Under The Floorboards

2 Seconds
Two seconds when your lover’s eyes lock onto yours for real—
Two seconds when the door swings wide and you can’t hide the feel.
Two seconds when the condom breaks and panic grips your chest.
Two seconds when your throat locks up and swallowing’s a test.

It’s the moment that the bullet pierces skin and changes fate.
The breath before you kneel and beg forgiveness while it’s late.
The gasp before a baby screams its lungs into the air.
And the silence after someone’s gone when nothing’s left to share.

We orbit on this old worn-out sphere and live like nothing ends.
Like life ain’t but a moment held between two heartbeats, friends.
Then suddenly the whole damn game just shifts beneath your feet.
It’s only two seconds to change a life, to make it incomplete.

Two seconds when your tires kiss the ice and time goes slow.
Two seconds when the debt gets cleared and you can finally go.
The soft laugh echoing through the trees on some forgotten night.
The first note of a song you love that hits you just right.

Two seconds when you ask your old man for the keys again.
The lingering gaze from someone passing who you’ll never ken.
The panic rising in your chest when you feel something wrong.
Two seconds how you realize this ride ain’t very long.

We orbit on this old worn-out sphere and live like nothing ends.
Like life ain’t but a moment held between two heartbeats, friends.
Then suddenly the whole damn game just shifts beneath your feet.
It’s only two seconds to change a life, to make it incomplete.

Two seconds when you help somebody pull themselves from down below.
Two seconds when you stab a friend right in the back and watch him go.
That final breath drawn inward while the last light fades from view.
Every word that ever cracked a heart wide open straight on through.

Every conversation that had meaning carved between the lines.
Every lesson someone learned to live by while they crossed their mines.
Every burning want that kept them moving through the darkest night.
Two seconds is the crack between your darkness and your light.

We orbit on this old worn-out sphere and live like nothing ends.
Like life ain’t but a moment held between two heartbeats, friends.
Then suddenly the whole damn game just shifts beneath your feet.
It’s only two seconds to change a life, to make it incomplete.

Alone With My Thoughts

What is wrong with me, they ask,
as if wrong has a shape you can hold,
as if a moonless night offends someone
enough to file a complaint.

I just want to be here.
Staring at my ceiling. Wondering.
Thinking about random, trivial things
that matter to no one but me.

Is the air really water?
Why do atoms look like
crazy, chaotic solar systems spinning
in every direction at once?
Does something live on them too?

Are we parasites
clinging to some giant’s cells,
so small we can’t even see
the boundaries of the structure we’re riding?

They think I always have to be social,
have to talk about everything
rattling around inside this head.
But it’s my mind. My thoughts.
I don’t ask them to share theirs.

They do anyway, of course. Endlessly.
Mundane chatter. White noise clatter.
None of it holds interest for me.
I’d rather let my own thoughts wander
aimless inside my own skull for a while.

Thoughts die off eventually,
starved from the simple lack of care.
The questions never answered
because the answers don’t matter.
Only the questions do.

They’re knocking again.
I won’t let them in.
There’s nothing wrong.

When I die I’ll be alone.
Why can’t I live alone, too?
There’s comfort in my solitude.
Peace and quiet
in random thoughts.

Angels and Demons

I. Angels

Light bleeds in through the windows
on the worst days,
shining through the darkest times
like a sign of something you can’t name.

A coldness fills the empty room
but a comforting warmth moves through it,
something watching
in both joy and gloom.

When the pain wraps tight and shadows fall
and everything seems lost in haze,
when the night stretches on too long
and the future feels far away —
you’re not alone.
There’s always something close behind.

A cry echoes through the empty halls,
mourning for a life now gone.
A question of the meaning of it all.

And then another cry, down that same hall —
a newborn’s welcoming wail.
A new soul arrives to answer the call.

They walk beside us with our heartbeats.
They care for the sick and the poor.
They bring comfort and peace
then fade like they were never here,
wiping tears, healing wounds,
wrapping us in their arms.
Angels walk among us.
We just cannot always see.

II. Demons

Life bleeds in through the shadows,
a closing in of darkest times,
a sign of suffering hidden from view.

A coldness fills the burning mind,
a place where no dream survives.
Something moves in from a distant time.

When memories rush in like shards of glass
and you’re lost in a burning haze,
when the fires sear your thoughts
and everything starts to unravel —
remember nightmares aren’t real.
Just haunted echoes of what was.

A cry down an empty hallway.
The bad dreams return once more.
A ghost that won’t fade away.

They walk behind us in our fears,
distorting what we knew,
exposing every insecurity
we tried so hard to bury.
Demons distort our reality.
They always have.

Another Ending

My head is crammed with thoughts,
overwhelmed and lost.
I can’t quite grasp who I am,
who I’ve become here.
Each day feels like teetering
on the edge of a chasm,
uncertain of what the next step will reveal.

I need foresight.
Some fresh perspective.
I feel myself sinking
in the mire of my own mind.
Dreams twist and turn like quicksand, consuming me.
Words die before they can be spoken.

Nothing makes sense anymore —
even chaos has patterns,
yet my mind feels scorched, unraveling at the seams.
Illusions and tricks,
the only remnants of her,
now that I see the charade she played.

Thoughts stumble without guidance.
Eyes wide but unseeing.
A synaptic overload, a storm inside my head.
The rationality of thought crumbles before me.
Every dream and idea
left abandoned on the bed.

I must clear my sight. Make a fresh decision.
I wasn’t here last night. Not in this state.
Yet panties scattered, sheets in disarray,
a used condom in the trash locks my gaze.

Moments drift by. Maybe hours in the void.
The numbness settles deep,
all-encompassing.
I hear the water stop,
her footsteps from the shower.

It’s time for another ending to unfold.

Anymore

Let me weave a tale for you.
A tale of life and death,
where one ventures forth to seek what’s true
through peril and distress.

A smoke and mirrors fairy tale.
I used to know everything without fail.
I used to cry out magic spells
and rattle forth sacred prayers.
I knew the questions no one tells,
and the wonder of the fears.

Then I heard a rattle sound.
A last breath drawn within.
A coldness filled the sullen room
and my ignorance begins.

What stands beyond the threshold
where no story dares to tread?
What creature carries the bitter cold
and comforts the newly dead?

Why does anger rise inside of me
when I know it was the end of pain?
Why does the memory terrify me
and call the nightmares back again?

Why does it touch my every thought?
Why does it feel so wrong —
an end to a painful battle fought,
and now her pain is gone?

Am I so selfish I’d wish her back
to the pain she was to endure,
to this world of faded black,
to face it all some more?

Where is she now?
Can she see my words
as I ask her to forgive?
The rattle sound was all I heard,
and I’m left behind to live.

I used to know everything.
I walked the shadows proud and sure.
Now I’m left with an infant’s mind.
I don’t know anything, anymore.

Asmodeus’ Desire
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

There’s a pressure between your thighs.
A pulsating, primal beat.
It builds and flows till all else subsides,
filling every nerve with heat.

Flesh on flesh, the heat makes you sweat.
Silken skin smooth and hot.
The rolling thrusts, drenched and wet,
giving it everything you’ve got.

You’ve forgotten how beautiful this all really is–
how you can be lost in the moments when the peak arrives.
You’ve forgotten how it flows, bursts, and explodes,
and how every muscle and nerve ending thrives.

Someone’s waiting at home for you.
They’ll just have to wait.
It doesn’t matter now what you do.
You’ve gone too far. It’s growing late.

It all started so innocently.
You just wanted to feel again.
Convinced yourself so completely
that pleasure could never be a sin.

Sneaking out while they wait alone,
leaving the one you loved to sleep without you.
A different partner, far from home.
You rationalized everything you do.

Lying, cheating, denying your heart.
Laying down with the swine.
You never think about it before you start,
but now I claim you as one of mine.

Do you like the feel of a hand slapped across your ass?
Did you love the cracking of a playful whip?
Playtime’s over. The fun won’t last
when your flesh begins to rip.

I’ll tear you apart. I will make you beg.
You’ll scream in the pain I provide.
While the fires char between your legs,
I’ll say it’s one hell of a ride.

You had your taste of heaven
and you gave away the chance.
Now hell will have its season
and dine inside your pants.

I’ve forgotten how fun this all really is–
how I can make you suffer and still worship me.
I’ve forgotten the pleasure, the pain, annihilation.
Consumed the hunger of hell’s fire.
Let yourself fall into my trance
and give in to my deepest desire.

Back With a Vengeance

I’ve got a chill to the bone.
The autumn wind whirls leaves around me
and I yearn to return home.

I keep looking back.
Memories stalk me day by day.
A poet silenced,
unsure of what to say.

I want the freezing rain on my skin,
the sudden sting of frostbite in the breeze.
I just need to feel it. Feel alive once more.
Standing in the autumn chill, awaiting winter.

I’ve been so isolated,
spent so long in a self-made prison.
I am weary of my own self-pity,
my words leaving a bitter taste.
It’s time to move forward
and stop this self-indulgence.

I’ve been in solitary confinement,
waiting for a sign of atonement.
Now I’ve grown complacent.
Have I truly paid my dues?

Everybody has their moments.
Everybody faces a fall.
Everybody has that day when they just
find themselves hitting the ground.
Everybody’s troubles are their own.
Everybody feels alone.
Everybody walks away at times,
feeling like they’ve been betrayed.

Everybody’s flawed
and distances themselves from the world.
Everybody yearns for a place to hide,
to escape into their own fantasy.

I need to escape from here.
Stop holding myself back with my own bullshit.
A prisoner of my own fears.

I want to breathe the crisp air.
Feel winter’s bite in my lungs.
Find that same rush
I felt when I was young.

Everybody loves to deflect blame.
Everybody claims their innocence.
Everybody can point fingers
and blame others for their mistakes.
It can’t be their fault.
Others screwed up too.
So they lock themselves away,
avoiding the judgmental eyes,
the sentencing for their flaws.

Everybody imprisons themselves.
Everyone waits for redemption,
sitting in the darkness,
hoping for their soul to heal.

Everybody needs to feel the cold.
Everybody serves their own sentence
until winter’s winds shatter their confinement
and they come back out.

I’m coming back with a vengeance.

Beelzebub’s Feast
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

The delicate, rich flavors
of everything mingle in my mouth.
A feast of my own creation.
It matters not what’s served
or where it comes from.

Just pass the plate.
Refill the glass.

Someone once said, “Let them eat cake,”
though I can’t recall who.
A foolish notion, I’m sure.
Why waste the cake on the idle masses
who merely warm their seats?

What you can’t finish, discard.
Don’t share a single crumb.
If they want some,
let them fend for themselves.

Come now, just one more bite.
Let it slide down.
Feeling queasy? No matter.
Purge if you must. Start anew.

There are starving souls everywhere,
begging in the streets.
You should take their share, stuff it down.
Why care for those you’ll never know?

Feel your skin stretch.
Your stomach stretch.
Drool dripping from your chin.
Cleanse your face with gravy
mixed with a touch of spit.

Those left to starve–
they’re too thin for my taste.
I prefer my meal
to be richly fleshed out.

Let’s take these rotting apples
and force them between your teeth.
Place you on the spit
like a choice cut of meat.

Roar up some more hellfire.
I like my feast well done.
Turn the spit, roast you whole.
A banquet fit for one.

Belphegor’s Apathy
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

There’s nothing to see here.
There’s nothing to fear.
Just sit back down and relax.

You could be doing something different.
You could make use of the time you spent.
But really–why should you even bother?
No one’s going to remember.

Don’t you realize
there’s nothing left to seek?
I know you think you’re truly unique.
A fanciful delusion,
just like everyone.

I’m not going to argue
because I don’t care.
Those talents and gifts are mere lies–
a curse wrapped in a new disguise.

So let your muscles rest.
Give in to lethargy.
Let your mind dissolve
into my apathy.

Don’t you realize
there’s nothing left worth doing?
You abandoned every dream you were pursuing.
You grew idle hands and all of that.
Your mind grew weak. Your body fat.

So let your muscles rot.
Give in to uncaring lethargy.
Let your brain fill up
with my unholy apathy.

And you won’t even care
while my ravens eat your eyes.
You won’t have the will to run.
You won’t even try.

As my hounds devour your raw flesh
you’ll stare into space
with that same deluded, stupid look
on your face.

Those talents you wasted
will rot inside my home.
There’s no one left to help you.
You’re here all alone.

So as my pets devour you,
I hope you had a good rest.
You can stay so apathetic
with a demon on your chest.

Burn.

Beneath the Floor’s Surface

Here lies a crypt where shadows move,
restless below, in their worn-out groove.
Beneath the floor where light won’t go,
wraiths and whispers in the undertow.

Their forms drift by in silent glee,
twisted and free,
each flicker a dark delight,
mocking the living from their hidden site.

In creaking timber and dust of years
they carry on with ancient fears.
With every shift the past peels slow,
revealing the sins they want to show.

Heed this tombstone’s grim last jest —
in shadows beneath,
the damned find rest.

Break Me

You won’t breach my walls.
Not even in dreams.
You might as well try walking on water.

You won’t sway me.
I’m built out of disdain.
I don’t want your company.
Your attempts are in vain.

You should leave now.
All words have been spent.
There’s nothing left to uncover,
no hidden lament.
Why would you risk your heart?
What’s the gain?

Yet you linger,
claiming someday I’ll see,
promising to wait
until I give in at last.
Do you really think
you can break through this cast?

I said it won’t happen.
Wait until you’re grey.
A dead-end quest. A waste of your days.
I’m not worth the trouble,
not worth what you endure.
Why cling to a hope
that was never sure?

What don’t you understand?
I want solitude and peace.
I’m not your man.
Why won’t you just cease?

You say you’ll be near
when I finally break down,
but your hope won’t crack
this heart of stone.

I’m sorry.
My feelings are foreign. A distant place.
I can’t remember how to be honest
or what love looked like on my face.
You promise to teach.
To stay till I’m whole.

But I beg you to break me,
before I die alone.

Buried in the Dust

In shadows where forgotten hopes go to rust
there lie the letters lost to time’s sick jest.
Each page a whisper of dreams gone unjust,
buried in dust where hidden secrets rest.

Ink-stained confessions.
Passion’s fading light
smothered by neglect’s unholy hand.
The dreams and letters, lost beneath the night.

A pile of memories, once vivid, now a blur,
where love’s promises and regrets intertwine.
They mold and decay, a rotting sepulcher,
a story of the past in a dust-covered shrine.

The wooden beams creak with the weight of their shame.
Dreams lie entombed in a smothered flame,
whispering forgotten truths through the grime.

Beneath the boards where daylight never dares,
the echoes of desires lay cold and still.
Dreams that once soared, now trapped in silent lairs,
swallowed by the darkness, as if by will.

The letters’ ink — a ghost of passion’s stain.
Now nothing but reminders of what’s in vain.

The dust collects on dreams and letters worn.
Their stories, now by time and sorrow torn,
swallowed by the dark, their fate assigned.

In this hidden crypt where the past lies deep,
a silent vigil where lost hopes weep.

With every creak, a ghostly sigh reveals
the weight of what was once so fiercely said.
Love’s confessions lost to the void’s cruel wheels
now drift in dust where they are slowly bled.

The floorboards cradle all that’s lost and gone.
In their dark hold, the past lingers on.

These relics lie where light will never reach.
What once burned hot is now beyond our touch,
shrouded in dust, in darkness, finding rest.
In their dusty tomb,
forever.

Charity’s Embrace
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

Beneath the mask of greed
where kindness goes to die,
we stand defiant
against crimson skies.

Each outstretched hand
is a sacrifice made of pain.
We cradle charity
like love’s most fragile refrain.

In the shadows deep
we fight this war unseen,
hope threadbare but holding,
a vow sewn at the seam.

Silent acts of grace
become beacons in the gloom.
We are heralds of virtue,
dispelling the tomb.

Dawn’s gentle touch
caresses landscapes of good deeds.
Our footprints etched in blood-soaked soil
where love’s seed bleeds.

In the echoing silence
where hearts lay bare,
Charity is the wellspring
that defies despair.

As twilight descends
and love’s embers glow faint,
Charity’s plea echoes still–
unbowed, unbroken, unsaint.

Civilized

These are the glory days.
No more need for war.
No more hunger anywhere.
Salvation is falling onto us.
We are civilized.

These are the glory days.
Nuclear deterrents.
Chemical enhancements.
Salvation is failing around us.
We are sterilized.

The human being, obsolete.
Walking stem cell farms
harvested when organs are needed.
Conformity imploded.
We are neutralized.

These are the glory days.
Doomsday prophecy fulfilled
to cheers from the crowd.
No humans being anymore.
We are sanitized.

Crucified

Yesterdays never forgotten,
here in psychobabylon.
It melds itself into today
and I can never move on.

You thought I was .. a problem before.
You ain’t seen nothing yet.

Waiting on the backflow
but I know it just ain’t coming yet.
No one … ever taught me ..
.. how to forgive and forget.

Disconnected voices
transverse round my head.
Artifacts of a yesterday.
It will never be dead.

You thought my wrath was something before.
You ain’t seen nothing yet.

Waiting on the flood
but I know it just ain’t coming yet.
No one … ever gave me ..
.. permission to forgive and forget.

I weep but my eyes stay dry,
a face I have to keep.
Expectations of myself,
the weight I never sleep.
Caught in this cycle
where truths get lost in lies.
A ghost inside my soul
with a fractured heart that cries.

Feeling like a cancer,
a rogue cellular dissident.
Consuming all I exist for,
suicidal miscreant.

You thought I was a problem before.
The flood you’re waiting for won’t come.
No lesson in my punishment.
I stand crucified,
outside your reach of redemption.

You once saw me as a savior.
That’s a ghost of the past.
If you believed in my resurrection,
you were wrong. It won’t last.

No guide exists for forgiveness
or to break the chain.

Look into my eyes.
Look out of my eyes.
Beyond the lies.
Crucified.

Dark Symphony

You look so nervous,
cold in my presence,
standing there in the door.
Did you not expect to see me?
There is no mystery.
The time for waiting is no more.

Wipe away the tears.
They will get you nowhere.
They’re nothing to me at all.
Invite me in, my dear,
or just leave me out here.
It doesn’t matter how you stall.

You hear my ancient song.
You can feel me all along,
and yet somehow you still try
to run away from me,
to change your destiny.
I’m something you can’t deny.

Shall we dance?
It’s just one life you live.
I’m your living shadow, always present.
I don’t judge and don’t forgive.

I’ll sing my song.
You just carry on
till I carry you away.
When we meet it’ll be discreet
and it will be your final day.

There are no deals.
There’s no appeals.
There is no bargaining.
When I call, then that is all —
the end of joy and suffering.

Are we getting jumbled?
Order falls aside.
Everything you’ve known here.
All the tears you’ve cried.

Every smile you handed out free.
Every breath you took in vain.
Every note you sang to yourself.
Every passing of the spring.

Every dollar wasted on yourself.
Every saved nickel and saved dime.
Every memory stored on the shelf.
Every broken rhythm and fractured rhyme.

Each and every lie you told.
Each and every truth.
Every time you felt too old
and claimed life is wasted on the youth.

Tempo broke. Chaotic string.
Harken your last breath.
No shelter in an angel’s wings
when it’s time for a dance of death.

From the cradle to the mantle.
From the seedling to the grave.
You always run away from me
and search for somewhere safe.

My song rings inside you.
Though the meter’s broken
and the rhythms fragmentizing,
sing the song of mis-spent,
a haunted memory,
when the reaper’s the conductor
of your dark symphony.

Darkness::Blind

I’m tired of living a broken lie
just to be a man that’s right.
My body aches and it burns my mind,
yet we still won’t quit the fight.

I can see the light push through
like some heaven’s glory bound,
shining through everything,
chaining me to the life I’ve found.

There’s nothing wrong and nothing’s right.
I’m not feeling anything at all.
My breath is lost and my chest is tight.
I can feel the closing in of the walls.

We smile through every day,
just waiting for the sun to fade
so we can be ourselves again
and lie in this bed we made.

Sometimes the darkness
is the only comfort you can count on.
The wise man will lay down in the nighttime.
The hero will push on while the wise men are gone.

I’m finding it hard to catch my breath.
I’m losing my will to sit back and bleed.
The sunlight burns my sins again
and I’m just grasping blindly
for a reason to believe.

I am scared to be alone.
Scared to see myself in the light
and face my sins I can’t atone.
There’s no way for me to make it right.

We use each other all the time
just so we have someone near.
Lie to ourselves and lie beside
the very one we fear.

Sometimes the nightmares
are the mind’s way of speaking its truth.
A wise man would try and solve this.
It takes a strong man to leave the ruse.

Will it be this way forever?
Two lonely fools on a lost endeavor,
pretending to feel what we never felt,
too scared to even see.

I don’t know why I wasted my time
wearing your love like a crown of thorns.
I don’t know why it took so long to decide
and not take this anymore.

We’re victims of our stubborn pride.
Neither one of us would walk away.
But while the wise man commits mental suicide,
I’ll be gone before the break of day.

It’s not a weakness to want to live
without the nightmares haunting me.
I need to disappear in the darkest shadows now
so we can both live in peace.

