A Rebirth Of What Never Was

When there is nothing left of you
But a haunted shadow made of an absence of light;

When the stardust is nothing but ashes and dust;

When pain and heartache are the only things remaining;

When you’re sure you’ve been destroyed;

Left behind;


You have nothing left to lose.
You have no reason to remain what you are;
And no reason not to become

Something new.

Track Eleven

You are so secret
In your disease.
A mime trapped
In an invisible box.
I’d break you out
If I could.
(But I’ve got to leave it up to you.)
The nerve center
Of my emotional core
Keeps growing
And pulsing;
With nowhere to go.
So I’m slowly filling notebooks
With your name only.
It’s enough to break you down.
One day I might be brave enough
To show you.


Shadow Wound

I believe

I could navigate the treachery blindly;

My hands bound with barbed wire

Behind my back;

I need the beauty in decay;

An illuminating darkness leading the way;

The subdivision of emotion at a molecular level;

Letting go of our father, whose deceitful reflection sells us what we cannot have;

The lack of impulse control…

This yearning to constantly destroy and rebuild;

An anxiety greater than any work of art could ever claim to be.

For the daily routine is a deceitful treason

And my shadow an open wound.

All I want is home.


I want

Is home.

With automatic emotional responses left behind;

Silvering with wings outstretched;

Becoming whole again.

Complete within incompleteness.

A Chaos Of Whispers

If we’re honest
We scrape nothing but
Scabbed over cores
Of raw emotional intensity;

A lack of want.
A yearning for emptiness;

A murder of crows
That renders the sky
Shallow and useless.

A cover of bloodstains.
A protective exoskeleton of bruises.
A pained smile.
Cracks in a ceiling.
Darkness that stretches eternally
As rays of black sunlight.
The muted voices of millions.
A reversed drowning of self.
The inverted torture of a smile.
The beauty of suffering
When all else is numbness.
When sense of self
Is nothing more than an empty bed.

If we’re honest
Our eyes roll back
Into our heads
As soft dreams replace fear of death.

If we’re honest
The tears of children
Drive us forward.

If we are honest
We know that the silence forms us
Just as much as we form the silence.

Secrecy has a way of destroying us.



God is an endless string of numbers.
The in-between details become the devil

With little to no effort.
I calculate repetitively;
In endless circular trails
Which feed themselves into starvation
Lying perfectly still among the night’s stars
And burning myself out
Into the depths of golden ratio

Serpent’s tail shit;
Over and over;
On repeat;
Circular perpetuity;
Et cetera.

Nothing but missing letters
And glorious exhaustion
Lie within

The Light That Blinds

The light flowed down from the sky
As silken waves
Smashing into harsh landscapes.
I stood.
I stood and watched
The light’s metamorphosis into flakes of snow.
The light then held me as I waited for something more.
But as flakes of snow reached me
I realized they were ashes,
And the light changed.
No longer holding me.
Now holding me down.

Saturday Night

Bleed Me A River