by the sun.

As the ash rains down.

~
He just wanted to set the world on fire
as he lay within it.
And that is what he did.

He made us all a part of his sense of beauty

just before it swallowed him entirely.

And all that was left,
all the was left
was nothing.
~

Globes

2010-05-30T08:52:00.000-07:00

Particle accelerators are trying to recreate time’s beginning.
The future is leading towards our end in a vacuum of the purest irony.
The seas are haunted by serpents, or so old maps lead me to believe.
It is hard to keep recluse when there is so much that begs for creation.

And it is all so finite.

Angels have died at the hands of critical thinking.
Religion started the wars but science supplied the weaponry.
The Earth is so small and fragile, or so my globe lead is leading me
to believe that wonder has come to such a sad dissipation.

The Tragedy

2010-05-26T19:52:00.000-07:00

A triangle in the sand
contorted, grief stricken faces
and crooked spines
all looking in towards the center
between the three of them
all wishing back what it was
which the ocean has stolen

Ode to Snape!

2010-05-19T12:09:00.000-07:00

I used to see love as something innocent;
wandering through the forest
and taking risqué pictures in the over growth.
Not as something perverted or overtly sexual,
but exploring the limits of innocence
within sexuality itself. Just silly innuendos.
I used to look forward to the apparent magic
that hid itself within the touch
and an optimistic outlook on the world.

I used to look forward to that escape
from the real world.
It seems that all of my escapes
end in ruin.

I used to wonder how opposites could attract,
not that it matters anymore;
it was never meant to be.
That since has become obvious.
Just imagine the fools we could have been;
can you see us happy, running still like children?
I still can.

But that can never happen...
You have since been taken from me;
once by love then once by death.
I am sorry, I am so sorry.

Now here I lay
bleeding on the floor
and wanting nothing more
than for you to look me in the eyes.
But all I have is this child;
of your flesh and of your blood,
but not of mine
to satisfy my desire
of this broken body:
Child with my love's eyes,
please look at me
for one last time
before I die.

Large Hadron Collider

2010-02-18T01:39:00.000-08:00

You and I,
we will die young
just as our delusions
have told us so.
For as long as I can remember,
my delusions have told me so.

Together into the unknown,
we shall follow.
We will go;
Whatever our delusions
tell us to do
whenever our delusions
tell us so.

And in the end
we have come to find that
we have taken ourselves too seriously,
examined ourselves too carefully,
broken ourselves down to the very last molecule
until nothing was left.
What a waste…

We will die young,
you and I.
It isn’t something tragic,
it isn’t something frightening
or worrying,
it is simply within our life’s design,
and is;
just is.

Natural…

And in the end
we have come to find that
our minds have become predictable
and our needs so boring and simple.
Wanting so badly to be complex and meaningful,
we dissect
until nothing was left.
What a waste…

And in the end
we have come to find that
not everything held such fucking weight
and sometimes insignificance can be a saving grace,
oh the rapture of being put in your rightful place...
Know that not every great question shares the same answer
and the search may seem to take you nowhere
because you are searching for your answer in someone else’s question.

There is not one meaning to all our meanings,
and it will not be his or her meaning
so that book you are reading is simply shallow comfort.

“Who are you?”
“Who am I?”
Me?
I am who I am when I am it.
Empty? Maybe yes, but
not everything
needs to be so damn perfect.

We are going to die young,
you and I.
But it isn’t so bad
when you have
everything properly aligned.
Just like my delusions
have told me so.
And they are telling me...

There is nothing left to be afraid of.

Entertaining the Atom Pt. 1

2009-12-12T11:22:00.000-08:00

2009-11-13T22:26:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-10-20T03:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Distracted

2009-09-01T21:58:00.000-07:00

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.

Drunk.

2009-08-31T01:47:00.000-07:00

My favorite part of being drunk
is not the new found enthusiasm for life,
it is not feeling the weight melt
from my shoulders and my mind,
it is not forgetting,
no.
It is how the lights seem to dim,
yet brighten around me at the same time.
How they seem to blend,
all shades,
all hues,
all contrasts;
how they seem to blend.
It is how I feel consumed.
And while consumed, I can feel emotion again.
I feel how I feel I should feel,
I can process how I should process,
and now
I can be human for a while.

And time stops...

My Fixation With Hair

2009-08-28T13:43:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was young
and my mother would watch over me
because she was too scared
to send me to a public kindergarten.
Naptime would come along
and I would never be able to sleep.
She, though, would lay and rest,
having been so overwhelmed with exhaustion.

It had been a pattern in my early years
that instead of napping,
they’d leave me to find a way
to keep myself occupied.
So I found solace in playing with her hair
to keep from being lonely,
and to be closer to the churchwoman
who would disappear for years at a time.

I would burrow tunnels, foxholes,
for my army toys to hide in.
Tie tight knots for bunkers, sandbags,
and engage in a full-out war reenactment.

I would brush her hair with gentle strokes;
the texture still lives on in my fingers.
I would distress, and still do, on occasion
at how I never had hair that soft and perfect.

I would make patterns and design,
pulling and laying her hair
in every-which direction.
Until my father came in to remove me
for being a brat, he would say,
and for being a nuisance.

But no matter how many times
I would tug, tie, dig, twist, and tangle,
no matter how many times I woke her,
accidentally hurt her,
leaving her hair ugly and mangled;
the very next day she would let it down
and let me roam free in my
favorite childhood playground.

Hands

2009-08-28T13:40:00.000-07:00

I was staring at my hands,

imagining them fifteen years ago

and how small they used to be,

and how small they seem now.

How I used to compare them

to my father’s hands,

and how I would hope to never have his

fat, sausage-like, hairy fingers.

I think, in a way, my hands have

ended up shockingly similar,

depressingly disfigured.

I hope my hands are never

as uncomfortable to hold as his.

I remember holding mine into his,

comparing size and width;

secretly cursing him and his hands

while he smiled down at how cute

my curiosity in his palm was.

I feel that I will regret

having this memory one day.

Why I Love The Smell Of Cigarettes

2009-08-27T11:22:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was young
my mother would go to bars
and sell flowers to make extra money
for groceries and presents.
She would be out until late in the night,
and I would lie in my bed and wait.

She was a church legend back in her day,
a top fundraiser,
and a truly God-gifted woman.
Now what is left?
What was left was a woman
using this old “blessing”
to scrape together little money
so we could have food and holidays.

What is left is my hero,
putting up, living with, and loving
her beast of a husband.
Still she has room left in her heart
to care for, and unconditionally love,
all of her children,
not showing a sign until later years
that she was ever affected.

She would come home in the A.M’s
stinking head to toe
with an exotic mixture
of wonderful smokes.
The fumes resided on her vest jacket,
one of my most fond memories
within the realm of scent.

The smell was so curious,
such a pungent combination
of different cigarettes, cigars, and marijuana.
There would be a different dominating smell every night
depending on where she went to sell,
but it would all collect on that vest jacket
and combine into a smell I fell in love with.

The smell meant she was home,
the smell meant the defender,
the hero,
had finally returned.
I could tell her of my day,
I could tell her of all the good and bad,
I could tell her what that bastard
had done not so long earlier.

I feel bad now.
She was tired.
She was slowly wearing thin of this.
Yet she still loves,
still, to this day
none-the-less,
so truly unconditional.

Some things got better,
some got worse.
More things better,
but as happy as I am
that she doesn’t need
to sell flowers anymore
to make ends meet,
I miss that smoke-smothered jacket.