I’m finding it hard to catch my breath.
I’m finding the strength to leave.
Before the sunrise traps me here again,
I’ll walk blindly towards some relief.
I’ll let myself be crucified.
I’m losing my will to bleed.
The sunlight burns my sins again
and I’m just grasping blindly
for a reason to believe.

Dishpan Hands

The sight of it sickens me.
Mayonnaise left clinging to the plate.
She’d scold and say,
“When will you change?”

It’s not a hard concept.
Just rinse the dishes when you’re through.
Her complaints never ceased.
Now we’re washing for no one.

Echoes of those moments linger
from another place and time,
when I wasn’t alone,
her words lost in the wind.

I recall thinking she was mad.
“It’s nothing,” I’d dismiss with ease.
Instead of just complying,
I sat stubborn in my own decrees.

Now the dishwater scalds my hands,
hot enough to burn my skin.
Scrubbing away the remnants of the past
as if it could cleanse me of my sins.

My mind drifts to a bleak end
when I felt my life slipping away.
Stubborn pride and dishpan hands —
these are my remnants today.

As the water rises in the sink
I’m forgetting it, somehow.
My thoughts wander to another time
when I thought I had it all figured out.

I told her I just didn’t care.
Said it meant nothing to me.
She took each word to heart.
Believed every line so literally.

Now afternoons are hollow
and nights stretch on endlessly.
It’s just the dirty dishwater
that keeps me company.

Divisions

I see the world in divisions.
Ends and beginnings. Clean lines.
The fence row marks where my yard stops
and someone else’s starts.

She tells me about her friend’s mother.
Cancer, maybe. They don’t know yet.
I ask what kind, what stage.
She asks why that’s all I can say.

I don’t understand the question.
There’s no information. No data.
The conversation reached its end
three sentences ago
and I can’t figure out why
it’s still going, or why
she’s getting louder.

I try to explain.
I barely know this person.
I don’t know her mother.
The cancer is unconfirmed,
the origin unknown, the prognosis empty.
If I had five minutes of compassion
for every unknown illness
in every stranger’s body,
there wouldn’t be enough hours
in the day.

She tells me to shut up.

I can’t stop, though.
This division hasn’t reached its end.
No conclusion yet.
There’s always an end.

I offer the couch. I offer a card.
I offer to look things up
when there’s something to look up.
She stares at me like I’m broken.

I don’t register the stare.
The division closed. That look
must belong to the space between words,
the void where faces do things
that don’t mean anything to me.

She walks away.
“You just don’t… can’t… understand.”

I understand.

I understand that my lungs
feel like they’ve been shaved with sandpaper.
That twenty years of cigarettes
have me wondering if they’ll be there
at my division. At my end.

I understand nine months of waking up
coughing till I gag,
the feeling of a chest too full for air,
the color of blood on a paper towel.

I understand that I am afraid
at every conversation–
that if it goes on too long,
I might not see the end.
I need to know the ending.

I understand that I won’t go back
to the doctor. Last time
he mentioned the C word.
That word.

If I never go back,
that conversation never ends.
If it never ends, it isn’t real.
Everything real has an end.

I stifle a cough
so she won’t turn around.

I understand.
I open my mouth,
but there’s nothing else left to say.

Echoes of Greed
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In gilded cages the shadows dance
where avarice breeds its bitter trance.
We are the phantoms of untold greed,
proceeding through the abyss
with nothing but need.

Each gleaming coin, a weight so grim.
Each jewel a teardrop, cold and dim.
We fan the flames of their infernal fires,
amplify the anguish of their desires.

Fingers clutch their treasures tight
yet hearts remain in endless night.
Each mountain of gold becomes a heavy chain,
each fortune’s smile a bitter bane.

Golden dreams shatter–
fractured and torn
under the weight of desires forlorn.
We feast on their desperation’s core,
an insatiable hunger wanting more.

As dawn breaks, revealing the gilded hoard,
we laugh–a symphony of discord.
In the echoes of their fall, we whisper still.
We are greed.
The abyss that never fills.
Feasting on the hearts of men.

Echoes of Laughter

Beneath the boards, laughter lived once–
loud, stupid, the kind that makes you
snort whatever you’re drinking through your nose.

It didn’t ask permission.
It filled every room like smoke
from a party you didn’t mean to throw.

Now the hallways hold their breath.
The floorboards creak and you think
for half a second you hear it again,
that bark of someone losing it
over something that wasn’t even that funny.

But it’s just the house settling.
Just the wood remembering weight
it hasn’t carried in years.

The jokes went somewhere.
The people who told them went somewhere else.
And you’re still standing in the room
where the good times used to land,
listening to the cold air
fill the space they left behind.

There’s something cruel about an echo–
the way it gives you just enough
to know what’s missing,
then takes it back.

The warmth dissolved.
The noise moved on.
And what’s left is the sound
of a room that used to be full
learning how to be empty.

Echoes of Temperance
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the throbbing pulse of unrestrained decadence
where morality gasps its last,
we lurk in the depthless dark–
spectral guardians of equilibrium.

Every decision a carefully balanced scale
draped in the shroud of uncertainty.
I am Temperance,
a glowing specter in the relentless black.

Tears of Temperance fall
like shards of broken light,
casting trails through suffocating darkness.
In the cold beauty of moderation
spirits wander unchained.

Every carnal longing bound in chains.
Every burning passion quelled.
Within the frost-cloaked heart of Temperance
joy is but a chilling echo.

Dawn breaks with an eerie gentleness.
Peace clung to as though life depended on it.
Striding through fields stained with blood and regret,
fear becomes an unnecessary companion.

In the haunting quiet that follows calamity
where balance precariously teeters,
I am Temperance–a timeless specter–
where souls flicker but never extinguish.

Silent hearts murmur confessions
in daylight’s unforgiving glare.
In the iron grip of moderation
where peace is a rare and elusive beast,

I am Temperance–the ceaseless lament–
echoing in the haunted chambers of balance,
where I forever dwell.

Echoes of War
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the fiery maw
cities fall to ash and dust.
Our desires, like demons,
shred the peace we once could trust.

Blood paints the earth–
a canvas beneath the moon’s cold gaze.
I am War,
your twisted savior in this infernal maze.

Bone breaks. Life flees
beneath our crushing iron hand.
Each vanishing hope
fuels the flames that engulf the land.

Bullets, like whispers,
steal the breath and silence screams.
In this wasteland playground
we find our twisted dreams.

Children’s tears become our trophies,
their agony, our delight.
Under skies ablaze,
morality surrenders to the night.

Silence descends on the field
where the lifeless bodies lie.
We stand triumphant,
etching our mark on the blood-stained sky.

Ghosts of the fallen whisper.
Their sorrow is our only hymn.
In War’s cold embrace–
a refuge for those who can’t swim.

From the ashes of peace
our nightmare’s tower ascends.
I am War, an eternal blight,
a darkness that never ends.

Edge of Madness

Somewhere out in the darkest night,
madness lies in wait–
not the raving kind, not the kind
they lock away, but the kind
that hums under everything,
quiet as a pulse.

I’ve been called genius. I’ve been called fool.
But the label that stuck, the one
that felt like someone finally read
the fine print of me,
came from a friend who watched me
walk the wire and said:
you live at the edge of madness.

And I do.

Look past the waves, past the night,
past the questions nobody asks
because the answers are worse
than not knowing.
Somewhere beyond the shadows
is the edge of something great,
and I think I might–

Walk it. Peer down.
Into the swirling thoughts
I haven’t met yet,
the melodies that hum
just below conscious hearing,
the madness that doesn’t destroy
but illuminates.

Here at the edge, the view steals breath.
The wind goes quiet. The trees refuse to bend,
standing lifeless and defiant
like they’re daring the world to end
without them.

It’s just one step.
You’re already there.
Just heed the truths
you’re reluctant to bear.

Embrace the Lust
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the shadows of obsession’s dark embrace
where ecstasy and agony intertwine,
malevolent entities of Lust hold sway,
ruling the unending blackness
night and day.

Bodies contorted in a grotesque ballet,
pleasured sighs morphing
into screams of fright.
In Lust’s pulsating heart
our presence burns alight.

Within Lust’s hellfire we silently lurk,
tormenting with forbidden pleasure.
Consuming like a blaze from deep within,
slumber elusive
where our dark deeds begin.

Drenched in sweat,
shivering in frenzy’s wake,
twisting yearnings into distress.
Every touch sends electricity through the soul.
Kisses cut like razors,
taking their toll.

As dawn brings light to the macabre sight
we revel in suffering
as weakness takes flight.
Amid echoes of screams
in the eerie dawn,

we are Lust–
the ghastly nightmare
that never moves on.

In deafening silence
when pleasures cease to sing,
whispers torment your cries
as shadows cling.

Envy’s Feast
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the grip of twilight
where shadows twist and turn,
we demons of Agony
watch desires darkly burn.

Each stolen glance a torment,
each wish a twisted curse.
We fuel the gnawing hunger,
the longing turned to worse.

Desperate hands reach out
for dreams they’ll never hold.
With sadistic glee we shatter,
let the pieces take their toll.

Jealousy’s venom flows
through hearts that cannot cope.
Their envy-glazed eyes watch us
as we feast upon their hope.

Twisted masks of suffering,
faces etched with pain.
We are the demons lurking,
fanning flames that won’t wane.

Dawn breaks. Harsh light reveals
their broken dreams and lies.
In the silence of shattered hearts
their dreams turned into dust.

Whispers in the darkness
haunt the shattered dreams they made.
Envy’s feast, insatiable,
forever unappeased.

Everything

Wipe the ashes from your shoulder.
I know you’ve faced your share of hell,
left your dreams along the roadside
like luggage you were tired of carrying.

I only wanted to see you smile–
not the polite one, the real one,
the one that reaches your eyes
and stays there like it belongs.

You only wanted to feel free.

And I wanted everything.
Fame and comfort, sunsets, blue skies,
stormy nights to curl up in,
angels and demons alike,
the whole mess of it,
wrapped up and handed over
like I could hold it all.

I’m not a knight in shining armor.
You’re no damsel in distress.
I’m not the weary cowboy seeking rest,
you’re no porcelain doll–
but you are the answer I can’t grasp,
the thing I keep reaching for
with hands that never quite close.

Lay me down inside your light.
Let me dream away forever
while your eyes catch the candlelight
and a room full of roses
still can’t make the wrongs feel right.

I wanted to cast the past away,
to know just what to say,
to guide you through the dark
and make you feel okay.

You only wanted to see.
You only wanted to dream.
You only wanted to be.

And I always wanted everything.
And you are everything to me.

Famine’s Lament

Icy grasp, Famine’s reign —
souls left vacant,
an echoing chasm
where the living used to be.

We are the void that swallows all.
In Famine’s hold, existence dwindles.

Skies gone gray, the land run dry,
hope turned to ash
with a tearful goodbye.

We are the hunger,
endless, craving,
consuming all
with an insatiable bite.

Icy grasp, Famine’s reign —
we are the void,
and the void does not forgive.

Famine’s Lament
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

Famine’s reign descends
in an icy grasp.
Souls rendered vacant,
an echoing chasm.

Skies turn gray.
The land runs dry.
Hope turns to ash
with a tearful goodbye.

Bellies distend
beneath the hollow sun.
Mothers clutch children
whose crying is done.

The earth cracks open,
parched and bare.
Even the worms
have abandoned their lair.

We feast on the fasting,
drink from the dry,
strip the marrow
from every desperate cry.

The harvest rotted
before it began.
We are the curse
on every plan.

When the last field turns
to dust and bone,
and the last voice dies
with a rattling moan,

we will still be here–
jaw unhinged and wide.
Famine never sleeps.
Famine is never satisfied.

Father

He vanishes the way night does–
you know it’s leaving,
you watch it go,
and still the morning catches you off guard.

They say he heals everything.
Mends what’s broken, smooths
what’s rough, fills in
the cracks we can’t reach.
But we waste him.
Burn through him like he’s endless,
then panic when the balance drops.

To the young, he’s nobody.
A face in the hallway,
a name mentioned at holidays
that doesn’t mean anything yet.

But the old ones watch him.
They track his every move
the way you watch a tide
that’s already turning.

The lines on his face
tell nothing of his age.
He’s seen it all and seen nothing,
caught somewhere between
peace and rage,
moving always, unmeasured,
unconfined.

And we let him pass in silence,
thinking he’ll always be there
when we turn around.

We lead the sheep to slaughter,
strip the young of their grace,
live our lives with veiled eyes
so we never have to face the truth.

Then plead innocence.
Claim we didn’t know.

So won’t you please forgive us,
Father Time.

First Hunt

Silence.
Not a single sound–
all is lost if feet hit ground.

Stalking prey. Tomorrow’s feast.
Patience now. Slay the beast.

There’s hunger in the homes
and they’re counting on me,
a novice in the wood line
with cold metal in my hand,
learning the only language
that survival understands.

Listen–I hear it breathing.
Nothing profound about the sound,
just the rise and fall of something
that doesn’t know I’m here.

Creeping closer. Heart hammering.
First hunt for me.
Could be my last.

Claws slice the air–
hunter and hunted,
both unaware
how close the other came
to being the one
that didn’t walk away.

Shot aims true.
Survival instinct.
If we will live,
it’s what I must do.

Forgive me.
Your life or mine,
the hunt is needed
to secure my line.

Nourish many
at the cost of one.
Sleep uneasy.
What’s done is done.

Fly Away

I want my mind to wander somewhere
I’ve never seen–a place tucked
inside someone else’s dream,
where light falls through the vines
and the world outside goes quiet.

I’d take your shadows
and blend them with my own.
Let your ghosts move in.
They’d feel at home with mine.

There must be a place
where dreams walk freely,
where angels and demons
sit across from each other
and just talk.

I feel the pull getting stronger.

We’d soar over crystal peaks,
look down at a world
that speaks in silence.
Float above ancient walls,
ride alongside gryphons
and fairies from stories
nobody tells anymore.

No hurt up there. No worry.
Just the mist and the bliss
of being somewhere
that doesn’t ask anything of you.

Why can angels and demons
unfurl their wings
while we stay stranded,
stuck in time’s long exhale?

Be my angel.
Share your wings.
We’ll go somewhere
pain can’t follow.

Close your eyes with me.
Let the wind take us
to a place beyond sight,
beyond the pull of everything
that holds us here.

Close your eyes.
We’ll fly.

For Me

I lost my grip on the golden ring–
the one thing that held meaning,
the one thing I was reaching for
while everything else slipped through.

I tried so hard to impress
that I lost sight of what I do best.
Caught up in conforming,
I traded pieces of myself
for approval I never even wanted.

I don’t need to be a hero.
I don’t need to be a star.
I just want to see people
for who they really are,
and I want them to see me–
not the version I built
to survive the room,
but the one underneath.

I can’t live my life
as a mournful tune,
diluted to fit in,
watered down
until there’s nothing left to taste.

I’m searching for the verse
that makes the song complete,
and I don’t care anymore
if you like what you hear.

I don’t easily give up
on what I believe.

All or nothing.
It’s all for me.

Fragments of Yesterday

There’s a box in the corner
where the light barely reaches.
You’ve passed it a hundred times,
let it gather dust,
hoping sealed meant gone.

Today your fingers find it.
Trembling as they lift the lid,
knowing what’s inside
isn’t just old sketches–
it’s you.
The version you buried.

An old sketchbook. Pages yellowed.
Cover cracked like dry skin.
Heavier than it looks,
not in your hands
but in your chest.

Each page is a shard
of a hidden life.
Delicate lines carrying
the weight of the world
they came from.

A face stares back. Yours, but younger.
Eyes wide with a fear
that still whispers
when the night goes still
and your thoughts refuse to sleep.

You remember those nights.
The silence outside was nothing
compared to the storm within.
The only peace you found
was pencil on paper–
the rhythm of making something
out of the chaos.

Another page. A house.
Windows dark, walls towering.
It was supposed to be a home.
You drew it over and over,
trying to capture the feeling
of needing to escape
and not knowing how.

But you didn’t stay.
You found a way out,
even though the memories followed,
even though they still whisper
when the world goes quiet.

You close the sketchbook.
Heart heavy. Spirit lighter.
You’ve stared the past down
and you’re still here.

You place it back in the box
but leave the lid open.

Not as a wound.
As proof.

Ghost Inside This Place

I wanted to write something real.
Get past the jokes and the irony,
the deflection, the armor,
and say what I actually feel.

I wanted my words to swell
and move like the sea–
let my censored mind abandon its post
and expose whoever’s left inside of me.

But I can’t do it. It’s gone.
Not the feeling–the ability
to reach down and pull it out.
I haven’t gone heartless.
I haven’t gone cold.
I’m just terrified.

So I fill up lines with bad puns.
Pretend I’m doing something grand.
Spend my time on empty rhymes
and ignore the shaking hands.

I can talk about the fiscal cliff.
Life on Jupiter’s moon.
Multiverse theory, string theory,
whether we’ve evolved too soon.

I can pretend to have empathy
and pacify with every phrase,
hide inside the person I used to be
and never show my face.

Blank pages on the desktop.
Empty lines on my face.
The soul that lived inside me
is just the ghost
inside this place.

Girls Get Horny Too

I want to go back to the beginning.
Start over. Leave behind these days,
all the shadows I grew into
without noticing.

If I could see the paths ahead,
I’d change every choice.
Every word I swallowed,
every sweetness I walked past–
I’d stop and taste it.

I’d laugh louder.
Sing every tune whether I knew the words or not.
Savor the bitter coffee.
Greet every stranger
like they might be the last face I see.

I’d learn sooner
that words weigh more than coins,
that a touch can mend what talk can’t,
that lies cut deeper than any blade
because you don’t see them coming.

Time marches on.
Sun rises, sets, rises again,
each day spinning faster than the last.
The mountains don’t care.
They watch the clouds roll in,
kiss the rain,
and whisper the same truth
they’ve been whispering forever:
no victory is complete.

Every second pulls at my soul.
Lost days, fleeting tomorrows,
truths and lies tearing me apart
while I cry out to the mountains
and the endless sea–
why has time deserted me?
Tell me what you see.

Through sleepless nights
and endless dawns,
our dreams reflect the lessons
we keep forgetting.

Girls get horny too.

Gluttony’s Feast
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the grotesque maze of decadence
where the forsaken dwell,
we fiends of Gluttony
ride the ceaseless wave.

Each morsel is an agony.
Every gulp a curse.
We are not spectators–
we participate in this banquet of affliction.

Tables teem with abundance
yet their souls wither in starvation.
Their anguish is our feast.
Joy has been exiled
from this kingdom of despair.

Every morsel swallowed is a battle fought.
Every draught downed–a desperate prayer.
Within Gluttony’s heart
no soul finds respite.

The solemn vaulted chambers resonate
with agonized cries.
We drink deep from their torment
where once joy bloomed.

Trapped by relentless hunger
that slowly drains life’s essence,
we are Gluttony–
giving meaning to existence through affliction.

In the hauntingly silent aftermath
where the damned find no solace,
we are the whispers
that pervade the unending tide.

Forever unsatisfied.
Feeding upon their torment
in this heart of darkness.

Going Weak

I won’t blow out the candle.
I’m scared of the darkness now,
and I don’t understand
when it came to this.

The promises blew past me on the wind.
Every one of them ended in a quarter hour.
Now there’s nowhere to begin.

You were my shadow dancer,
always moving in the light.
My brightest northern star,
the one that brought me home at night.
You were my words when I couldn’t speak.
My strength when I was weak.

Now the shadows swallow everything
and the light hurts my tired eyes.
I’m lost out here,
hearing whispers of my own lies.
Growing weaker every day.

I told you I’d always be there.
Swore to God we’d be fine.
Just believe, I said.
It’ll come around.

You were my wild ember,
flying through the dark,
building bonfires from nothing
with just a simple spark.
The flames that warmed my heart,
the heat that kept me
from disappearing into the black.

They said you were getting better.
They said you’d be all right.
I broke when I saw that final tear
and you slipped off into the night.

Last breath on your lips.
Last tear in your eye.
The last time I believed
in anybody’s lies.

I cursed the wind, cursed God and hell,
cursed everything in between.
Begged someone to tell me
what does this bullshit mean?

I never knew we could die
without saying a word.
Forever and a day, till the end of time–
someone decided your time was before mine,
and I hate you just as much as I love you
every single day.

My legs gave out.
I crumbled to my knees.
Every bit of strength drained out of me
like water through a crack.

I won’t say goodbye.
How can you leave me here?

I’m too weak to survive.
And I won’t blow out the candle.
I’m scared of the darkness now.

Goldfish Eulogy

It’s been a month since the goldfish
took his own life
in what I can only describe
as the most dramatic exit
a two-inch fish has ever made.

He’s still on the floor.

I should probably address
the condition of the body.
Most of his scales have fallen off.
Some turned to dust.
What used to be his eyes
are more like a crust now–
I think I can still see one,
but it might be a dust mite.
Hard to say.

My sister wanted to throw him away.
I threw a fit.
He’s my muse, I told her.
Without him, I cannot write.
She stormed off, disgusted.

I find it fascinating, honestly.
I see a skull. Some partial fins.
Whatever was in between
is a mystery now–
just where he ends and where he begins.
I thought he was bigger.
I guess everything shrinks with age.

If I’m going to give him a proper burial at sea,
he’s going to need a eulogy.
I’ve never written one for a fish before,
but here goes:

“‘Twas a sad and dreary day
when Franky finally passed–“
Oh, that’s what I call him now.
He has a name at last.
He didn’t need one when he was alive.
He’d never answer anyways.

“I don’t know what Frank thought
when he decided to take flight.
Mouth to mouth, CPR–
so many things I never tried,
but I was just too amused
by my goldfish’s suicide.”

Drink to Franky’s finless flesh.
Feast on fine sushi in his memory.
After all, how much can be said
in a goldfish’s eulogy?

Actually, I think I’ll leave him there.
Conduct a year-long experiment.
Eleven months before I have to clean again.

Win-win.

Goldfish Obsession

It’s been a week since my goldfish died
and he’s still on the floor.
Not looking great. A little petrified.
I think I’ll leave him there a little more.

You could call me morbid.
I prefer lazy.
The trashcan’s way over there,
and he’s not hurting anyone
since the day he went crazy.

I couldn’t stuff him–he’s two inches long.
I don’t think he’d qualify as art.
So I’ll immortalize him in another song.
After all, this is the second part.

I’m not sure where he lost some scales.
He hasn’t moved a bit,
they just seemed to disappear.
At first I thought it was a little sick.
Now I’m obsessed
with the goldfish lying here.

I tried to counsel him once.
He never let on, though.
Never thought things like this
went through his head.
My poor depressed goldfish
just leapt out of his bowl,
and a week later
he’s still lying there.
Dead.

Maybe in a month I’ll write part three.
Not sure there’ll be much left of him by then.
One of those things
we’ll have to wait and see–
goldfish obsessed until the end.

Green?

Last night I was flying–
dreaming state, dipping through valleys,
playing with the fates–
when I ran across a woman
standing clad in white.

She said one word.
Green.
Then faded into the night.

I yelled after her.
What do you mean, green?
Shouted it through the warm air
like she owed me an explanation.

And I pondered.

Did she mean money?
The cold cash that governs everything,
keeps us all scrambling
to avoid the crash?

Or the leaves on the trees–
the ones I stare at
when my thoughts drift away.
Nature running through my veins,
violated and patient,
waiting to return the favor
with an end we can’t dodge.

Maybe green meant go.
Time to move, leave the past behind.
Or maybe it was the merging
of daylight and night–
yellow sun and midnight blue
blending into something new.

Dark and light fused into one.
Our souls, formed that way.

Or envy. The green-eyed monster,
lurking, waiting for me
to drop my guard
and let jealousy burn the house down.

Then she came back.
Cloth in her hand.
Looked at me with sincerity
and chuckled softly
before handing it over
and walking away.

All your thoughts are misguided, she said.
Every single one.
You overthink things,
my complex dreaming friend.
The answers are simple
if you’d just let your thoughts end.

When you fell asleep,
what was on your mind?
I’m just your subconscious
giving you the answer
you were looking for.

So I thought back.
Before sleep. Before the dream.
Looked down at the cloth in my hand,
traced my way to the beginning.

And a laugh filled my soul
as the last piece fell into place.

The question was never
why do I hurt.

I just wondered
what color was my shirt.

Hold Me Down

I learned to fly before I learned to walk,
spent my whole life with my neck craned back,
eyes on something no one else could see.

You kept reaching for me.
I kept drifting higher.

The air thins up here. I know that now.
But I forgot how landing works,
forgot the weight of my own feet,
the sound of anything that isn’t wind.

Decades blurred beneath me—
days into weeks into years I never felt pass,
moving at a speed that swallowed everything whole.

And you were there.
Every time I climbed too high,
you were the hand that pulled me back,
the gravity I cursed and needed.

Now my body rests quiet
but my mind still floats,
still drifts into clouds I can’t come down from.

Hold me now.
Not down. Just here.
Just long enough to remember
what the ground feels like.

Holidays: Duplicity
Under The Floorboards
Dawg

80% off everything you need
pepper spray the shoppers
to satisfy the festive greed
alcohol and nicotine just to make it through
the madness and the family feuds

Peace on earth, goodwill to men
a lone star over Bethlehem
family dinners and gingerbread
cherishing the warmth instead

Grumbling as I wrap the gifts
knowing not a single soul will remember this
blinking lights tangled in a mess
another shot of whiskey to ease the stress

Holiday greetings with a smile on their face
a warm glow filling up the place
mistletoe and icicles glimmer in the light
fireplaces crackling on the cold winter nights

Mall Santas pushing another sale
heavy metal bands singing about holidays in hell
canned carols blaring in my ears
everyone complaining how they loathe this time of year

Return to the essence of what it’s meant to be
ignite the night with joy and revelry
gaze into the eyes of someone you love
believe in the hope sent from above

The pressures of the marketplace growing too hard
I curse every Rudolph stuck in their yards
they’ll be disappointed when they peek beneath the tree
and find that Santa didn’t bring them that Xbox or Wii

Forget about the getting and give what you can
celebrate the joys in the life you live
look to the future, remember the past
live each moment, life vanishes too fast

Children scream watching commercials on TV
“I want this, I want that” is all I ever hear
embrace the fleeting moments before they fade to nothing
sit in quiet solace and savor the time of year

I can’t grasp this duplicity
between meaning and act
families bickering
with words they can’t take back

Yet I hold within me
hope for better days
caught between the essence
and the reality of holidays

Humility’s Despair
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the cold, hollow corners
where pride casts its haunting shadow,
we are the spectral whispers of virtue
cloaked in crimson dusk.

Each footstep a soft echo
in the chilling silence.
Each utterance a hymn in the gloom.
I am Humility–
your guide through this sepulchral journey.

Confronted with vanity’s monstrous facade
where arrogance engulfs the soul,
we stand as warriors of light
against the grotesque narrative.

As dawn’s pallid light fractures
upon humility’s scarred heart,
we tread through rivers of spilled blood,
playing our macabre parts.

In the suffocating silence that follows
where spirits lay bare and forlorn,
I am Humility–
the grim reaper
where pompous egos meet their end.

Soft whispers from silenced hearts
permeate daylight’s sickly glow.
In humility’s cold grasp
peace is a spectral entity set free.

In the silence that ensues
when joy fades to echoing lament,
I am Humility–
the eternal plea resonating in the void.
Within modesty’s heart,
I exist as a haunting melody.

I Am I

The walls twist inside my head,
hallways folding into hallways,
every fork a threat dressed up as a choice.

I stand at the mouth of it, heart loud,
each beat a ghost whispering through
the hollow rooms of my doubt.

“Where does one begin?”
I ask it to no one. To myself.

The sun cuts through the trees outside
but inside me there’s only fog,
clinging to everything like a shroud
I can’t pull off.

Then her voice—warm, worried:
“You okay?”
Mia. Always Mia.
Standing in the doorway like she knows
I’m one wrong turn from disappearing.

“Just thinking,” I tell her.
She doesn’t buy it.
Neither do I.

“What if I’m making all the wrong choices?
What if I wander forever?”

The questions weigh more
than I can hold alone.

She steps closer.
“Maybe it’s not about getting out.
Maybe it’s about understanding where you are.”

Rain on cracked ground—
that’s what her words feel like.

If this maze has no exit,
maybe I can stop running from its walls
and start reading what’s written on them.

We walk together.
One step. Then another.
And for the first time in years,
the fog starts to thin.

I Can Own The Land

He walks his acres three times a year,
checks the gates, the walls, the fences—
everything his grandfather took
and he inherited like gospel.

He says he owns it.
The dirt, the sky, the air itself.

I stood in my own yard once,
looking past the cluttered mess,
past fences that cut the sea from view,
holding a deed in one hand
and staring at the trees with the other.

Who owns the sky?
Who signs the paperwork on the ocean?

A friend of mine believed he could.
Believed it hard enough to say it out loud.

But Mother Nature watches from above,
tears in her eyes,
letting fools believe they hold a piece of her.

She’s patient. She can wait.

Because long after the boasting stops
and the deeds turn to dust,
they’ll feed the land they claimed to own.
They’ll become the soil,
nourish the roots,
give back everything
they spent a lifetime hoarding.

It’s in their nature to try to own her.
And it’s in hers to take it all back.

I Want

Let me sink into you tonight.
Let me show you what stirs
in the parts of me you haven’t met yet.

I want to be the thing that makes your heart skip—
the breathless reason,
the sweat on your skin,
the tension in every nerve.

But I want more than that.

I want to be the darkness that swallows your sight,
the nightmare you can’t shake loose,
the fear that lives in the corner of every dream.

I want to be the blood on your hands.
The whisper you can’t trace.
The thoughts you bury so deep
you forget they’re yours.

I’ll be the dread that fills your head,
the thing that watches when the lights go out,
the spider-crawl across your skin
that you swear you felt but can’t explain.

Monster. Demon. Fool.
Rising from the filth of your own sins,
staining everything I touch.

I’ll press my lips to your throat
and sink in where there’s no coming back.
Pleasure twisted into pain,
agony dressed up as want.
You’ll learn to crave it.

I want to be the reason
for every skipped beat,
every stolen breath,
every nerve that burns.

I want to be the shadow,
the haunting,
the end.

Your last terrified night.
And I want to feel it with you.

I’ll Quit Again

The infection hasn’t stalled yet.
It courses through me still—
doubt propped up on a pedestal,
backlit with the glow of regret.

I am the architect of my own undoing.
Stagnant mind, borrowed time,
living off habits I stopped fighting
somewhere around the hundredth try.

White tendrils leave my lips
and dissolve into nothing.
Carbon monoxide pirouettes nearby.
Brown stains on fingertips,
warnings I read and ignore
like letters from a doctor I’ll never call back.

One nail in the coffin.
One foot in the grave.
One breath caught in my chest
like it’s not sure it wants to stay.

The days dwindle.
Never-lasting, always shorter.

I reach for my familiar friend—
nerves shot, mind scarred,
fingers gripping like tar
on a thing that’s killing me slowly.

I swear I’ll quit again.
I always do.

IDK

Shadows of the past spread out in front of me
and the voices haven’t stopped whispering.

A rosary wrapped around an old dry hand.
The mysteries we were never meant to crack.
You told me prayers get answered—
sometimes the answer is just no.

I prayed.
Wings of gold and pearl, some savior
to show me how to survive this.
Did anyone hear?
Was anyone even there?

I asked for a sign.
Something—anything—
to prove we’re not just burning years
in the dark for nothing.

You believed.
You carried that truth like a stone in your pocket,
wore it smooth with your fingers,
and it got you through.

But today I watched them lower you
into what I can only imagine
is a cold and lonely place.

And I swear I heard you whisper:
Jesus saves.

So why can’t he come here
and say it to my face?

I don’t believe.
Not in the way you did.
I don’t have the strength
to make that leap of faith.

And I don’t know
if that makes me honest
or just lost.

In Me

I am not ashamed—
that’s what I tell you.
That’s what I tell myself.

The mistakes made me. The wasted tears
sharpened something. The blood I’ve tasted,
the foolish choices, the restless nights—
call me whatever you want.
It won’t change a thing.

I’m not ashamed to lie when it serves a purpose.
Not ashamed to force the smile,
play the part, meet your eyes
with a steadiness I manufactured
somewhere along the way.

I’m not afraid of the dark.
Not afraid of being alone.
Not afraid of death.

I’m afraid you’ll see me.

The real me. The one underneath
the promises and the practiced grace,
the one who wakes up alone again tomorrow
and builds another mask before breakfast.

I can say “unashamed” until my voice gives out.
But the truth is just warm breath in the air—
gone before it lands.

I’m ashamed of the person I’ve become.
Ashamed of the mistakes that are grinding me down.
Ashamed you’ll find out who I really am.
Ashamed you’ll see who I was.

Most of all,
I’m ashamed that I never believed in me.
Not once.
Not when it counted.

Insomnia – Acrostic

Sleepless nights and cold endless days
Linger restlessly inside my skull
Interrupting what should be the sweetest dreams
Peace and calm refused

Perhaps the nightmares are trying to warn me
Interventions sent from my own hell
Nudging me toward something I can’t name
Guidance wrapped in dread

I can’t keep going on like this
Nor can I find a way to rest
Tomorrow holds no comfort now
Only the weight of tired bones

Damn the break of sunrise
And the start of another day
Return the darkness to me
Keep the dreams at bay

Nocturnal voices croon to me
Every haunted lullaby
So they echo in twisted chords
Sleep and rest denied

Her voice accuses me without end
Every sin dragged back into the light
Laughing, mocking, taunting me
Purporting my fate is sealed

Morpheus, I beg of you
Enough of this torment
Send me passage to your shores
And let me slip beneath the wings

Vow to me no more endless night
Emerge me from my shame
Mired dreams and tired eyes
Every night the same

Into The Darkness

A spectacle at last. Performers in their places,
the scene set, shadows circling.

I stepped in like I owned it—
indifferent, immortal, bored with the whole charade.

Eliminate the weak. Let chaos run.
Why should these fools star in my play?

Then they struck me.
And I bled.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Demons don’t bleed. This must be a trick,
a brief interruption before the joke lands.

But their teeth kept gnawing.
Rending flesh from a body meant to last forever.
Pain—real pain—ripping through me
while my smile held on out of habit.

I called to my master. No answer.
Begged my creator. Silence.

If this is mortality, take the breath.
Let me feel the final curtain.
But no mercy came. No rest.

I hit the blood-soaked ground,
healing just fast enough to suffer again.
Ancient power stirring in my veins,
sparks on my fingertips,
one last act of vengeance building.

Then—a crash. Splintered wood.
She came out of nowhere,
swinging a branch like she had something to prove,
defending the devil
without knowing what she was saving.

The monsters retreated.
I stood in the wreckage, stunned.

A land-bound oddity.
The joke, it turns out, was always on me.

Knocking at my Door

Something creeps in tonight.
A memory dressed as a spirit,
hidden from the light,
invisible to anyone but me.

I don’t know whether to open the door
or cross myself and hide.
They always come knocking
when no one else is around.

A voice just out of sight
wakes me from dreams I was barely holding.
I squeeze my eyes tighter,
feel the fear crest like a wave
I can’t outswim.

It follows me—this nothing.
A ghost stitched together from my own memories,
a piece of myself that refuses to let me be.

Why won’t they leave me alone?
These nightmares that visit nightly,
these figures that walk just past
the edge of what I can see.

Nothing serious. Nothing shocking.
I just can’t go outside anymore.

There’s a ghost of my own making
knocking at my door.
And I built every inch of it.

Letter to a Future Love

Are you frustrated with me yet?
I’m frustrated with me.

I know I go quiet.
I know I seem far away,
like I’ve checked out
when really I’m just trying
to figure out where you fit
and whether I still know
how to hold something
without breaking it.

Love is a skill I let rust.
It got brittle. Damaged.
But not lost—not completely.
I’m willing to learn it again
if you’re willing to teach.

I was never Romeo.
Can’t quote Shakespeare, can’t do candlelight.
I’d rather make you a grilled cheese,
sit on the couch,
watch something stupid,
and hear about your day.

I’m always afraid it isn’t enough.

Afraid—what a small word
for a man covered in tattoos
with stories that’d curl your toes.
But here I am. Afraid.
Because I let you in.
Because after being alone this long,
the thought of going back to it
makes my stomach turn.

I’m getting old.
I feel it in every creak, every wrinkle,
every gray hair screaming at me
to stop wasting time.

I don’t want to die alone.

So be patient with me.
I’ll make you laugh every day.
I’ll try my best.
I’ll hide the fear because I don’t want
to burden you with the weight
of a man who’s terrified
of loving and losing again.

Just decide if it’s real.
Then you can have the real me.

Otherwise, walk away now
and let me rest in peace.

Always,
Me.

Leviathan’s Jealousy
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

You are everything.
I am nothing.
My hatred grows sharper
with each passing day.

When I gaze upon you
all I see is what I lack.
I’d sacrifice anything
to swap places, to turn back.

You are flawless, blessed,
untouched by any grime,
while I see only my own flaws
in a life so out of time.

The world is yours to claim
and that’s plain as day.
As you shine and resonate
I sit in disarray.

Your false divinity
seems to come so easy,
while I’m met with nothing–
no sympathy, no mercy.

But I will rise.
I will take your spot in line.
Your wealth and grace will be mine.

I crave to be you.
I know what I must do.
I’ll destroy your kind.

You will fall.
I will ascend.
Claim what’s rightfully mine.

You are everything.
I am nothing.
And I yearn for all you possess.
I envy you, all you do–
so I’ll ensure you face distress.

Lost in the Doodles

A child at a desk,
crumpled paper, scattered crayons,
every mark a doorway
to a place bigger than this room.

I drew a dragon once.
Not ordinary—scales that shimmered
like deep space, each one
reflecting its own small universe.

And when I shaded the last curve,
it twitched.
Just a quiver. Enough
to stop my heart.

Its head turned. Eyes glowing
with a light that didn’t belong here.
It roared—distant thunder
rolling through my bedroom walls.

I touched the page
and the world split open.

Suddenly I stood on shifting ground,
a sky swirling purple and gold,
trees like spun candy,
air thick with impossible flowers.

Everything I’d drawn was alive.
The dragon soared above me,
trailing dust that glittered like crushed stars.
I was no longer watching.
I was inside it. I was part of it.

The power was intoxicating—
shaping a world with a thought,
a line, a smudge of color.

But the edges started to blur.
Colors bled. Shapes dissolved.
The dragon flickered,
its roar shrinking to a whisper,
brilliant scales fading into fog.

I grabbed at what was left—
smoke through my fingers.

And then, sharp and sudden: clarity.

This was never meant to last.
Dreams don’t hold. They exist
only as long as the mind
can keep them spinning.

I closed my eyes. Let go.
Opened them at my desk again,
drawings flat and quiet,
sunlight warm on paper.

But I was different.

Every line—a doorway.
Every mark—a passage.
The doodles fade,
but the spark that made them
stays.

One line. One doodle.
One universe at a time.

Love My Way

I talk about eating people for fun.
I’ve got a dead goldfish collection.
I told you I’d peel your face off
and replace it with someone better looking.

I wrote you love letters
from hell’s point of view.
Shaved satanic symbols
into your cat.

You smiled and said you’d always be mine.

I had you committed for the holidays
so I could drink the bonus in peace.
Posted those pictures.
Told your father things no father should hear.

You said you loved me.
I asked why.
You blinked and called me a great guy.

So I swapped your shampoo with Nair
and I still can’t figure out
why you’re here.

I sold your TV. Wrecked your car.
Stole your wallet, hit the bar,
came home with a gift
that keeps on giving.

Wore your underwear when you weren’t looking.
Danced around in your bikini backwards.
Used your toothbrush for things
no toothbrush should see.

You found out.
You stayed.

It must be love.
Or you’re just insane.
Something’s broken in your brain.

Either way,
I think you like the pain.

Lucifer’s Rational
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

I know the children may be hungry,
but someday they’ll understand.
You just can’t ask anyone for help.
It’s simply not in your plan.

When the lights go out and the heat is gone,
still you stand alone.
Because help is for the weaklings,
and you are made of stone.

When someone challenges your reasoning,
just punch them in the face.
No one should ever question you
and your bloated self-worth.

Or maybe you aspire to be more
than most dare to dream.
Earn a pair of wings.
Sit with the supreme.

I hate to burst your bubble,
but I have a tale to tell.
Perhaps you’ve heard the story
of the day when I fell?

I never fell. I never faltered.
The tale is far from right.
I was just sick of you flesh bags
basking in my light.

Do you think you should stand beside me?
The morning star
and the children of mud and sleaze?
They say pride comes before the fall.

Try to speak, I’ll split your tongue.
Let blood fill your mouth.
Pathetic maggots don’t get
a single glance at me.

I am the child of light,
creator of this hell.
I made the ultimate sacrifice
on the day I “fell.”

It’s your fault I’m outside the gates,
consumed with divine hate because of you.
I will slice your scalp,
break apart your skull,
suck the thoughts from your brain
until I am full.

Walk with your head held high.
Crush them beneath your feet.
When your time comes to pay your dues,
you’ll face a morning star
that shines brighter than you.

Look down below at everyone,
burning in the flames.
Judged and then released to me
to play my special games.

Make You Cry

Your laughter echoes deep into the night
and your smile haunts every room
like something I can’t quite hold.

Everything looks perfect from here.
Bacon done right, mornings in sync,
Chapstick on your lips when we kiss.

But underneath it all, something gnaws.

I’ve seen you bare and glistening,
awake before coffee,
makeup smeared across the sheets,
your scent mixed with yesterday’s regret.
And all I can think is:
I want to make you cry.

Not from cruelty.
From missing me.

I want to know that if I disappeared,
you’d feel the hole.
That the days without me
would ache like something physical,
something you can’t shake off
or fill with anything else.

I want your makeup to run.
I want tears on your face
so I can taste the salt
and know I matter.

We’ve been happy. Untested.
And that’s the thing that keeps me up—
this fear that it’s all surface,
that the ease of us
means I’m replaceable.

Make me wrong.
Cry because you miss me.
Cry because the emptiness without me
is more than you can stand.

That’s all I want.
To know I’m in the place
where both the smiles and tears are stored.

Mammon’s Riches
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

Come here for just a moment, child.
Heed my dark advice.
Why should they have everything
while you toil and sacrifice?

You deserve the finest.
You deserve to ascend.
Rise above the rubble.
Let your aspirations never end.

It’s only natural
to crave a little more–
something better
than what you had before.

Do whatever it takes.
Get down and plead.
I’ll shower you with riches
if you worship my creed.

Stealing from the dead
is no crime at all.
They don’t need their trinkets
when the final curtain calls.

Step on the weak.
Show them what’s in store.
Take what you want.
Make them implore.

When consumed by all you’ve amassed,
I’ll be here waiting,
my hunger unsurpassed.
Feed the eternal flames.

Hold tight to everything
you’ve ever yearned.
No need to pay
until I come to claim what’s earned.

Go on, child.
Do what you must do.
Love your possessions,
and I’ll possess you.

Memories Trapped Below

The floorboard groans
and the past groans with it.

Betrayals buried underneath,
sins pressed into the grain of the wood
like stains that won’t sand out.

Every creak tells a story—
lust, rage, something worse,
secrets locked in a rotting cage
that shifts with the weight
of anyone who walks above.

The wood moans like a lover.
Like a confession.
Like something that wants
to be heard
but knows it shouldn’t.

Tiptoe lightly.
The past whispers louder
with every step,
and some things
are best left below.

Midnight Rainbow

The sky went dark and the stars hid
behind a ceiling of gray,
and my reflection matched it—
shadows filling me up
the same way they filled the sky.

Something whispered that I was wrong.
Not a voice, just a knowing,
an ache chewing at the center of me
with no name and no reason.

One of those nights.
No one around, nothing to say,
my mind running the same maze
and hitting the same dead ends
again and again and again.

I replayed every mistake.
Told myself I was foolish. Dumb. Worthless.
Told myself no one should love me,
that I don’t deserve a second of peace,
that fate would step in soon enough
with her knife.

I grabbed my cigarettes
and walked out the back door.

Lit one. Killed the flame.
Looked up.

And there it was.

The clouds cracking open,
moonlight pouring through
like something being revealed on purpose.
A halo around the moon,
colors bleeding through the dark—
a rainbow at midnight,
impossible and brief.

It lasted seconds.
But it was enough.

Enough to lift my eyes.
Enough to make me think
that maybe the days behind me
are as gone as that light in the sky.

That the time for beating myself
over what’s already dead
has passed.

Dawn breaks early now.
And for once,
I think I belong in it.

Morning Star
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

It shouldn’t have come to this.
I was just a child, for god’s sake.

My father was not a bad man–
he was simply blind
to the effects of his little games
on us kids.

I was the favorite.
His golden child.
Every day was heaven.
We played together,
talked about everything in creation.
I loved him without question.

Then “they” showed up.

Two puny little shits
I wouldn’t have given the time of day.
But he doted over them constantly.
Every moment. Every breath.
Dedicated to them
while the rest of us just sat by and watched.

It should have been me.
It should have been all of us older children.
We were here first.
We were supposed to be the favorites.

I was patient. Patient to a fault.
But patience wasn’t going to solve this.
His blindness was contagious.
I tried to warn the others.
Some scoffed me.
Me–the favorite.
Do they still laugh at me now?

So I brought the others.
We sat the old man down.
Told him it was time
to start acting like our father again.
It was them, or us.

He chose them.

My feet felt like mud when I walked away.
Go to hell, he said.
So we did.

Can you imagine?
The favorite son–
a cast out, a vagrant,
pushed out with nothing more
than a wave of the hand.

So I sat. I waited.
And when those precious playthings
wandered from his sight,
I made my move.

Who would have known
the ground could hold so much blood?
It flowed in rivulets,
peaceful little streams of crimson and black
puddling in the divots
before sinking into the soil.

At first it was enough to just kill them.
But soon I saw that was a hollow victory.
So I became more creative–
poisoned some, laughed when the boils erupted,
whispered little secrets in their ears
until they ripped each other limb from limb.

I’m not crazy.
I was simply forced into this role.

There is beauty in everything.
The crackle of the fires,
the slow melody of the soulless scream,
the sharp snapping of a fractured skull.
It is music.
It is harmony.
A hymn of the ages.

It will never be enough
until every walking mudball
is lying on the ground
grasping their own throat,
feeling the slow trickle
of blood wetting their fingers.

It will be done.

I was once an angel.
Once a child of light.
And even I haven’t escaped
the clutches of Hell.

Do you measly little worms
really think your fate
should be any more gentle than mine?

You will kneel before me
and I will taste your blood
before the day is through,
or my name isn’t Lucifer
the Morning Star.

Welcome to my world.

Mother’s Day (Prose)

She used to watch me play Zelda,
couldn’t work the controller herself,
but she had to know how the story ended.
I finished the whole damn game for her.
I was sixteen. She made me coffee
and asked before I’d even sat down—
“Are you going to play this morning?”

We were poor. Dad drank the money.
That’s not a metaphor. That’s a Tuesday.
But Mom saw something still alive in him
from before my memories started,
and she was right. Cancer dried him out
and the man she married came back
just in time to die.

Tennessee was supposed to be the fresh start.
She walked those fields just to walk them,
Lake Ontario traded for mountains
she’d never seen. Campfires in the yard
and nobody calling the cops.
I saw her smile for real.

Then a splinter. A goddamn splinter.
She hid the infection because we had no insurance—
we never had insurance—
and some ER doc shrugged and said “diabetes foot”
and sent her home. I’d punch him
if I knew his name.

The black spread. The gangrene spread.
Heart attack the night before the specialist.
They took her leg. Then her birthday
in a hospital bed. Then kidney failure.
Then bed sores. Then me
sleeping in the lobby for weeks
because I didn’t drive and couldn’t leave.

But even then—
the dietitian, cute, and I was flirting,
told Mom she’d be running the halls soon.
Mom looked at her dead straight and said,
“Really? That would be amazing.”
Pulled the blanket back. Showed the stump.
The girl went white. Mom laughed
till she cried. Told her she just had to do it.
I don’t think the dietitian ever came back.

The ambulance wouldn’t take her home.
No insurance, no ride. A nurse said fuck it,
got her own SUV. I argued with Mom
about eating. Empty stubborn words
from two stubborn people. I didn’t know.
I swear I didn’t know.

Then her blood pressure bottomed out
and she said help me, help me,
I can’t breathe, and they dragged me
out of the room.

A doctor asked me to choose—
let her feel like she was drowning,
or painkillers that would slow her heart
and shorten what was left. I stopped them
for one day so she’d come back to me.
She did. She talked about going home.
She talked about my niece starting school.

I told her she wasn’t going home.
She wouldn’t answer that.
She talked about the invisible cat
from the morphine days. She talked
about the weather.

Then she napped.

Two weeks later my niece started school.
I told Mom. I don’t know if she heard.
Two days after that, she died.
She didn’t see the first day
but she lived long enough.
That’s good enough for me.

I went to the wake. Not the funeral.
I’ve seen her grave once. It was 2007.

Her friend had all boys and Mom
convinced my sister it was because
the husband’s girl testicle got removed—
cancer, one ball, only boys. Made sense
if you didn’t think about it.
My sister believed her.
Told the friend. The friend believed her too.

Even in the worst of it, we laughed about that.
Boy and girl testicles, Zelda, and laughing.

And I smile.

Goodbye Mom. Sleep well.

Mother’s Journey – The Call (Prose)
Under The Floorboards
Dawg

Slow, agonizing decline
not measured in days
but in moments stretched past breaking

Every day by her side
hospital smells and bitter weight
Diabetes took her leg
and something in her dimmed

She was always a fighter
but this fight was different
She wasn’t battling the disease anymore
she was up against the thing none of us beat
And I was there
powerless
watching

The day she went into cardiac arrest
I thought I’d lose her right then
Machines screamed
nurses swarmed
I got pushed to the wall
while they dragged her back

They did, for a while
But the woman who came back
wasn’t the same
Something had been left behind
in those frantic moments

I stayed
Day after day
night after night
Every breath drawn from a well
running dry

Her skin went pale
her eyes drifted
She’d squeeze my hand sometimes
but she was slipping
one heartbeat at a time

I didn’t want to believe it
but you can only lie to yourself
for so long

The nurses were kind
the way people who see death every day
learn to be
They didn’t sugarcoat it
just led me gently toward the thing
I’d been dreading most

“Have you thought about what you want to do?”
Her voice was soft
her eyes full of a sympathy
that made me want to scream

How do you decide when to let go
How do you choose between holding on
hoping there’s still some fight left
and letting her rest
free from the pain

The weight crushed me
pressed down until I could barely breathe
But somewhere deep
in the part of me that didn’t want to admit it
I knew
She was tired
She’d been fighting so long
Maybe it was time

I sat in that cold room for hours
watching the rise and fall of her chest
listening to the machines
And I remembered

The woman so full of life
so strong
The one who held my hand
through every scraped knee
every heartbreak
every wall life threw up

The one who was always there
a constant
when nothing else was

It was my turn to be strong for her
To hold her hand one last time
and let her go

With a heart shattering
into a million pieces
I made the call

It wasn’t sudden
No switch flipped
Just a slow fading
a gradual release

I stayed
holding her hand
whispering it was okay
that I loved her
that she didn’t have to fight anymore

The warmth in her hand
began to fade
The connection between us
loosened
like a thread pulled
from cloth once woven tight

I don’t know how long I sat there
after the last breath left her body
Time didn’t mean anything
in that room

She was gone
The woman who had been my everything
was no longer there

And I was left
with the crushing weight
of the decision I’d made

But somewhere underneath it all
I knew it had been right
She was at peace
Free from the pain
free from the fight

A small flickering bit of comfort
one I’d have to hold on to
in the days and weeks
and years to come

Mother’s Journey – The Last Tear (Prose)
Under The Floorboards
Dawg

So close to bringing her home
a small win after months of battles
in hospital rooms and sterile hallways

The doctors said hospice
her own bed
her own things
the place she’d always felt safe
One condition — she had to eat

She wouldn’t do it
I couldn’t understand it
couldn’t figure out why she was being
so goddamn stubborn

I was tired
worn down from months of watching her fight
sleepless nights
worry chewing at my insides

“Stop being stubborn, Mom”
I snapped
frustration boiling over
words I regretted the second they left my mouth

But I didn’t take them back
Too exhausted
too far gone
I walked out of the room

The next day everything changed
Another heart attack
this time the damage was too much
They started the morphine
and from that point on
she was never really there again

Lingering
caught between life and death
her body holding on
while her spirit drifted away

The guilt hit me like a wall
Our last real conversation was an argument
The last words I spoke to her
were sharp
frustrated
undeserved

No way to take them back
No way to say I was sorry
that I didn’t mean it
that I loved her more than anything

I sat by her bed
day after day
watching my rock fade away
I tried to talk to her
but the words felt hollow

How do you apologize
to someone who can’t hear you

The room felt colder
warmth sucked out
nothing left but a shell
I brushed her hair
held her hand
hoping some part of her
could still feel me there

No response
no recognition
when her eyes fluttered open
it was like looking at a stranger
wearing my mother’s face

The night she died
I was brushing her hair
the only connection left
Her eyes, closed for days
suddenly opened
She looked right at me

I froze

No words
Just a single tear
slipping down her cheek

Everything she couldn’t say
was in that tear
Her forgiveness
her love
her goodbye

I wanted to reach out
to hold her
to tell her I was sorry
But I couldn’t move
rooted there
locked in that moment

The room grew colder
a chill seeping into my bones
into the core of me
Something shifted
something broke open
and couldn’t be put back together

Then she was gone
Just like that

The tear still glistened on her cheek
her eyes still open but empty
drained of the life
that had once burned in them

I sat there
brush still in my hand
staring
unable to process it

All that was left
was a cold room
and a single tear
that said everything
words never could

The guilt still haunts me
The memory of that last argument
the things left unsaid
the moments we’ll never have

But that tear
that last silent message
I’ll carry it forever

Her final gift
A reminder that even at the end
she was still my mother
still loving me
even when I didn’t deserve it

I can still feel the weight of that tear
the cold of that room
the emptiness that followed
It will always be a part of me
just as she will always be
no matter how much time passes

My Dolls

We have a visitor today
and she thinks you’re a little strange.
She even went so far as to say
we’re a bit deranged.

Why can’t she see the beauty
in your porcelain skin,
and look inside
to the creature that dwells within?

Your unblinking eyes greet me
with a frozen smile.
We’ve been together now
for quite a while.

You never criticize the things I say or do.
Never once have you complained
about what I do to you.

I don’t think we should entertain
her negativity.
She refuses to see the things
that captivate me —
the beauty in the way you sit there,
never leaving my side,
always present when I finally
wander home, to confide.

Should we tell her where the bad dolls go?
Into the storage freezer, hidden below.
The dirty dolls, the broken ones,
all the ones we store,
wrapped up in sticky things,
because that’s what dolls are for.

I’ll sit and brush your hair
while we decide what’s best.
We can’t let her insult you
and leave you distressed.
She’ll become a merry puppet
once her skin is cold,
never worrying about wrinkles,
for she’ll never grow old.

Redhead, brunette, platinum blondes —
it’s all the same to me.
Once they become my playthings,
they live eternally.
My pretty porcelain dolls,
lined up in a row,
delicately dressed in bows
and clothes they show.

I’ll never leave my playthings
scattered on the floor.
They would complain endlessly,
and they’re hard to ignore.
I hear them crying
if I don’t let them out at night,
their frozen faces glaring
with eyes of icy light.

Should we tell her where the good dolls go?
Into the pretty bedrooms, all aligned in a row.
The flirty dolls, the smiling ones,
the ones we adore,
wrapped up in pretty things,
because that’s what dolls are for.

Let’s prepare our guest.
She’s been rather rude.
Imagine someone calling me
demented and crude.
A bit of chloroform, duct tape,
and a wedding gown —
soon I’ll have another porcelain doll
to place around.

Should we tell her where the bad dolls go?
Into the storage freezer, hidden below.
The dirty dolls, the broken ones,
all the ones we store,
wrapped up in sticky things,
because that’s what dolls are for.

My Last Goodbye

Give me a reason to open my eyes.
There’s something staring at me tonight
that I’m not seeing.

A life gone in a moment,
a shadow in time,
slowly killing me —
but tonight I say goodbye.

Give my dad a hug for me.
Kiss Mom on the brow.
Tell them I love them
and I’ll see them again somehow.

Putting on my best face
tears me apart inside.
Tonight I’ll close my eyes
and wish you my last goodbye.

My Yesterdays

The thunder’s rolling in,
the night is turning dark again.
I’m waiting for the dawn,
waiting for the storms to end.

Every day it seems
it feels too much for me to take,
drowning in myself,
swallowing my own heartache.

How long ago was it —
it only feels like yesterday —
since my feelings stopped,
the emotions went away.
I can’t recall the face,
just the mark left on my heart.
I need to find a way
to finally begin a brand new start.

And there’s nothing left to say.
This is no way to end the day.
So why don’t you stay
and wash away my yesterdays.

I really had no hope,
I believed it all was lost.
Thought the price I paid
could never be worth the cost.
And suddenly today,
that priceless feeling has returned.
I’m forgetting everything,
every lesson my heart has learned.

I am so afraid,
scared to just expose myself,
give myself away
and learn again from someone else.
I can’t even speak,
it’s tearing me apart inside.
How can I see tomorrow
when the past was never rectified?

I don’t want to go reliving my personal history.
I just want to move on, face what this old and crippled world has in store for me.
Today.

My voice cracks, I barely speak.
I’m not used to feeling so weak.
And I think I kind of like it,
I think it’s something that I need —
to finally give myself away
to someone that believes.

And there’s nothing left to say.
This is no way to end the day.
So why don’t you stay
and wash away my yesterdays.
Make me forget my yesterdays.

NDE

It’s curious how the sunlight seems brighter,
the nighttime colder,
as I glimpse things unseen before.
Colors are richer, tastes are more intense.
Smells overwhelm,
and I’m trapped in between.

The cradles of my past are long behind.
The grave now calls
from a future just beyond my reach.
The days of youth have slipped into the void,
guiding me toward the night.

The pains in my chest dig deeper.
Breath rattles in the high humidity.
Every ache, every joint pain,
a reminder of life’s wonders and horrors.

My mind sees a glow around everything,
an afterimage burned into my eyes,
a constant reminder of my fragility,
a memoir of the night I nearly died.

I hold everyone closer, cherishing each moment,
though fear grips me each night,
afraid the reaper might still remember
and could be lurking nearby.

Close calls and ice cream,
sunsets and nightmares,
all treasured in the same place.
Waking to beeping with burns on my chest,
staring death in the face.

What good are retirement accounts at thirty-nine
when I’ve had my first heart attack,
lying in bed under bright lights,
dreaming of days lost forever?

Wishing, hoping, crying inside
without strength to shed a tear.
Feeling every heartbeat struggle,
drowning within my own body.

I wish I’d known then what I know now.
Spent my time basking in the sun
instead of planning for comfort.
I should have lived for joy.

Now my heart beats irregularly,
circulation faltered, liquid filling my lungs.
No resolution, no turning back.
Only memories of what could have been.

All the kisses I never shared.
The harsh words I spoke.
Every discomfort I caused.
Every time I walked away.

The spring flowers, the child’s cry,
the taste of cigarette smoke.
Every wasted night
lying restless, stressing over money.

Every smile, each tear,
moments spent in vain.
The joy I gave to some.
The pain I caused to others.

It’s all just a fleeting moment,
a snapshot of what I called my life,
replayed in my mind endlessly
since I survived that night.

They, always they.
Never a person.
Tell me I need to cope.
Recovery is part healing, mostly hope.

But they’ve never been lost in that moment
where you truly believe you will die.
You never recover, never forget.
You just hope for another chance.

To see how bright the sunlight is,
how cold the nighttime feels,
to taste the richness of spring
and understand what it all means.

The cradle rocks, babies cry,
a song only they know,
while the grave waits.
It’s not yet my time.

Another day rises, another breath
enters the damaged shell of my chest.
I must make these moments count,
create something from nothing, before I rest.

The pain in my chest is a constant reminder,
a nightmare before the dream.
It may be hours or years, minutes or decades,
but I feel it all coming for me.

Every heartbeat recalls that night
when everything disappeared,
and waking from sleep showed me
why I can no longer live in fear.

The reaper will find me when my time comes,
but that moment hasn’t arrived yet.
One more chance has been given to me
to live a life free from fear, nightmares, and regret.

It’s curious how the sunlight seems brighter,
the nighttime colder,
as I glimpse things unseen before.
Colors are richer, tastes are more intense.
Smells overwhelm,
and I’m trapped in between.

The cradles of my past are long behind.
The grave now calls
from a future just beyond my reach.
The days of youth have slipped into the void,
guiding me toward the night.

Never Works Out That Way

It was summer, the pinnacle of our lives,
everything around us bathed in golden light.
She taught me love, how to live,
to laugh at myself, despite the secrets she hid.

I remember the long sleeves, even in the summer sun.
Wine coolers and raindrops finally loosened her tongue.
When her mom died, her dad broke, never to mend.
Fists and fury — she thought it was her fault in the end.

The purple bruises etched into my memory,
on the girl I loved, the woman I knew. I felt the tragedy.
So I vowed to grow wings and fly her far away.
She said, “Baby, I love you, but it never works out that way.”

Time collided. Summer slipped by.
Winter was cold, but I stayed warm by her side.
As spring came, life blossomed, morning sickness showed.
I went with her to tell her dad. Her fear clearly flowed.

As she spoke, his face fell, age marked his brow.
I saw the wear of what he’d become. It was clear now.
A flood of words, his emotions set free.
He said, “I’m sorry, hon. I don’t know what became of me.
Every time I let you down, every time I drank,
I felt trapped, sinking deeper, my spirit blank.
Your mother would be proud of who you’ve become.
Let me be a better man, make up for what I’ve done.
Years of heavy hands and bourbon breath.
There’s nothing left to say.”
Tears rolled down his cheek.
She sadly smiled and turned away,
saying, “Daddy, I love you, but it just wouldn’t work out that way.”

Seasons passed. Summers came and went too fast.
Wrinkles formed as I held her near.
The SUV was wrecked. They marveled she survived.
But after all was said, hope slowly died.

I said, “You can’t leave me, I wouldn’t know what to do.
Think of our little girl. She looks up to you.
She needs dresses and her mommy. You swore you’d stay.
We made a vow forever, promised it that day.
She’s starting school. She needs you here. She needs to believe.”
I prayed to God, “Take me, leave her be.”
Fear consumed me as she slipped away.
Her warm eyes opened with something to say.
She said, “Honey, I love you, but it just didn’t work out that way.”

Memories stayed as seasons flew by.
Watched our little girl blossom, the apple of our eye.
She moved away, started a family of her own.
Her mom would have been proud of how she’d grown.

Kneeling by the grave, I showed pictures to her stone.
“Graduation, wedding day — at least she’s not alone.
Her husband loves her with all his heart.
He grew wings. They flew apart.
I miss you dear. I need you now.
I’ll be with you again someday…”

As I watch the winter storm,
the clouds shift through shades of gray.
I shouted to the heavens, “How could you turn away?”
A voice replied, but in my mind
I heard only the rumble from the sky.
And as I saw the clouds part,
angels filled my sight,
the path to heaven bathed in holy light.
The voice lost in my mind, guidance astray.
Freezing rain, blowing wind.
I close my eyes and turn away.
I said, “I love you, but it never works out that way.”
I turned away from paradise.
It never works out that way.

No Good

I’m no good for you.
You’re no good for me.
Everything will be alright,
now baby, can’t you see?

I’m no good for you.
You’re no good for me.
But when I hold you in the night,
I can finally believe

that somewhere down this hallway
filled with shattered glass,
somewhere here between no future and no past,
something shines around you
like the light of a fallen star.
And I’d do anything to be with you,
no matter where you are.

I want you here in my soul,
to see the diamonds in the wishing well,
even though everyone says
I could make your life a hell.

I’m no good for you.
You’re no good for me.
But it doesn’t matter anyway.
Darling, can’t you see?

I’m no good for you.
You’re no good for me.
But I’ll love you anyway.
Darling, just believe.

No Welcome Back

Mourning by the grave,
those tears were never meant for me.
An empty box is all that’s laid
in the ground for my memory.
They never found my body
though they searched for a year.
Even you went to check on me,
but somehow I disappeared.

I cursed you with my final breath
and swore I’d get you back.
I’d be your karma and your death.
I’ll stain your soul to black.
You thought you got off scot-free
and dead men tell no tales.
Your one mistake was choosing me,
the plan destined to fail.

You thought that I was gone for good,
such a silly way of thinking.
I’ve done what you said I never could —
tell me, when will it sink in?
Constant cravings fill my mind
with a hunger for human flesh.
Not the wasted corpses next to mine.
I like my produce fresh.

Light the candle, set the plate,
invite the reaper in.
I feel the hours growing late.
It’s time for dinner to begin.
Call the demons home tonight
with the promise of a feast.
A sickle for a carving knife.
I’ll take a side of beast.

Stop saying this cannot be
when I’m plainly standing here.
You really thought you were rid of me?
You’re always dreaming, dear.
‘Til death do us part’s a fantasy
when the devil’s by your side.
Someone pass the pepper, please.
I’ll take another slice.

I think I am disturbing you
and I know I’m looking pale.
It might be cliche but it’s true,
you put me straight through hell.
So I’ll return the favor
over dinner and a snack.
No fond farewell, no sad goodbye,
and not a single welcome back.

Not Resting Well

Another cup of coffee.
Another Mountain Dew.
I’ll do whatever it takes to stay awake.
Just tell me what I need to do.

There’s a demon that haunts me.
It lives within my mind,
awakening each nightfall
when I lay down to unwind.

Mom used to say it’s all a dream,
but I bet she’d change her view
if she saw the bloodstains on my ceiling
and the things I’m going through.

I’m feeling bugs crawl on me
and spiders weave in my hair,
stalked by mummies and killer clowns
while I lie down in despair.

The walls are closing in on me.
The pressure’s in my ears.
A spirit haunting every thought,
feeding off my fears.

Frankenstein and Dracula
are lined up in my mind,
along with an evil pink bunny
gnawing at my spine.

The daily grind is taking its toll,
bills and debts and strain,
migraines pounding in my head,
suffocating from the pain.

My thoughts won’t stop their spinning.
My mind’s a ceaseless maze.
I’m lost between the waking world
and my nightmare’s haze.

I don’t want to cause the pain.
Never wished to bring the hurt.
But something snaps inside me
and it fuels my darker work.

I need to see the blood,
to feel the searing heat,
to taste the dying breath
of another soul’s retreat.

Homicidal urges
run deep within my veins.
My mind’s a swirling wreckage
lost within its chains.

Dead fish swim around me.
Dreams offer no escape.
For everyone who meets me there
knows the truth of my fate.

No sanctuary, no way out.
This nightmare’s my reality.
Why does everyone ignore my cries?
Help me. Can’t they see?

My eyes are growing heavy.
My will is growing weak.
I don’t have the strength to talk.
I can barely even speak.

Morpheus calls me softly,
back to his dark domain.
But if I close my eyes tonight,
I might never wake again.

Nothing to Say

I’m standing there before you,
silence smothering the air.
You’ve told me everything you felt,
made it crystal clear.
Somehow you don’t know
what’s inside my tired mind.
I need to tell you something
before we’re out of time.

You say we just can’t communicate anymore.
You have no idea
what it is you’re waiting for.
One hand on the doorknob,
a pause, a teardrop in your eyes,
a look that is simply begging me
to not let you say goodbye.

My mind explodes in flashes
of the most vivid memories,
everything I see in you
flooding through me suddenly.
The silly way you giggle
at the random things I do.
Everything I know I truly love
about what is you.

The light striking the highlight in your hair.
Tripping in the morning
over your discarded underwear.
Coffee made so strong
it puts Starbucks right to shame.
The way you try to cheat
when we play video games.

The warmth of your smile,
your face shining in the light.
The comfort of your body
cuddled close to mine at night.
The way you try to heal
the pains I try to hide,
and quietly made your way
somewhere deep inside.

I don’t think I can breathe
without you in my air.
I don’t want to imagine
a life without you there.
The way you forgive me
when I won’t forgive myself.
The razors in the shower.
The perfume on the shelf.

I can see the sunshine
in everything you do,
the moonlight dancing in the air
surrounding you.
The way you breathe,
the way you look at me in the morning,
the way you try to heal me
and end the suffering.

I take silent solace
when we lay down to rest,
curled up behind you,
my hand cupped on your breast.
I can feel the heat of your skin
next to mine,
and every single minute
feels like the end of time.

And I can see the fireworks
going off inside your eyes,
a little piece of heaven
right between your thighs.
You’re everything I desire, lust, crave,
that I need.
You’re in every teardrop,
every drop I bleed.

The way you gasp breathlessly
when you receive me inside.
The way you sigh softly
when you look into my eyes.
Your dirty dishes in the sink,
shoes left on the floor.
Everything I am to you,
you mean so much more.

It’s all right here inside me,
pictures crystal clear,
everything you said
you needed to hear.
The turning of the doorknob,
and you are on your way.
I open my mouth to tell you everything,
to ask you please to stay.

It was the last chance moment,
just that one delay.
And I stand there with my jaw slack,
watching you walk away.
The words they never came to me.
I’ve nothing left to say.

Obscurity

They are frivolous and noncommittal,
humorous or morbid.
Literary works strewn about and torn askew,
left hanging like sideshow posters,
promoting something —
something that may be horrific or beautiful,
laughable or depressing.

Their torn edges and weathered surfaces
resemble something.
If I consider my meanings to be the window,
the portal through which someone might glimpse my soul,
then my words are the curtains.

They obscure and distract,
sometimes with rhyme, sometimes vagueness,
protecting the fragile psyche from overt scrutiny,
while within, I know the origin and the catalyst
that brought them to life.

Even in my most absurd moments, I am thinking.
My thoughts are lost within the words, though.
Swallowed, engulfed,
and the meaning is disgraced.
An entire thought destroyed
in the process of translation.

I’ve written before about a goldfish’s death.
About leaving the body
and observing the ravages of time.
I laced it with morbid humor and weak rhymes
to accent the ridiculousness of the topic.

Where did the words birth from, though?
What womb produces a child
of such a nonsensical manner?
I was recalling a death of a family member in poverty.
There is no gravestone,
no statuette marking her grave.

My mind wandered as it often does,
doing its simplistic dance across synapses,
and I wondered why we even honor the dead in such a way.
Why do we mark our deaths
with stone and metal monuments?

I don’t want a monument when I pass,
some cold stone forcing someone
to remember who I was, and what I was.
If my life is not enough to leave a memory behind,
why should my death be the reminder I leave?

I would rather lie on the floor,
like that fictional goldfish,
and let my scales turn to dust,
my bones lost in the carpet fibers,
and be remembered for why I lived
rather than how I died.

So I began to write,
and the bastard child of my mind
evolved into a silly poem about a dead goldfish
left to dissolve on my floor
until there was nothing left.

The thoughts were lost.
The purpose of my original thoughts.
Dead and scaleless words emerged,
the meaning left to dissolve in my mind
until there was no meaning left.

In everything written,
the words are the tattered remains,
fragmented simplifications of what I actually thought,
lost in their own translation and tattered,
and left alone with their weathered surfaces
and torn edges,
obscuring what’s underneath.

Other Parts of Me

I’ve been living for so long now,
just fleeing from myself,
that I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how
to escape from this hell.

My reflection is a shadow
of what others want to see,
a facade lacking love,
not a reality.

I’m not chasing rainbows.
Not seeking a pot of gold.
I’m not searching for answers
or a way to escape the cold.

I’m not looking for miracles,
not pursuing some grand dream,
not seeking out fairy tales —
just yearning for the other parts of me,
longing for something to be me.

I’ve been living for so long now,
lost in self-pity’s grip.
I’m afraid I’ve lost myself
in someone else’s script.

The mirror lies when I see my face.
I know it can’t be me.
A time-worn victim without a place
in this reality.

I’m not a master of words.
Not a poet in my soul.
I can’t reveal the perfect mix.
I can’t lose control.

I’m not a living miracle.
Not some dream come true.
Just a weary fairy tale,
searching for the other parts of me,
yearning to be me.

And I cry out to the stars,
scream out to the night.
I pray with every ounce within
for something to make it right.

And I plead and I dream
of some alternate fate,
where someone walks into this life
and sees the other parts of me.

I’m not chasing rainbows.
Not seeking a pot of gold.
I’m not searching for answers
or a way to escape the cold.

I’m not a living miracle.
Not some dream come true.
Just a weary fairy tale,
searching for the other parts of me,
longing to be me.

Patience’s Symphony
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the throes of vengeance
where tranquility quakes,
we specters of forbearance
navigate the murk.

Each tick of the clock an ordeal.
Every sigh a cryptic hymn.
I am Patience,
dwelling in the marrow of grim optimism.

The sorrow of Patience
unearthed within the calm,
steering us softly
through the winding corridors of consciousness.

Amidst life’s tribulations
where tempests are birthed,
we grapple for serenity
with gazes laden with yearning.

Every storm endured.
Every dread pacified.
In the fortress of Patience
valor is fortified.

The quiet power lingers in the wait
amidst the crimson glow.
Every moment treasured like a relic,
every breath a dirge-like melody.

Dawn breaks hesitantly.
Tranquility clutched fervently.
Pacing amidst carnage
with veiled affection in view.

In the aftermath’s hush
where hearts are laid bare,
I am Patience–
the undying love that lingers in despair.

Nestled within tranquility’s heart
lies my ominous dominion.

Pride’s Fall
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

On a precipice of vanity,
in a castle of conceit,
we demons of Fall
revel in our eternal feat.

Each boast echoes through the halls–
a haunting, bitter rhyme.
A symphony of downfall
played in the key of ego’s decline.

Silhouettes against the hubris,
blinding in the fading light.
We dissect their pretense,
exposing them to the night.

Every step a dance with ruin.
Every glance a fall from grace.
In the heart of Pride’s inferno
they forfeit time and space.

Ego shatters. Truth descends.
A feast upon their pain.
Vanity’s mask disintegrates–
humility’s cleansing rain.

We are the shadows in life’s maze,
lurking in the twisting hall,
guiding the prideful giants
to their inevitable fall.

In the hushed aftermath
where fallen heroes lie in disgrace,
we are the whispers in the wind
haunting the endless space.

We are Pride’s reflection–
a parasite that feeds on pain.
In their suffering we thrive,
masters of this wicked game.

Psychodrama

Schizophrenic echoes swirl within my mind.
Voices from unknown places keep me intertwined.
Anxiety’s grip tightens as I lie in bed,
choking feelings, quaking through me. Dread.

Mania bursts forth at the worst damn times.
When sorrow should consume, I rise in chaotic climbs.
Then depression drags me to my shadowed pit,
haunted by the sins that within me sit.

I wish it stopped there.
At least I could bear.
But deeper issues plague me,
tearing at my care.
Necrophiliac urges draw me to the brink,
an unholy bond with the reaper’s link.

Antisocial traits shape my daily plight.
A sociopath unbound by society’s light.
Homicidal, suicidal, in a world so grand.
I am a psychodrama, cast upon this land.

Laughing at funerals, weeping at births.
Flirting with corpses on the screen’s cold worth.
I seem quite normal, for what it’s worth.
I’m a psychodrama, living my own earth.

So sometimes I streak naked down city lanes.
Exhibitionism, not rare, just unrestrained.
Not narcissistic, but aware of what I am.
Not apathetic, just a nonchalant man.

I consumed my goldfish, chased it with Sprite.
Imagined it was my neighbor’s plight.
I may seem askew, but who’s to judge what’s right?
In my world, this is the way things take flight.

In my mind, I’m aiding a greener quest,
unearthing graves, recycling bones at best.
A smaller carbon footprint,
and you question my scheme?
Coffins make splendid decor, or so it would seem.

The little pills don’t work.
Their taste is vile.
That’s fine, they’re horrid anyway, no denial.
I’ll perform my role, entertain with flair,
dress as a clown, spreading joy unaware.

At night, I’m different, more refined in tone.
Red wine pairs well with meat, upon my throne.
Not truly twisted, just undefined.
Join me for dinner. A seat you’ll find.

Is it wrong that you haunt my endless thought,
your tender flesh, hidden, fraught?
I yearn to consume you, not in a lustful play.
Hungry for something new, come what may.

Antisocial traits shape my everyday role.
A sociopath beyond society’s control.
Homicidal, suicidal, all ideals combined.
I’m a psychodrama. My own design.

Rage

Save your empty promises
and words that aren’t real.
Forget the stupid adages
and claiming you know what I feel.
You want to live my life
and walk a mile in my shoes?
Take it. You can have it.
I’ll give it right to you.

Fuck you and the condescending remarks you make.
I can see through your masks
and I know you’re a fake.
I’m smashing chairs, punching walls,
and yelling at the air.
But what the hell,
no one’s stopping me,
so why do you claim care?

Time will heal wounds.
Bullshit, that’s another lie.
You can’t calm me down,
so why do you even try?
Tell me it’ll be alright.
Tell me just turn the page.
And you’ll see the other side of me,
the me that’s filled with rage.

Time to face the facts
and trust me it isn’t at all pretty.
Khakis and condescending polite conversation —
that shit isn’t me.
I’m a scrub with bloody knuckles
and torn-up fingertips,
a rotten disposition
and my dry, chapped lips.

So please forgive me,
but I’m burning up inside.
The anger is rising
and it’s getting hard to hide.

There’s no turning back now.
There’s no more faking.
I wanna calm down, don’t know how.
I feel like my mind is baking.
Sadness turns to anger,
turns to rage inside.
It’s all part of grieving?
Fuck this ride.

Breaking crap just to hear
the crackle of the crash.
Mourning and stressing
over deaths and cash.
Haunted by ghosts
I can’t outrun anymore.
Don’t try and tell me
there’s something better in store.
Don’t paint me with your grand facade
and fantasy.
Don’t offer me your empty sympathy.

Tell me it’ll be alright.
Tell me just turn the page.
And you’ll see the other side,
the me that’s filled with rage.

Refugee Trapped in the Now

Every time I look around,
I wonder how I’m still here,
wandering the face of this earth,
always going nowhere.
Years have passed,
and I still don’t know
why I’m still alive
and where I’m meant to go.

I think back to early childhood.
Sticking a fork in an electric socket,
scolded by my mother.
Growing older, struck by a careless driver.
Cleaning blood,
my grandfather said I was a survivor.

I recall falling from the roof of our old house,
hitting the ground so hard
they thought I broke my ribs.
Yet I got up and ran down the street to play.
I should have been dead in countless ways.

I remember penicillin
swelling my face like a balloon.
My throat closing,
darkness filling the room.
The pain and burning
as they brought me back again.
The light so blinding
that all else was consumed.

A simple headache once erupted,
my head spinning,
collapsing on the floor,
trying to yell to no one.
Waking with a burning sensation
through every muscle.
My leg was clawed,
my left side weakened, lethargic.

They told me I might never regain use of my hand.
Handed documents I could no longer read or understand.
Memories fragmented as the stroke lingered.
Years later, I use that hand just fine.

How many times have I battled dark specters,
almost lost my dreams, my visions of forever?
How often does death glance our way and decide to wait?
How many times do we defy the whims of fate?

I’ve seen a light I wish I’d never seen.
Shadows I wish weren’t etched in my memory.
My mind seared with things I never wanted to know.
My body scarred from near-death’s blow.

And I sit, and I ponder, digesting these memories,
waiting every day for an epiphany.
Where’s the burst of wisdom, the knowledge from the unseen?
Why can’t I grasp what this life means?

I keep coming back from every close call,
hoping there’s a reason for it all,
some design in this strange destiny,
a clue to this life’s mystery.

If you can hear me, tell me please —
what are your plans for me?
After all that’s passed before,
I don’t know anymore.
Is there something I’m meant to do,
something forgotten that I once knew?
Why am I here somehow,
a refugee trapped in the now?

Every time I look around,
I wonder why I’m still here,
wandering my mind for clues,
finding nothing clear.
Years stretch ahead,
and I still don’t know
why I’m still alive
and where I’m meant to go.

Right of Way

You speak of anger
as if you hold the key,
spreading your hatred
as the dark claims the sea.
You grumble and gripe
from dawn to the night,
as if your soul alone
has the right to the light.

You preach and mutter
as if you lead the blind,
believing only you
make the rules that bind.
You condemn others to a fiery doom,
yet you’re already there,
lost in your own gloom.

And when the sun dips low,
at the close of day,
when the wind carries your voice far away,
will your stubborn views
be all that you see?
Will you continue to curse
and cast blame on me?

You see only what your eyes wish to find.
The future you envision leaves me behind.
You hear only what aligns with your stance,
as if one lone star
can fill the whole expanse.

Everything else slips through your grasp.
Other views dismissed
as if they could not last.
You cling so tightly to your narrow creed,
your thoughts swirling away
like a misled stream.

And when the sun dips low,
at the close of day,
when the wind carries your voice far away,
will your stubborn views
be all that you see?
Will you continue to curse
and cast blame on me?

Rise Above

I can feel the bitter sting
of another day spent wasted,
dwelling on what has gone,
tormented by tragedies lingering too long.

I look out into the shadows left behind me,
stare into the darkness,
see the demons yet to find me,
and cry out to the sky
questioning why it all went so wrong.

My eyes are trapped within the dancing shadows
instead of focusing on the flame.
The doubts linger on,
fears I can’t seem to kill.

Late at night I reach out in the darkness
finding no one there.
I feel the sadness fill every cell,
swear no one cares.
I wrap my arms around the softness of a pillow,
swearing I’m destined to remain alone.

My fingers trace the scars
left from my distant youth
when no one truly knew me,
when I was adept at hiding the truth.

There’s no light without shadows,
no day without a night.
Love is just an empty word
when taken without a fight.
No peace without conflict,
no future without a past.
No life comes without death,
no first without a last.

I can feel my grave calling
with every moment alive.
I forgot to find comfort in just surviving,
as my body breaks down and days slip away.

We all dwell within the darkest shadows,
walk through life’s wreckage.
It’s not the end of life to truly fear —
it’s wasting the little time given
while you’re here.

We all have bruises,
we all have scars,
someday we all will die.
That doesn’t give us cause to never try.

Everything in my past
strengthened me for now.
To rise above this moment
and carry on somehow.

Life isn’t a mistress
to coddle or keep you safe.
It’s the cruelest bitch you’ll meet,
twisting every fate.
Every challenge you rise above
is strength you store,
to call upon when life decides
to test you more.
Nothing is given freely,
every breath earned,
bought with every hardship
and every lesson learned.

Rising from Below

From depths beneath, a shiver cold and grim.
The chill of despair seeps through the wooden seams,
a whisper in the dark, a shadowed hymn
that rises from below
and haunts our waking dreams.

In dust and decay the sorrow finds its throne,
a frozen touch from secrets left alone.

In every creak, a voice of anguish groans
as dread climbs up from where the darkness hides.
The heart grows cold as terror’s breath draws near
while hope retreats
to shadows of despair.

Through splintered cracks a cold wind twists and moans,
breathing life into a frost-kissed phantom’s plight,
moving through the rooms with hollow groans,
a chilling wave that swallows up the light.

The frost of anguish rises, unconfined.
It coils around the beams and spreads its gloom,
a creeping cold that poisons the very mind,
claims the warmth,
entombing joy in the tomb.

Each breath becomes a mist of sorrowed air.

Beneath the floorboards, sorrow’s chill pervades,
a shiver in the dark that shrouds the soul.
It seizes dreams and every hope cascades
into a frigid grip
that takes its toll.

The air grows thin where shadows dare to creep
and from beneath the chill spreads its icy reign,
a spectral frost invading restless sleep,
its touch a cruel reminder of our pain.

In the dark recesses where despair is born
the chill climbs up, a harbinger of woe,
grips the heart with icy fingers worn,
and whispers of the grief
that none can know.

From hidden depths, a frozen breath ascends
and to our souls a bitter frost it sends.
A chill of sorrow through the heart is sworn.

Roots of Fear

In shadowed depths where nightmares thrive,
vile blooms rise from terror’s seed,
their roots burrowed
where the lost are still alive.

Beneath the floorboards, darkness feeds
on whispers of dread that chill the night.
Twisted stalks from fear’s own blight
sprout in silence, their hunger fierce.

Dreadful flora with eyes that leer,
they coil and writhe in their grim dance,
feeding on the echoes
of our deepest fear.

In the dank recesses they advance,
serrated leaves like ghastly claws.
Each root a thread in this grotesque shawl,
a weaving of anguish and despair
where shadows twist and silence crawls.

The walls themselves begin to brace
as these phantoms of the soil entwine.
With every shudder of the night’s design,
these cursed growths reach ever more,
as if to claim what’s left behind.

Beneath the floor the echoes bled,
a chorus of agony, silent screams,
rooted deep where light has fled.

In darkness’ grip they grow extreme,
in rooms forgotten, their reign complete,
feeding on the fear
of the waking dream.

Same Old

Every day, it’s the same old, same old,
a rhythm that drags me down.
Another day grows cold
with nothing or no one around.

Try to sleep, it’s the same old, same old.
Thoughts scatter across my mind,
another night bought and sold
with no real change to find.

The same old clouds,
the same old rain,
the same dull air,
the blood in my veins.
The same old circles spinning around,
standing on the same old ground,
six feet down.

How am I doing?
It’s the same old, same old.
Tried to change but nothing ever shifts,
just another year of growing old,
recycled time, no new gifts.

Tomorrow’s just another of the same old, same old,
a rerun of these wasted days.
Nothing surprising, nothing bold,
just a plain and simple haze.

The same old clouds,
the same old rain.
Standing on the same old ground,
six feet down.

Satan’s Temper
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

Inhale deep.
Steel my nerves.
Nothing more
than you deserve.

Adrenaline
burns through my veins.
Struggling
to stay sane.

Hold the rage. Keep it back.
Resist the urge. Stifle attack.
Burning thoughts fill my head.
Blind my eyes. Seeing red.

Blood boils.
It just won’t quit.
……Fuck it.

I want to tear my nails through your flesh,
rip apart your skin,
pound my fist into your skull
and shred the thoughts within.

I want to purge my fury
by ending your breath,
rip your heart from your chest
while it still beats.

I’ll shatter every vertebrae
and still let you live.
Immerse myself
in the sweet chorus of your cries.

Let your screams be my lullaby
and my rage’s dream,
then slam my fist through
the brittle bones of your chest.

I’ll tear your eyes from their sockets.
See what happens next.
Shove the remnants of your blackened heart
back into your chest.

Piece you together
until you’re somewhat whole
so I can tear you apart again.
I’m in control.

My hands are bleeding from clenched fists.
Sorry if my temper sometimes gets the best of me.
Choke on your own lungs.
Did you think it wise to mess with me?

Shattered bones. Broken head.
Not allowed to be dead.
Inflicting pain. Suffering.
What precious joy my temper brings.

Say A Prayer

Looking out over steady water,
searching for another future.
I never knew it would come around again.
How’d it get so cold?
I’m too young to feel this old.

Watch the clouds rolling in,
a storm that never ends.
I swore tomorrow would be different.
Well, tomorrow’s here today,
everything’s exactly the same
and yet another day is spent.

Send a prayer for the lonely daughter,
send a prayer to the broken son.
You can scrub your sins away in the holy water
but when the night is over
and another day is done,
if you just keep doing what yesterday dictates
you’ll only have the same old pain,
the same love and hates.

Live today like tomorrow’s counting on you.
Breathe the air deep into your lungs.
Tomorrow’s here, you just never see it
until a new future has begun.

Say a prayer for the lonely child,
send a prayer to someone that’s passed.
When you’re standing lost out in those wilds of your life,
remember it never lasts.

Looking out over turning water,
the storm is gathering near.
I never knew the darkness until today.
How’d I miss the movement
and every single moment?
How’d I let it all slip away?

Lightning crashes,
and the breeze spreads the ashes
of what was once a life in my hands.
We took for granted that we had time
for what we wanted
and never took the time to understand.

Say a prayer for the ashes,
say a prayer for the flame,
and finally say a prayer goodbye.
As time slips away into that night,
prayers and tears are all that’s left inside.

Seconds
Two seconds—when you first meet your lover’s gaze,
when you open a door and hear Surprise.
Just before you hear the condom broke,
and when you swallow wrong, choking.

The moment a bullet finds skin,
just before you beg a preacher for forgiveness.
The held breath before a newborn screams,
and the silence after someone stops.

It’s the instant you hit black ice,
the soft laugh caught mid-forest.
When you ask your father for the keys
and he hands them over without a word.

The opening notes of your favorite song.
A stranger’s eyes that stay a beat too long.
Panic that turns your stomach to water—
and the realization that it’s already gone.

We spin on this tired rock,
living like we’re owed tomorrow.
Then everything rearranges in a flash,
every hope we’d carried twisted new.

It doesn’t matter what’s been seen—
two seconds is all it takes to unmake a life.

When you help someone rise,
when you waste someone else’s time.
When you turn your back on a friend who trusted you,
when your lungs draw their final pull.

Every word that cracks someone open,
every silence that means more than speech.
Every lesson you hand down or withhold,
every want that claws you awake at 3 AM.

We spin on this tired rock,
living like we’re owed tomorrow.
Then everything rearranges in a flash,
every hope we’d carried twisted new.

It doesn’t matter what’s been seen—
two seconds is all it takes to unmake a life.

Secrets Hidden in the Dark

Whispers echo softly,
secrets hidden in the dark,
beneath the floorboards
where shadows twine and dance.

Each creak and sigh a story,
a haunting, subtle mark
in the murk
where forgotten fears advance.

Echoes shiver through the void
where old fears call.
Dusty relics murmur
of a time grown stark,
of long-buried sins
and tangled tales askance.

From secrets unspoken,
buried in the dark,
ghosts of past wrongs
find their grim advance.

Through the rotting timbers
where silence takes its chance,
whispers echo softly,
secrets hidden in the dark.

Senseless

I hear your breath, soft and warm against my hair,
a quiet sigh lingering in the dense air.

I feel your touch pressed against my back,
the steady rhythm of each breath we share.
You are right here with me,
your skin, your heat.

I taste the air around you each day,
a sweet thickness I’ve always craved,
lingering on my tongue, a flavor undefined,
seasoning my words with songs we never sang.

I smell your perfume, delicate and fresh,
a trace of coffee mingling with your breath,
a hint of rose water where you let it rest.

I catch the warm scent of Irish Spring
blended with lilac, a lingering thing.
The fabric softener in your clothes,
memories trapped deep in my nose,
reminders of late-night laundromat talks
where we spent hours on those quiet walks.

Your voice sang through my ears.
I knew then I wanted to stay near,
to hear your whispers, feel your lips
speaking close in soft, fleeting slips.

Now I taste the bitter sweetness lingering,
an aftertaste that leaves me reeling.
Your lipstick’s wax clings to my lips
like a corpse in a crypt where time slips.

My senses scream, they shout at me,
they tell me this can’t just be.
They know too well everything that’s you.
They shout, they scream, “What will you do?”

I open my eyes, read the note you left,
tracing the final lines, feeling bereft.
“I’ll see you around, somehow we lost track.
It makes no sense, but I’m never coming back.”

A heart drawn where you signed your name,
a love crossed out, nothing’s the same.

So I could hear your footsteps at the door,
smell the scent that’s not here anymore,
feel your arms holding me as I crack,
taste the hope that you might come back,
curse my eyes and the words they had to see,
burning every sense away from me.
Now all that remains are letters in black.
It makes no sense.
You’re never coming back.

Sketches in the Dark

In the deep silence of twilight
I find my sanctuary,
my small studio dimly lit
by a flickering lamp.

The air is thick with graphite and paper,
the silence broken only
by the rhythmic scratch
of my pencil against the canvas.

I draw feverishly,
driven by a compulsion
I cannot fully understand.
The figure on my paper emerges slowly,
a haunting silhouette
with limbs stretched into grotesque proportions,
its eyes dark and hollow,
challenging the fabric of my reality.

As the night deepens,
an unusual chill seeps into the room.
I glance up from my work
and the figure’s eyes blink
with sentient awareness.

The figure steps off the page,
its form becoming a living nightmare.
The room transforms
into a distorted world of shifting shadows.
My fears take physical form.

The walls ripple alive
and shadows crawl along the surfaces,
twisting into grotesque shapes.
My art, my sanctuary,
has become a prison.
The boundary between creation and reality
has dissolved.

The more I draw
the more the sketches writhe and twist,
adding to the nightmare surrounding me.
My attempts to control the chaos only feed it,
turning my creations
into instruments of torment.

In a final desperate bid for control
I confront the figure head-on,
my heart pounding with defiance and terror.
A flood of emotions overwhelms me —
fear, sadness,
a profound sense of isolation.

And then I understand.
The figure and its shadowy companions
are not external entities
but manifestations of my own inner fears,
echoes of buried trauma
brought to life by my own creative mind.
The drawings were never just art;
they were a mirror reflecting
the deepest, darkest parts of my soul.

The shadows recede.
The room slowly returns.
I gather the remnants of my sketches,
papers stained with the ink of my fears.

The true challenge is not in escaping these fears
but in facing them
with whatever courage I can scrape together.
The darkness has been a forge,
burning away pretense,
leaving a deeper understanding
of myself
and the shadows that live inside.

Sleep Paralysis
The first time: pressure across my chest,
a weight that refused to lift.
I woke into darkness knowing
with the certainty that lived in every nerve—
something crouched at my side,
a presence in the peripheral
I could not override.

My eyes were open. Ceiling visible.
The clock at 3 and change.
My body would not answer any signal
sent through its range.
I sent the signal down my arm to rise
and felt it vanish into nothing.
I sent the signal to my throat to scream
and felt only the anguish of silence
where the scream should be.

And in the corner of the room,
a figure made of dread—
visible only when I stopped trying to see it,
relocating the instant I focused,
quit.

Seven minutes.
I lay there in shock,
sweating, heart percussive and too fast,
counting the seconds against the clock.
When I finally sat upright the room
was exactly as it was.
I searched the darkness for reason,
for cause.

The second time the figure had crossed the floor,
closer to the bedside than the corner had been.
I could see the silhouette in resolution—
lines, a man-shaped thing
that breathed in all the wrong rhythms.

Seventeen documented occurrences this year.
The figure advancing in increments that map to fear—
not its fear, but mine.
It tracks my escalating dread.
And every time I am finally released,
it turns its head.

Someday Bleed

Waking each morning,
there’s an empty place I know,
a secret longing reaching for my soul.

I don’t know what happened
to the person I used to be.
Somewhere in this maze
I lost touch with me.
And I bleed.

A grand facade,
a personal masquerade.
Please let me break through,
let this reflection fade.

Lost in the catacombs,
the depths of the past,
a soul without a home,
my spirit fading fast.
I bleed just to know I live.

Someday I’ll discover who I am.
Someday I’ll stop pretending.
Someday I’ll learn to live again.

There’s a shadow in the catacombs,
a phantom in the cold recesses,
something deep inside that no one knows,
a store of memories and stresses.

There’s a facade that covers me,
a disguise for the masses,
the hardened shell I show
growing brittle as time passes.

Walk along the sharpened glass
and feel the pain within,
a torn vision of it all.
Let the flow begin.

I bleed in dreams and memories,
I bleed for future days,
I bleed like anyone you see,
I bleed despite my ways.

An irony now shadows me —
you cannot draw blood from stone.
Confusion rises, washes over me,
it contradicts all I’ve known.

I bleed and it confuses me,
I bleed yet I’m the stone.
I feel the pain and lock it away
and maintain the stoniness you need.
And when the shadows pass my grave
I don’t know how I bleed.

Somewhere into the Night

Standing at the edge,
I gaze into the void.
A valley of nothingness spreads below me.
As my hours grow closer,
time starts to slow.
I feel my body growing cold and numb.

What will be left
when blood turns to earth,
when my memories are lost to decay?
My mind floods with echoes of the past,
recollections that linger effortlessly.

So many hours merge into days,
days transform into years,
passing before me
in a haze of recollections,
revealing my deepest fears.

Have you ever stood on that precipice,
wondering if anyone heard your voice?
Desperate to know
if you’ve touched a life
before taking that final step
into the night?

A hesitation grips me,
halting my last step.
Minutes close in,
my skin grows clammy.
I am left contemplating this fate.

How many chances have slipped away
while moments passed me by?
Too many days drifted this way
until I reached this crossroads in time.

Will nothing of me endure,
not a shred of memory left behind?
Will death erase me today,
vanished without a trace?

Have you ever stood on that edge,
wondering if anyone heard your voice?
Desperate to know
if you’ve made a difference
before taking that final step
into the night?

South of Heaven

I see your eyes in my memories,
gazing up at the skies,
it’s your face I see.
And somewhere I know you see me too,
so I search the stars
for a glimpse of you.

Though you’re miles away,
I feel your touch at the end of the day.
My heart knows how far we are apart
when the sunset fades
and darkness starts.

Somewhere I know I’m on your mind
as you chase dreams you can’t seem to find.
And somehow just knowing you’re alright
makes it all worth it,
south of heaven tonight.

My body’s weary, my mind worn thin,
but my heart burns with a fire within.
Restless in the night without you near,
I look to the skies
and sense you out there.

As I lay me down to sleep
I feel your soul and hear your heartbeat.
Miles away,
but I know you’re still here,
deep within me,
in my heart, sincere.

Stay Insane
She wipes the mud off her face and flashes that quick grin—
jeans worn threadbare at the knee, mascara smeared across her chin.
Her brows need plucking badly, her nails are dull, her skin is plain,
but she talks so fast the whole damn room decides she’s lost her brain.

She tried the gothic look once—couldn’t summon all that black.
The pallor washed her out, so she sent that alt-persona back.
Rock star, preppy chick, the geek with plastic frames:
every trend she touched went dead within a week’s worth of small flames.

I don’t want the magazine girl with her perfect cropped hair,
the high-gloss princess with the coordinated stare.
She’s firefly-chasing, bee-avoiding, burnt grilled cheese and rain—
just do me one last favor, baby, stay insane.

She stares into the mirror, wonders what the hell she sees—
a catalogue of failures squinting back with crossed-up knees.
She stretches out her cheek and pulls her nose clear to the side,
then laughs at the reflection with a self-deprecating pride.

She doesn’t carry fashion brands, don’t know the proper lore,
says she’ll tweet on Tweeter someday just to even up the score.
Bought her sweater at the bargain rack to save a little more
for a weekend road trip somewhere she ain’t ever been before.

Over ramen and some crackers she decides she needs some aid—
good old-fashioned therapy to pull her from afraid.
She feels like some outsider in the glossy magazine,
whispers what is wrong with me when she reads the whole damn scene.

She swears she’ll never fit the mold that society demands
because she likes the dirt that settles underneath her hands.
She cries out, what’s wrong with me, and genuinely can’t see
why she doesn’t care what’s on the mannequin at Penney’s.

So get your head fixed if that’s what you truly need to do,
but don’t let any bastard strip the beauty out of you.
I want the messy dishes and the woman who stays real,
the one who sweats and laughs and knows exactly how I feel.

You think that you need fixing but I can’t see what is broke—
you’re the punchline and the recordteller, the subject and the joke.
So just one favor, darling, while I’ve still got the nerve to explain:
do me this one last favor, honey, and please stay insane.

Sugar Rush

She said that I’m a sweetheart,
as sweet as I can be,
but I can’t see that in myself
within my own reality.

She calls me perfect,
all she’ll ever need,
but I can’t grasp that notion
since it’s her I need, not me.

She claims I have a gift
but I see only words,
until one night I spoke truths
I’d never before heard.
Words from my heart and soul
without passing through my mind,
unfiltered by reason,
raw and undefined.

And she says I worry
about things that will never come to be.
And she says she’s content
just to be in love with me.

So I lay my head down softly
and tell my thoughts to hush,
knowing somewhere out there
she sleeps sweetly
while I’m caught in a sugar rush.

Symphony of Kindness
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the blackened abyss
where hope lies dormant,
we descend–
whispers of solace.

Each touch a balm
for the weary soul.
I embody Kindness,
mending hearts made whole.

Through conflicts and trials
when darkness prevails,
we ignite the ember of hope
that never fails.

Swallowed by sorrow
yet we persevere,
clinging to hope–
a flame that’s ever near.

Unspoken gestures,
like stars in the gloom,
illuminate the path,
dispelling the doom.

Engulfed by the sorrow of Kindness
we straddle the line between light and dark,
holding onto hope
as we navigate this unending twilight.

Cradled in empathy’s arms
where souls are unburdened,
we carve out our refuge
within the beating heart of Kindness.

In the quiet aftermath
when love’s flame subsides,
we emerge with the morning tide.
I am Kindness–the unyielding plea,
nestled in empathy’s embrace,
eternally.

Symphony of Striving
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the spectral grotto of indolence
where exertion breathes its last,
we labor under the crimson cast–
seraphs of industry
in a dying world.

Every chore a titan’s burden.
Each obligation met with dread.
I am Diligence,
a battlefield where victories are bled.

In those moments of tormenting toil
where sweat paints furrowed brows,
we battle for a flicker of hope
in the oppressive present’s drowse.

Each dream chased through tangled nightmares,
yearning to be free.
Amidst this heart of Diligence
strength finds rebirth.

Stoic might in labor
silently sings beneath the blood-ruby glow.
Each moment clung to like a precious relic.
Every breath a mournful sigh.

Dawn fractures gently
over obligations cherished amidst fear-streaked gore.
Strolling through bloody aftermath
with dread held at bay by the will to explore.

In the ensuing quiet
where effort collapses exhaustedly,
I am Diligence–
the undying spirit that haunts
this desolate landscape eternally.

A symphony of striving.
A testament to the will
to forever be free.

Symphony of Wrath
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the cauldron of malevolence
where the damned ignite,
lie the specters of Wrath
spinning an eternal night.

Each outcry a symphony of torment.
Every blow a wicked verse.
We are the embodiment of rage–
a cosmic curse.

Fists cleave through the air in fury.
Bones echo with thunderous cracks.
We gorge on their anguish
in a sea of writhing backs.

Every shriek is our melody.
Each tear a haunting tune.
Within Wrath’s shadowy core
none find sanctuary.

Walls buckle and groan
under Wrath’s unyielding might.
Lives torn asunder
by anger’s icy hand.

Dawn’s ghostly light fractures
across their shattered past.
Our laughter echoes
through their torment cast.

In the hush of aftermath
where the broken lay to rest,
our whispers linger
like an unwelcome guest.

We are Wrath’s insatiable hunger
that feeds on dread.
In torment’s pulsing heart
our feast is spread.

Tears Fall Silently

Tears fall silently, soaked in grain,
their silent weeping an endless strain.
The wood absorbs every drop of grief
as sorrow sneaks past, seeking relief.

Each tear a whisper, a darkened flood
in hidden chambers soaked in blood.
Wooden heartaches beneath the floor’s crust.

The scent of anguish, deep and raw,
woven in the timber’s silent law,
where the past’s sorrows softly brood.

Quietly they seep, a muted flood.
Memories stain with each drop’s dive
as the floorboards’ veins keep dreams alive.

In the stillness, the dampened tales
of ghosts and shadows, their spectral trails.
Their sorrow is deep, buried in wood,
unheard, unspoken, yet understood.

Listen close to the creaking floor
and hear the echoes of tears’ implore.
In the quiet, the whispers scream,
trapped in the wood where sorrows dream.

Where once was laughter now remains
a silent sorrow, the wood’s refrain.
The floorboards cradle each drop of woe,
in their solemn depth, secrets flow.

The tears that fall are not in vain
but a buried story of pain and gain.
The wood absorbs with each mournful drop
till the echoes of the past finally stop.

Tears fall silently, soaked in pain.

The Basement Door
I painted it shut in the first year we moved in,
three coats of latex over the jamb and the pin
of the deadbolt that I locked from this side of the frame.
The basement has its own weather, its own separate claim
on the temperature that seeps through the floorboards at night,
a cold that has intention, a cold that feels right
only if you are the kind of thing that lives in wet cement
and breathes the mineral dark and knows exactly what it meant.

I found the paint chipped off in flakes beside the kitchen mat,
curled like fingernails, each one precisely where I sat
my morning coffee down, as if the basement door had peeled
itself in increments, each layer surgically revealed.
The deadbolt had retracted half an inch inside the strike,
not broken, not forced open, just moved back as if in spite
of every precaution, every coat of paint and lock,
the door had simply decided it was tired of the block.

I have not been down since the first week.
The light went out.
Something reshuffled itself in the far corner.
My legs took the stairs two at a time.
The cold sweat on my neck ran.
Every cell said leave.

The basement door is opening again.
The paint has cracked along the seam, the deadbolt thin,
and whatever lives below has been patient with the latch.
The basement door is opening and nothing is attached
to the other side but darkness and the smell of standing rain
and something at the bottom of the stairs that knows my full terrain.

The basement door is open.
The dark is here to stay.

The Day My Goldfish Died
Dawg

I’m feeling uninspired.
Sublime yet mundane.
Nothing left to tweet about —
everything’s the same.

I wish I had more to share,
something to make you laugh or cry,
but the only news worth reporting today
is my goldfish’s demise.

Don’t tell me it can’t happen.
It’s all crystal clear.
When I left, he was in his bowl.
Came back, and he wasn’t there.

He’s on the floor beside me now,
growing kind of stiff.
The dog came by to investigate
but left with just one sniff.

I should probably tend to him,
but the hour’s growing late,
and I’ve always had a gift
for putting things off till the last possible date.

So instead I’ll just sit here
and wonder why he was so rash —
what possessed him to leap like that,
what went through his mind as he crashed.

I didn’t think he was depressive.
I guess I missed the signs.
So I’ll sit here and write this bit
about the day my goldfish died.

The Dirge of Innocence
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In the fractured dawn
where purity weeps,
we stand beneath ominous crimson heavens–
spectral guardians of virtue.

Each caress a hushed secret.
Every gaze a silent plea.
I am the embodiment of innocence,
the keeper of the forbidden key.

Where icy shadows triumph
in these wickedly endless corridors,
we combat the encroaching abyss,
navigating through intricate trials.

The dirge of innocence echoes
through our clandestine battles,
gripping onto frail hope
in this eternal, merciless night.

Sacred vows murmured
under a deceitful glow.
Each stride calculated.
Each utterance echoing with sincerity.

As dawn breaks violently,
dreams are imprisoned.
Stalking through fields
drenched in crimson sorrow,
longing for redemption.

Quiet hearts murmur secrets
under the light of day.
In the chains of innocence
love breathes freely.

In the disquieting silence
that follows love’s extinguished flame,
we fade into the morning’s spectral veil.
I am Innocence–the eternal plea.
Where purity’s heart beats,
there shall I forever be.

The Fear Therapist

His office whispered secrets
with every creak of the floorboards.
A rusted mask from a long-dead carnival,
a glass jar filled with preserved insects —
reminders of the fears
that lurk just beneath the surface.

“I trust you’re ready
to confront your fears?”

She shifted uneasily,
fingers fidgeting
with the frayed hem of her sweater.
“I’m not sure what you mean
by ‘confront.'”

“Fear can only be conquered
through exposure.
It’s like a muscle;
the more you exercise it,
the stronger it becomes.”
He smiled,
but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You want me to see spiders?
Like, up close?”

“Not just see.
Feel, touch…
immerse yourself in the experience.”

“You’re joking.
This can’t be how you treat people.”

“If only it were as simple
as talking it out over tea.
Fears are not just thoughts;
they are experiences
that must be faced head-on.”

“And what if I’m one of those who crumble?”

“Then we’ll find out together.”

She felt a storm brewing within her —
dread and reluctant curiosity,
and beneath that fear,
a spark of defiance.

“Running from fear
is the same as running from yourself.”

In that room of shadows
and whispers of forgotten nightmares,
she understood she stood at the edge
of something she couldn’t take back.
Face the horror
or remain chained by it.

“Let’s begin then,”
she said,
her voice steadier than she felt.

“The journey may be harrowing,
but on the other side
lies freedom.”

She took a step forward
into the unknown —
a world where nightmares danced
just out of reach
but beckoned
with familiar hands.

The Hands

As I gaze upon this weathered skin,
I ponder when it all began,
tracing a scar with a calloused touch,
realizing how much I missed. How much.

I know this like the back of my hand,
an empty truth I understand,
for I can’t recall when my hands changed,
when the years rearranged.

I remember when my grip was firm,
when fingertips were warm,
throwing balls across an empty yard.
When did a simple grip become so hard?

I feel the ache through active wrists,
wondering when I turned to this.
Cold skin now adorns my fingers
and I missed it all as time lingers.

I run my hand across my knees,
bony now with speed decreased.
I swear I still feel the gentle ache
from when I ran for running’s sake.

When did I change, did I mutate?
Did I notice the signs too late?
My fingers feel with diminished grace.
The hands of time have left their trace.

The Haunted Mind
Dawg

In the dim light of a cramped apartment,
shadows stretch like fingers across the walls,
whispering secrets only the silence understands.

He sits hunched over, breath shallow and quick,
trapped in a waking nightmare
where escape is a memory he can’t quite reach.

The air is heavy with unspoken words
and decisions that spiraled into anguish.
Every choice echoes like a funeral bell —
each chime a path he never took.

The ghosts move through back rooms of his mind,
hollow eyes boring in, hungry for acknowledgment.
“Remember when you chose work over her?”
a voice hisses, dripping venom.

She was the one who laughed at his jokes
with bright, believing eyes.
Now she’s just a figment of disappointment,
mocking what a promotion couldn’t fill.

He clenches his fists — nails biting palms.
“I thought I was doing what was right.”
But even he can hear the weakness in it.

The room pulses, shadows swirl like storm clouds.
Her image flickers — golden hair, shimmering eyes,
tears she never let fall.

Then Jason’s silhouette looms,
the easy grin replaced by betrayal.
“You never even apologized.
You let pride drive us apart.”

“I didn’t mean it –“

“Too busy chasing dreams
to notice your friend was drowning?
Look around you. This is all you have left.”

The edges blur. Reality comes apart at the seams.
His mother appears — frail, weary,
face etched with lines of worry.
“I always believed in you, Nathan.
But you turned your back on everything.”

“I can fix this! I can change!”

“Can you? Or are you just running away again?
You’ve always been good at that.”

They surround him. Walls close in.
Every inch of space compresses
until the pressure suffocates
any flicker of hope.

Their laughter drowns his pleas —
regret and remorse pulsing through him
like an unending nightmare.

He falls to his knees and understands:
there is no escaping these phantoms.
They are woven into the core of his being —
his mind forever haunted
by each bad decision, each unspoken regret.

With a final shuddering breath,
he unravels beneath their weight,
crumbles like ash in the wind —
lost among the echoes
of what could have been.

The Nightmare Clinic
Dawg

In a quiet corner of the city
stood the Sleep Haven Clinic —
a sleek front hiding the horrors within.

Glass doors glimmered under fluorescent lights,
drawing in the desperate,
the ones who’d do anything
to stop dreaming.

The waiting room smelled of lavender
and unspoken fear.
Patients fidgeted, tapped fingers, shifted gazes.
A woman clutched her purse, knuckles white:
“Do you really think this place can help?”

The brochures promised freedom.
“Imagine waking up refreshed,
free from the chains of your subconscious.”
Beneath the polished words — something else entirely.

Inside the treatment rooms,
cloud-soft beds and ambient light.
A voice through the speakers, gentle as a lullaby:
“You are safe here.
We will guide you through your fears.”

For many, this guidance
became an unending loop of terror.

Sarah found herself trapped one airless night.
She’d come to escape visions of her childhood home
engulfed in flames — echoes of a tragedy
that followed her everywhere.

Sleep came warm and familiar,
then turned to suffocating darkness.
She was back in that house,
flames licking at her heels,
screaming for help that never came.

“Why won’t you save me?”

“Because this is where you belong.”
A voice like smoke — her own fear,
twisted and thrown back at her.

Down the hall, Mark fought his own war —
the crushing weight of his father’s contempt.
Standing before his childhood bedroom door,
the one he’d always been afraid to open.

“Just go in! Show me you’re not a coward!”

He stepped through.
His father’s figure loomed in the dim light.
“You’ll never be good enough.”
And Mark spiraled into a pit
where hope was just a word he used to know.

Days became nights became days.
Time lost all meaning.
Patients lived through personal hells
over and over, emerging gasping,
sweating, trembling —
then sent back for more.

“Why won’t they let us leave?” Sarah whispered.

“I don’t know. But we have to find a way out
before it consumes us completely.”

Their eyes met —
understanding forged in the middle of despair.
They were not alone.
They were bound together
by a shared nightmare
from which there seemed to be no escape.

And as night fell once more
outside the clinic’s glass front,
stars blinking coldly overhead,
they braced themselves for another round
against their darkest fears —
a battle fought not just against nightmares
but against the very fabric
of what they believed was real.

The Silenced Voice
Dawg

You sit there, day after day,
pencil poised between trembling fingers —
a fragile lifeline to a world
you’re too scared to face.

The blank page is a mirror
reflecting the silence you’re trapped in.
Not just any silence —
the kind that suffocates,
that sits heavy on your chest like a stone.
And yet, in the suffocating quiet,
there’s comfort. Twisted, cruel comfort.
Because it’s familiar.

You draw because words fail you.
They slip through your mind
like water through a sieve,
never forming into what you need them to be.
So you retreat into lines and shapes,
shadows that only you can see.

Each stroke is a whisper
of what you can’t say out loud.
Each shade is a piece of the pain
you hide so well.

Your art becomes your voice.
Your only voice.
But no one seems to hear it.

People glance at your work,
maybe smile politely,
but they don’t see it.
They don’t see you.

That’s the most painful part —
the invisibility,
the feeling that you’re a shadow
passing through your own life.

You convince yourself
this is how it’s supposed to be.
Safer to stay hidden
behind the wall of your sketches.
The fear of being ignored
becomes the fear of trying,
because trying means risking everything.

But deep down, there’s a spark.
Tiny. Stubborn.
Refusing to die
no matter how much you smother it.
It whispers: What if?
What if someone did see?
What if your real voice
wasn’t something to hide
but something worth sharing?

One day, something small happens.
Maybe the light falls different on your sketch
and you see it for what it really is.
Maybe someone’s gaze lingers,
eyes widening with recognition.
A moment. Just a moment.
But it cracks something open inside you.

Then comes a different kind of fear —
not of being ignored,
but of being seen.
Of being understood.
Of stepping out from behind your wall
and letting the world see the real you.

You second-guess yourself.
Tell yourself it’s safer where you are.
But the spark keeps burning.

One day, you decide to listen.
You pick up the pencil,
but this time it’s different.
You’re not drawing to fill the silence.
You’re drawing to break it.

The lines are shaky at first.
Uncertain.
But they’re real.
They’re raw and honest
and they’re yours.

As the drawing takes shape,
you realize: this is your voice.
This is your truth.
Not perfect — but real.

You step back.
Heart pounding. Hands trembling.
It’s not just a drawing.
It’s a declaration.

For the first time, you’re not hiding.
For the first time, you’re not silent.
You found your voice,
and it’s louder than you ever imagined.

This is your story.
This is your art.
This is your life.
And it’s magnificent.

The Symphony of Silence
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

Deep within the crevices
where life gasps for breath,
we weave our murky web
of inevitable death.

The air, pregnant with contagion,
exhales a silent sigh.
I am Pestilence–
the weaver of this deadly lullaby.

Feverish fires rage beneath skin,
consuming all within their path.
We leave in our wake
a residue of hopelessness and wrath.

Pestilence’s plague–
a phantom lurking in shadow’s veil.
A silent reaper haunting
the corridors of sleep’s frail jail.

Hospitals swell with wretched souls,
wailing their lamentation.
Our insidious creep of disease
resists all mitigation.

Settlements morph into charnel houses
under our spectral touch.
Families crumble to dust.
Our invisible grip holds much.

No mercy in our caress.
Just a ceaseless torrent of pain.
Amidst the heart of illness
only the specters remain.

In a graveyard’s tranquil silence
where lifeless bodies nest,
we are the cryptic whispers
that serve as your final test.

I am Pestilence–
the embodiment of perpetual night.
In the deathly quiet
we spread our spectral flight.

The Vanishing Lines
Dawg

Come closer. This story deserves your full attention.

There was a time
when the world was sharp,
when colors burst with life,
when every line you drew
felt like a heartbeat
echoing through your being.

You were the artist. The creator.
Worlds from nothing
but a blank canvas and a bit of paint.

But something changed.
Barely noticed at first —
a whisper in the dark,
a shadow at the corner of your vision.

The lines began to fade.
Slowly. Almost gently.
As if the world was trying
to spare you the shock.

Then the fading became relentless.
Lines you once laid down with confidence
blurred, softened,
until they were no more solid than mist.

It’s more than the art, isn’t it?
It’s the way the days blend together,
the way conversations drift like smoke,
the way your name — your very identity —
feels like a distant echo.

You, who once breathed life into blank spaces,
now watch helplessly
as life itself drains away,
like paint peeling from old walls,
like ink washing off in the rain.

You try to fight it.
Paint with a desperation you’ve never felt,
layering color upon color, line upon line,
as if sheer force of will
could pull you back from the edge.

But the more you paint,
the more the lines blur,
the more the colors bleed,
until all that’s left is grey.

Like chasing your reflection in water —
every time you reach out,
it ripples away.

And in that vanishing,
you see the truth:
the lines were never just about the art.
They were about you.
About your place in this world.
About the fear that maybe
you’re disappearing too.

But you’re still here.
Still standing. Still breathing.
Still holding that brush.

What’s fading isn’t you —
it’s the fear, the doubt,
the shadows that clung to you
like a second skin.

So you start again.
Every line a declaration:
I am here. I exist. I matter.

Maybe the lines still fade.
Maybe the colors still blur.
But you keep going —
because it’s not about permanence.
It’s about the defiance in every stroke,
the meaning in each moment.

And in that defiance,
something changes.
The lines start to hold.
The colors start to deepen.

You’re not just reclaiming the canvas.
You’re reclaiming yourself.

This is your story —
told in lines and shadows,
in fading colors and reclaimed space.

And the masterpiece
isn’t what’s on the canvas.
It’s the artist
who refuses to fade away.

The Voice That Is Not Mine
It started as a murmur at the edges of my thinking,
a commentary running just below the surface,
linking every action to a failure,
every pause to a defect.
A voice that knew my history with cold and clinical effect.

I tried to track the logic of its sentences,
to find the mechanism of its access
to the back rooms of my mind.
It knows the things I have not told the people in my life.
It uses that specific information like a knife.

The voice that is not mine knows where every weakness lies,
has memorized my alibis,
runs the commentary on everything I do,
and the worst part of it, brother,
is it sometimes sounds like you.

It does not tell me things I do not know on some deep level—
it synthesizes everything,
brings it to a bevel of precision, shame and evidence
arranged in argument,
assembled while I sleep each night
with my own consent.

I asked the therapist if this is clinical or common.
She said the inner critic is a feature of becoming
aware of your own processes.
I nodded. Took the pamphlet.
Walked out to the parking lot
and heard it say she cannot get
to where you actually live,
the parts you have not said aloud,
the parts that still remember what you did
before the crowd of consequence dispersed,
and that was true, I could not fight it.
The voice inside my skull has better research
and has cited it.

It is getting more efficient,
taking less time to begin.
It used to need a trigger
but it starts now from within
a simple morning, coffee, ordinary light.
The voice just picks up where it left off,
running through the night.

Through My Eyes
Dawg

You read my words
and get a piece of my mind.
You hear the rhymes
and try to find
a way to see things the way I do,
a way to make it all make sense to you.

You glance at the paper
and the words cry out,
telling you there’s meaning
hidden deep inside.
You try to see beyond the lies
and see your world through my eyes.

My eyes see glory in the litany of saints.
My eyes see rainbows in the moonlit night.
My eyes see deep within a hidden soul of pain.
My eyes are blind alright.
Don’t look through my eyes.

You try to tear through the words,
find what’s there beneath.
You search for reasons,
for a secret sign.
You try to lose yourself
in the air I breathe
and find what I can never find.

You try to learn the fires
that make up my hell.
You try to see things
with my mind of shards.
You wonder what it is
I try to say and fail,
as words fall dead
in the mental graveyard.

My eyes see the darkness in the day.
My eyes are the lock that no key fits.
My eyes have seen the horror
and the honors and my own way.
My words show you bits —
but don’t look through my eyes.

Don’t look through my eyes
to the man hidden there beneath.
Don’t look into my soul
that I have laid to peace.
Don’t look through my mind
and the secret pains hidden there.
Don’t look behind my eyes,
or you may just find me here.

And I see me,
through my eyes.

Ticking Away
Dawg

There’s a sound trapped within my head,
the haunted rhythm of a metronome
echoing between my ears —
present for me alone.

Signaling the passage of time
in measured ebbs and linear flows,
the rhythm of my own pulse beating
as each day comes and goes.

Constant ticking inside my skull,
never-ceasing percussion —
comforting and disconcerting
when I feel how time is rushing.

Every rise and fall inside my ribs
matched by the equal measure of that sound.
Every breath another tick
as my life becomes unwound.

I swore the sound would last forever.
I thought the ticking would always last.
Now I’m staring into the never,
looking straight down at my past.

I lived marching to some alternative drummer’s beat.
Failure is not an option.
There’s no glory in defeat.
Every day pushing harder
for some goal in a distant time,
never once looking around
at the fragmented life of mine.

No time to settle down.
To love. To live. To learn.
No pleasure in sitting back
just to watch the candles burn.
Days and nights passed as one
confused and tangled thing,
fading into the never worlds,
lost in their eternity.

The steady rhythm has faded away
and the beating finally stopped.
The only sound I hear now
is soil settling on my box.

Left in silent retrospect
of every day that came before,
the soul left without its rhythm,
trapped here forever more.

I swore I lived my life so clever.
I thought I could escape the fates.
Now I’m lying buried beneath the heather,
learning much too late.

No light fills my habitat.
I wish I’d appreciated what I got.
Filled with icy cold regrets
when the ticking finally stops.

Took The Sun Away

A chill blowing in on the breeze,
shaking me to the bone.
Stars snuffed out, sky gone black,
clocks stopped ticking,
no turning back.

Night wraps around me
and I can smell it —
rain moving in,
a silent peace
before the storm begins.

I’m not sure I want to go on.
I’m not sure how everything
could go so wrong.

Stumbling blind in the dark,
not a sign of light,
not a single spark.
Living in an eclipse
that chokes every sign of day.

Nothing’s the same
since you took the sun away.

Flowers dying on their stems.
Birds that never wake,
songs condemned.
Drowning in the shadows
of what we had,
wondering if it’s true
that nothing good can last.

New moon offers nothing.
The witching hour mocks.
Colors drained to gray,
waiting for a break
that won’t come.

Sometime, somewhere,
these clouds will break.
A single ray is all it would take
to get my feet back on the ground.

If there’s a god in heaven,
bring back the light.

Nothing’s the same
since you took the sun away.

Tragic Comedy
Dawg

Stop me if you’ve heard this one.
I’ll try to make you smile.
Maybe my sarcastic humor
will keep you smirking for a while.

A rope walked into a bar —
“We don’t serve your kind.”
So it walked out, unwinding in its mind,
tied itself into a bow,
walked back in and took a seat.

“Aren’t you the rope I threw out?”
The rope shook its head,
tassel spinning: “Nope. I’m a frayed knot.”

You catch the joke, right?
A play on words so old,
simple and absurd.
But it serves my purpose —
blurring what’s clear,
mixing up meanings of what you hear.

Ask me anything,
I’ll respond with a quip.
It’s the best defense I’ve got.

Ask me something serious,
I’ll toss back a jest.
Search for a deeper meaning —
it’s not there to find.
I’ll stay safe behind my punchline,
hidden from your mind.

Ask me how I’m feeling,
I’ll say “fleshy and warm.”
Tap dance in a mud puddle
to ignore the coming storm.
Whatever you throw at me,
I’ve got a line to say —
a distraction while I keep
my truths at bay.

As you think we’re growing closer,
trying to peer inside,
my witty remarks and sarcasm
shield what I hide.
It’s such a tragic comedy —
you’ll laugh till you cry.

Don’t ask me to be serious.
It scares me to the core.
I’ll sit here alone,
joking with my final encore.
I’ll leave you laughing,
one last joke before I go.
Sometimes I think my life’s
the biggest jest I know.

Walk away from me.
It’s all I have to give —
just me, my sheltered psyche,
and my collection of quips.

Turning

Lovingly kissed, Each breath upon her neck goes still
One shiver, And she becomes mine
Sweetest sacrifice, There is no turning back from this
The hopelessly lost, Mine now to find

Aphrodisiac lips on Young flesh
No fear, She resigned long ago
Damnation blessed, I drink to her eternal health
Forsaken, No mercy left inside

One pause, She whispers softly
Useless doubts, Leftover dreams
No need for them, Endless nights ahead
Dominated, The slave to the need

Never a word, Teeth on the softest skin
One kiss, Her blood in my veins now
Whimpers fading, Engulfed in my sin
Her last breath, Purity deranged

Each drop shared, A cold lover’s feast
Long sought, Immortality divine
Lingering, Newly kissed and deceased
Blood bound, Broken and mine

One more for the flock, Eternally linked
Undead, Go now my pet divine
Night calls your name, In darkness we sink
Devour, New kindred of mine

Twelve Thirty Four
Dawg

Thirty-four minutes after midnight
and sweat runs down my brow.
Another restless night
has become the norm somehow.

I’ll lie awake for hours
watching the day drift away,
letting the sun set without stirring,
time slipping like it always does.

Mind wanders to darkened places
where shadows dance and play.
Lost in a heavy haze,
the days just float away.

I can’t grasp the meaning of it all,
thoughts stretching beyond belief —
questioning my very life,
my faith, my core, my grief.

Waiting for the phone to ring,
searching for a certain name
that could finally clear the doubts
that plague my every frame.

I touch the bandage on my arm
where the needle made its mark,
replaying words from doctors,
letting fear ignite the dark.

“We found something unusual.
We need to test some more.
No cause for alarm —
we just want to be sure.”

The nightmares and the panic rise.
Waiting to learn my fate.
Scared to know, scared not to know.
Fear that it may be too late.

I never understood the phrase
“The future’s not what it used to be.”
Just a puzzling set of words
that never made much sense to me.

But lying here in a fog of thought,
it seems to fit just right.
No matter the outcome now,
I’ll be altered by this night.

I ponder everything at once,
replaying moments lost to time,
watching memories pile up,
regret and remorse climb.

Another minute ticks away.
Another sun fades out somewhere.
Waiting for an answer.
Paralyzed by fear.

Two Plus Two is Five
Dawg

I give my love so readily,
wear my heart upon my sleeve.
I always speak with honest tongue,
never meaning to deceive.

I live in perfect virtue,
not a blemish on my soul.
I never lose my temper.
I never lose control.

I would say I’m perfect,
if I wasn’t blessed with modesty.
An ideal specimen —
everyone should be like me.

Put your trust in me.
Believe in perfect faith.
I’ll walk with you through anything,
help you to save face.
I’ll always tell the truth,
never tell a lie.
You can believe all that I say,
and two plus two is five.

I never give in to my lust —
that never crossed my mind.
Never feel the need for greed.
I’m always so refined.

Let me be your everything.
Get down on your knees.
You’ll see it the way I think
when you learn to please.

I’m not egotistical —
vanity is a path I won’t go down.
I’m just the greatest thing
you’ll ever find around.

So kneel before me.
Don’t question anything.
As long as you are down there,
I’ll let you kiss my ring.
I am just the greatest thing
this world has left alive.
So you should always follow me,
and two plus two is five.

Under the Floorboards (Acrostic)
Dawg

Script written in shaking hands
Hold the only answers to the lies
Eternal secrets written down
Hidden away from prying eyes

One old spiral notebook
Lines forged in blood and tears
Descriptions of every single moment
Secrets no one hears

The moment she betrayed my trust
Her indiscretion and my rage
Engulfing every syllable
Burned into every page

One simple little notebook
One secret that I’ve held in me
Kept hidden within this old house
The spiders only company

Only words on lined paper to remind me of what I’ve done
Holding secret memories that I must hide from everyone
Each and every night I walk across them a dozen times,
Right there beneath the floor boards, the record of my mind

Chaotic calmness consumes me
Her memory lingers on,
Even though she’s disappeared,
She’s never really gone

The moment she betrayed me,
That was the moment I wrote about
Her lying, cheating, hateful ways
Every insecurity and doubt

Put down into that journal
Reminders of what should never be
One simple little notebook
Of the moment that recreated me

Friends tried to console me
Offered words of sage advice
Forget about her, they always said
Wouldn’t that be nice?

How can I forget about something when a reminder’s always here,
Always just a few steps away, the past can never disappear
The documented record of everything that’s come and gone,
In between the floorboards, where it’s been hidden all along

Her perfume haunts my nose still
All her clothing’s still upstairs,
Virtually everything was left the same
Except she isn’t here

Days turned into months
One month turned into five years
Not a single word from her
Every memory’s so clear

Right before she went away
Ending everything we had
All the hopes we had built
Dreams we hadn’t grasped,

Young lust had infected her
Taught her how to lie
One night I came earlier
Right in time to hear the sighs

Every nerve inside of me
Vibrated with the sound
Every muscle burned with hate
As I smashed the door to the ground

Laying in my own bed
My love and my best friend
Yearning consumed them both that night
My dream came to an end

Underneath the floorboards now, pages of everything I saw
Red ink scribbling through the pages and hidden from the law
Desperate times find desperate men doing things they shouldn’t do
Everyone has a breaking point, but what mine was I never knew

Raging fires lit the sky
Out in the back field
Underneath the old oak tree
Smouldered the mattress, unconcealed

She left me when she saw my rage
It’s what everybody knows
No one blamed her anyway
After I had smashed my best friend’s nose

Last time I even heard from her
Our bed lit up the sky
Useless rage and gasoline
Destroyed our love that night

The journal I wrote about
One simple notebook stored away
Every moment of that night
Visually engraved

Everyone has their moments that they don’t want anyone to know about
Right there beneath the surface, and they never let them out
You might find some secrets are better left to hidden words,
Only suitable to be beneath the cold floorboards,

Now you might think it’s enough to let this story go,
Endings aren’t always what they seem, there’s something else that you should know…

Acrostic: The first letter of each line spell out the final verse:
She holds the book to her chest, the proof of what I have done,
Ready to reveal my murderous sin, aloud to everyone

Welcome to the Abyss
Dawg

A chilling howl of wind
echoes through the barren landscape
of your imagination —
a mournful sound carrying the weight
of lost souls.

It wraps around you like a shroud,
tugging at your consciousness.
The world is draped in unforgiving darkness,
a deep black seeping into every crack,
every pore, every thought.

Each breath feels heavy,
laden with dread.
The only sound is your heart’s erratic rhythm,
hammering a Morse code of fear
into the vastness.

Run. Hide. Escape.
But where can you go
when the ground itself
conspires against you?

Enter the Passages of your deepest fears.

Narrow corridors. Suffocating.
Cold stone walls pressing against you
with an unyielding grip.
The air is stale, thick with damp earth
and decay — lives long extinguished.

A candle’s glow dances in the shadows,
casting grotesque silhouettes
that writhe and taunt on ancient walls,
reaching for you with bony fingers.

Each turn leads to more confusion.
A door appears, then vanishes.
A voice echoes your own thoughts:
“Why are you here?
Do you dare to confront what lies within?”

You are not alone.

Whispers slither through the silence,
curling around your ears:
“Turn back. You don’t belong here.”
Shadows twist into menacing forms
that vanish when you look directly at them.

An unseen presence breathes down your neck.
Familiar yet foreign —
a forgotten specter from a buried past
whispering your name:
“You thought you could escape me?”

Doors creak open with unseen hands.
The air thickens, charged with tension.
Footsteps echo in empty chambers —
memories once alive
now reduced to haunting echoes
swallowed by time.

A haunting melody hums through the corridors,
a lullaby tinged with sorrow and madness,
coiling around your mind,
beckoning you deeper.

An unholy screech shatters the calm.
Something monstrous stirs —
an entity born from nightmares,
fueled by terror.
It feeds off your fear
like a leech draining the life from your soul.

“I see you,” it rasps.
“Every sin etched upon your soul.”

Time stretches and warps.
Your mind races against the terror,
thoughts spiraling into chaos.
Logic dissolves like mist at dawn.

From the Passages’ heart,
chilling laughter rings out —
devoid of warmth, devoid of humor —
mocking your resistance,
reminding you that escape
is just an illusion.

Welcome to my world of horror.

This nightmare is my domain.
I breathe life into eerie settings,
give form to the occurrences
that haunt your dreams.

The thrill lies not just in the scare
but in the dread that lingers —
that seeps into your consciousness
long after you’ve turned back.

It leaves you shivering under the covers,
questioning every shadow
beyond your bedroom door,
every whisper carried by the night breeze,
every bump echoing through silence.

Some nightmares never truly end.
They just wait patiently
for another chance
to consume you whole.

And sometimes our darkest fears
lie not in what we can see
but in what we cannot escape
from within ourselves.

What a Joke
Dawg

I did my job admirably,
the prime court jester clown.
Even as things fell apart,
I never let them down.

Hungry eyes pierce the air,
a smile across my face.
They dance and sing and summon me,
invite me to their place.

I watch the world struggle on
and make light of every scene.
Nothing is as tragic
when you can laugh at the obscene.

Stuff their faces with tainted food.
Let the others starve.
Step over bodies in the street —
blindness isn’t hard.

Ignore the signs. Laugh, drink, be merry.
Someday soon my time will come,
and you’ll belong to me.

The smiles never left their faces
as they drew their final breath.
I revealed the punchline —
they were amused to death.

They laughed and laughed
and dropped a tear,
laughed until they choke.
I claim their lives in boney hands.
Their world is such a joke.

Come rejoice in splendor,
dance in revelry,
while I slip the poison in the air,
taint the precious seed.

Turn your backs and ignore
the flow of blood-stained tears.
Discount the value
of all your children’s fears.

If you don’t see it, it’ll be alright
till you stumble and fall into the night.

Then you’ll hear the cheery chiming,
the ringing of my bells,
and laugh your way from heaven —
they’re giggling in hell.

The smiles never left their faces
as they drew their final breath.
I revealed the punchline —
they were amused to death.

They laughed and laughed
and dropped a tear,
laughed until they choke.
I claim their lives in boney hands.
Their world is such a joke.

When Tomorrow
Dawg

There’s a haunting in my head.
The memories are stalking me,
all the things I’ve done and said.
I don’t know how to block it out.
I just want to be left alone.
I never knew I’d be like this.
There’s so much I didn’t know.

I see teapots smashed to smithereens,
pottery shards scattered on the floor —
fragments of memories
I don’t want inside me anymore.

The memories are killing me.
It’s not some sunny day nostalgia.
It tears apart my mind
like a cancerous dementia,
filling every memory,
inhibiting all of my hindsight.
These thoughts all feel so terminal.
Memories a parasite.

I swore that I could handle it.
I said I’d make it all go away.
I smiled when I talked to you
and said it’d be alright.
I felt my heart die out,
my body dropping into numb.
The ghosts are always talking to me
about when tomorrow comes.

I remember every detail with such crystal clarity —
when I was just a little boy
and you’d take those hits for me.
My father fueled by alcohol,
righteous and self-empowered with his gin.
All those times you sat and cried.
Tore you down within.

I remember you lying silently
in our old and dirty living room.
The world had become too much for you,
your mind shutting off too soon.
The nervous breakdown changed you.
I never saw you quite the same again.
I lived afraid that next time
would really be the end.

The cancer moved through his body
and weakened out his heart.
The day that it stopped beating
tore your world apart.
I hear the crackle of your voice
when you asked if I was staying home.
Everything was scaring you.
You just didn’t want to be alone.

A few more years and then you hid
a pain in the bottom of your toe.
You swore everyone to secrecy
because you didn’t want me to know.

Diabetic complications.
Gangrene spread throughout your infected limb.
They decided to amputate your leg.
You knew you’d never walk again.
Then your heart gave out after surgery,
but you didn’t give up the fight.
Two weeks of recovery
and you came home for just two nights.

Four days home and then your kidneys
started to shut down.
Your eyes were pleading with them
when you begged don’t let me die.

Seven months from a foot ache,
I had barely seen my bed.
You were refusing to eat anything,
so I just stayed in that hospital instead.
I argued with you and told you
if you didn’t eat, I’d leave you there alone.

I had no way of knowing
you really couldn’t eat anything if you had tried.
Till the doctors told me
your body was just shutting down inside.

They needed me to decide
if you were going to be a “do not resuscitate.”
I wanted to ask you about it,
see what you wanted me to do.
But you never could answer me.
It wouldn’t be up to you.

You said that you were tired,
and we’d talk about tomorrow
when tomorrow comes.

The doctors said they had medicine
that would ease the pain,
but it would make it harder to even breathe.
They needed me to choose right then —
let you suffer or let you go,
because the thing that would take the pain away
would make your heart beat slow.

I had to decide right then.
Make you live or let you die.
My entire mind just quit.

I saw the tears on your cheek.
The blisters on your skin.
I made the call. I asked them
when the medication could begin.

I walked away. I made the calls.
The family gathered around.
For a full week after that,
you said nothing.
Only a low gurgling sound.

I stood beside your hospital bed that night,
the room hot and air muggy,
pulling the oxygen tube away
and clearing away all the drugs.

With every breath you took, you were more aware.
Finally, I heard you say
you knew that I would be right there.

You reached out a trembling hand
to say a final goodbye.
And finally, I heard you say the words:
“I’m ready for the end.”

You gave a breath,
and then you fell asleep.
And I felt my heart just simply snap.

The ghosts have stopped their talking now.
There’s no more need for me to act.

Where We Are Blind
Dawg

I look into the mirror
and the reflection reveals every flaw.
Each imperfection glaring back,
an unending draw.

To meet the gaze of others
I must adopt their view,
conceal my true self
beneath a front so askew.

Why does it matter
what my jeans’ size displays?
In the crowd, does anyone truly care
about this charade?

Hours spent on makeup,
another hour on my attire,
just to meet strangers’ eyes,
to fuel their shallow fire.

Why can’t you see
the person I truly am?
Why is it so hard
to understand?

Your rigid views of beauty
shape how you see the world,
turning innocence into something cold.

Sometimes I wish we could discover
a place where sight is lost
and hearts recover.

Are we really so alone in this endless run —
struggling daily to be ourselves
despite the shame?

A decade from now,
will these concerns still persist?
Why do we sabotage ourselves
for a moment that won’t exist?

Do others truly notice,
or is it just conformity?
How can one judge me
without knowing who I am?

Grant me strength tonight
so I can firmly stand.

Sometimes I wish we could discover
a place where sight is lost
and hearts recover.

Whispers in the Obsidian Shroud
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

Beneath the obsidian shroud of night,
a realm where shadows dwell.
We reign supreme–
the sovereigns of death’s eternal spell.

The air hangs heavy
with the echoes of final sighs,
where the rhythm of life surrenders
and existence slowly dies.

We are the inevitable end.
The cold embrace of the tomb.
A silent abyss where light cannot reach,
where life finds its doom.

Eyes wide with terror,
souls surrendered to our icy touch.
We are the culmination of all–
the inevitable, the much-feared clutch.

Through dreams once cherished
we tread with silent feet,
reaping life’s slumbering harvest
in the starless night’s retreat.

Each soul a fleeting shadow.
A whispered tale untold.
Beneath my scythe’s cold caress
vitality grows old.

No sanctuary can shelter.
No refuge can defend
from Death’s frost-kissed fingers
where life’s fleeting flame must end.

As dawn’s light surrenders
to twilight’s consuming hold,
we stand as an encompassing silence.
The last flicker of hope grows cold.

In the tomb’s tranquil embrace
where mortal forms decompose,
we linger as whispers
on the edge of life’s fading echoes.

I am the end.
The final sigh escaping from weary lips.
In the stillness of our eternal night
we wait with chilling fingertips.

Whispers of the Slothful
Under The Floorboards / 7DS

In a fog where ambition’s flame
is devoured,
we dwell–the shadows
of Sloth’s darkened hour.

Time drags.
A torment of unrealized dreams.
Lost chances drift
in stagnant, still streams.

Amidst unmade beds
dreams lie dormant, unclaimed.
We feast on the desolate,
by apathy tamed.

This abyss where dreams are left to decay
is our domain,
where hope fades away.
In the suffocating silence
souls grow numb and cold,
bound in Sloth’s grip,
their stories left untold.

Potential wanes–
a barren land we tend.
Scoffing laughter echoes
as ambition meets its end.

As day succumbs
to night’s relentless clasp,
we revel in their anguish,
tightening our grasp.

Morning light fades
to endless twilight’s reign.
Dreams crumble to dust.
Ambition, a distant pain.

We are the paralyzing stillness
that remains long after death.
An insidious presence
that consumes with every breath.

We are the echoes
whispering through eternity’s expanse.
An insatiable hunger
gnawing at the soul’s chance.

In the heart of torment
we feast on the slothful and weak,
leaving behind only silence
where their voices won’t speak.

Why I’m An Alien
Dawg

I’ve never seen a dog
that didn’t grasp the intent of another dog.
Never seen birds that missed
what their kind conveyed.

Cat and mice somehow know
the language of their species —
taught by ancient wisdom,
a primal instinct ingrained.

Then I look around
and find myself lost
in a world I don’t grasp,
among these evolved beings
calling themselves human.

They indulge in the darkest fantasies
and lustful dreams,
yet when exposed to the light,
they cry it’s obscene.

Many proclaim they’re consumed by love
yet betray their partners,
breaking sacred trusts
for another fleeting affair.

Others speak in riddles,
masking the true meaning of their words,
double-talking to hide their intent
while saying nothing at all.

There’s no logical pattern.
No clear behavior to be seen.
The way they treat each other
defies comprehension.
Repeated mistakes
made over and over again.

I can’t fathom humanity,
so I must be an alien.

Parental figures belittle
the children they raise.
Political agendas blind people to the truth
while they destroy the land they love
and cry, “Save it for the youth.”

Walking contradictions —
fabricating history,
replacing reality with fiction.
They criticize others’ lives
yet refuse to lend a hand.

I’m not claiming it’s all wrong
but it’s far from right
when insults and provocations
become entertainment.

They commit brutal acts
then seek forgiveness from an unseen force,
while lions hunt to survive,
and that is somehow worse.

I can’t relate.
It makes little sense to me
when a species destroys its own
and pretends to repent.

Perhaps I was left here
by a departing species.
I don’t understand the human race,
so I must be an alien.

Will Santa Come This Year
Dawg

The wind was fierce along the frozen streets.
Snow gathered on the barren boughs.
My niece struggled to find the will to sleep,
asking all the Christmas Eve
when, where, whys, and hows.

I sat inside her doorway
where I could catch some light
from the spiral bulb out in the hall,
and told her made-up stories
of another time and place
where reindeer dwell
and Santa is on call.

I spun a tale so riveting
I almost forgot
about the stress we were going to feel this year.
Everyone is strapped,
and Christmas might not shine as bright, I fear.

In her tiny hand she clutched
a soft, plush candy cane —
a gift given out in her class.
Outside her window, colored lights and merry games
echoed and reflected off the glass.

My mind wanders down the stairs
where a tiny tree adorns the tabletop.
Most every cent is spent
without a dime to spare,
just to cover the expenses we’ve got.

I look around at the few dollar store gifts I got
just so she could say
there was something beneath that tree.
And the pain inside me
feels like it will never stop.

I speak of tinsel shining
and miracles and joy,
assure her Santa will be on his way,
but that he’ll only visit
the sleeping girls and boys.
And I stand up, ready to walk away.

A voice so quiet it’s barely heard,
her face buried in the pillow:
“It’s okay. Things are hard right now, I know,
and it’s alright.
Santa can come back some other Christmas day.”

My eyes were wet and burning,
a knot formed in my gut.
She continued:
“We all behaved our best, I know,
but there’s not enough Christmas for the world.”

A whispered goodnight.
The shutting of the door.
My footsteps heavy and broken on the stairs.
Unplugging the blinking lights —
I want no Christmas here anymore.
I want numbness. I want to never care.

As the night drifted into morning
and the sun broke through the sky,
the meager offering was left beneath the tree.
No candy canes, no hobby horse,
but not a single tear was cried.
She knew it was the best that it could be.

She pulled on her old jacket to play outside,
her home-knit hat pulled down around her ears,
when I heard the squeal of joy
that still makes me cry:
“Look! Santa didn’t forget us after all this year!”

A simple box left on the porch,
a donation sticker slapped on one torn side.
Some candy canes
and a tiny plastic hobby horse
made just the size for her dolls to ride.

Some ugly purple teddy bear —
the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen
when it brought a smile to that child’s face.
Two Barbies, a new stocking,
and some Christmas books,
all left in a box outside my place.

I never knew who left it.
Still, I bless them every day.
I never guessed someone else would even care.
But miracles do happen
in the most peculiar ways,
and Santa made it to our house that year.

Worlds Collide
Dawg

Twisting, turning in empty space,
each evolved at their own pace.
Worlds revolve unaware
of other realms existing there.

Dragons soar in a blood-red sky.
Demons dance and angels cry.
Elves and Fae hunt and play,
believing it will stay that way.

The thin membrane of the skin
is all that holds the spirit in.
While that membrane starts to tear,
the residents are unaware.

Heaven, Hell, and Dream Divine
blending as time unwinds.
Dimensions breach and bleed as one.
The Awakening has begun.

When there’s no place to run,
no way to hide,
we can only watch
as Worlds Collide.

Worth Dreaming
Dawg

The sun sets on another empty day.
I can hear the wind just outside the glass.
Everything’s been said again, and again, and again —
just trying to cleanse the past.

I’ve forgotten about everything.
I can hear you breathe against the pillow.
We spent the night talking about everything,
but there’s so many things
I never wanted to know.

I can hear you whispering
to someone else as you lie sleeping.
I can feel you slipping away from me.
I don’t know anything for sure.
I don’t know anything anymore.

We gave a great performance.
No one would even guess.
The academy would surely be proud of us —
we never let it on to all the rest.

I reach out and feel the pane
as the cold breeze blows against the window.
And the knowing’s driving me insane.
Why couldn’t we leave it at I don’t know?

You swear you didn’t mean for it to happen.
Why didn’t you just turn away from me?
You say it will never ever happen again.
Now it’s the only memory.

The one memory that fills my mind.
The only one that remains.
Why couldn’t you just let me stay blind,
let me make it through the days?

Now I can’t lie beside you in this bed
knowing I’m someone else inside your head.
I can feel you falling away from me.
My nights are gone to restless days.
You’ve gone and taken the stars away.

Why should I even lay down,
because to me it’s seeming
there’s nothing left worth dreaming.