talk talk talk

Hi again, No one!
Anyone out there? Never mind, I can just sit here, assuming that this blog is reaching somebody as I feel productive like an accomplished writer.
                                  What an entertaining thought, "productivity"...Here on planet Canada, it's summer time. Apparently this means I have no energy. Whatsoever, at any time, ever. I am a blob of blonde goo wilting off of a decomposing log into a puddle, deep within a Scandinavian forest that no one will ever bother to discover.
           Deep eh?
You're probably looking at your computer screen while sneering and thinking, "ew, bitch thinks she's funny or some shit."
                                              Just read the damn poem.
That's all I want. In the mean time i'll live in ignorant Canadian successful bliss, signing autographs on the back of my notebooks.. repeatedly...
The title and subject of this piece combined with the extensive rant I've included here provide for some pretty spiffy irony. That's all I have to say.

Talk Talk Talk, 
   Why must we talk so much? 
Do we really have
                 so much to say 
that it surpasses the need for action? 

I see you love to talk, and to have your 
    opinions known. 
                   But have we 
ever thought, that perhaps all our 
             talk, simply dissipates
as hot air into the smog? 

With all this talk we're built up so high,
as our voices battle 
                    towards the sky. 
We discuss our beliefs, yet then sigh with 
                  relief as we 
tip our hats to another 
                 problem solved. 

And better still is when we 
  protest and scream whilst 
      living in luxury
that our government is for the dogs.

Would you still so heavily speak 
of unfair tax
between sipping wine from 
a crystal glass 
if you knew of the ignorant stench 
that rises from your tongue? 

You have not been to Hell and back, 
Hell will not be frozen by your arrogant 
     talk of empathy and your lack 
                                 of
                                   tact. 

No, your talk heeds nothing, 
save for the illusion that you're  
               helping somebody. 

But alas we still 
      chat, avidly catapulting 
our ideas into space - their 
               absence of gravity 
reflecting our lack 
     of ambition and grace.

Change begins when we talk, but 
does nothing when we 
                    talk 
          without 
                  stop. 

And as the world cries we forget 
     to refute the lie that said 
that something ever came 
                from nothing.

Never Let Go

This is old, but why not? 

                                            Happy Ju-ly , 

Two hands clasped, 

Silhouetted by the same moonlight

That makes the damp streets glisten.

Night’s cloak blackens the park,

As two figures sit watching

The endless waves in a sea of stars

          

Whispers of the Dark

Alright, 

So I've finally, sort of, kicked myself back into gear. This isn't saying much, as I wasn't that productive writing-wise even back when I considered my days not totally irrelevant to all other life on earth. For the most part, I feel I've learned to keep hold of my string of cheap pearls and keep etching away at the notebook, instead of feeling sorry for myself the majority of my waking hours. I don't expect you to know what I mean by that, but just bare with me, I'm technically still a teenager; I feed off of vague and borderline meaningless metaphors. 

Anywho, moral of the story, this is the first piece I've birthed after a long hiatus and thus it's not of super duper quality. HOWEVER, I've read the thing over quite a series of times and I've grown kind of fond of the feel it delivers. I'd love to know if you feel the same....if anyone else exists out there.. 

anyone... 

He awoke gasping, his lungs like claws 

       grasping for air. 

It was a gas that filled his chest in a second and departed as if repelled from his body by some greater outside force. 

               His eyes darted about his skull in their fury to explain
     this new setting. 

Despite having only been conscious for a few moments, he could 

                                                   sense the

                                                    stench 

of the heavy atmosphere that
                                          hung
over his body and was being
                                shoved out from his chest. 

His body continued the panic as his spine and leg muscles
                                                              wrenched 

                                                                 and writhed, 

collapsing downwards when they were defeated by the straps 

         that held him 

     in place. 

His body wrenched again, his movements increasing in 

ferocity until 

             he heard a cry rise from beneath him 

          that bore a sound of a creature unknown 

to mankind. 

          The cry turned into a blood boiling howl as his 

struggle against his binds 

fueled his panic and his panic 

fueled his 

struggle. 

His throat and chest now seemed as if they were in flames, and it was 

only when that fire 

              overtook him and his body 

                     ceased 

                           its convulsions that he realized 

that the hellish howl had come from 

                              within him. 

His eyes strained and fought their sockets to gather in any 

                                             light, finding none - 

save for a dull yellow glow that                   illuminated the odor

                                      that hung 

in the air. 

He lay there, still. His surrender enabled him 

                   to now sense the darting movements. 

As his brain throbbed with adrenaline, his ears began to pick up 

                  those whispers.  

                                  Whispers of the dark. 

He could hear the evil breathing out of them, despite 

                         not understanding the devilish 

tongue. 

He shivered as the voices grew 

more harsh and 

more violent. He felt hot, 

               putrid breath 

             petting his flesh where the skin had been sanded away by
his struggle 

against the binds. 

The whispers grew louder still and became voices that carried 

a rancid language;the sound

                          burning his skin. 

     But it was the

tongues. 

       

Narrow and forked they reached out to lash his naked 

               skin, his eyes, his skull. 

It was then, as he listened, that

                               his heart burst into flame 

He finally understood 

                     the words, 

                as they whispered, 

                  

                           "Welcome, brother. 

                                     Welcome to Hell"

In A Moment.

Hello Folks, 

oh, i mean, helllo No-one.. :) 

I forgot about this poem until I found it in a notebook recently. I really like it. 

You should let me know how it makes you feel, too. .. anywho, 

Be my guest - 

In A Moment. 

Blurry Echoes forever lingering,
                Struck by their passing,
that is when I fear them the most.
     Such beautiful encounters; find beauty in
                                simplicity.
Create the thread of intimacy,
that I view as so sacred
                        to bare.
May they never be forgotten, may they never
be scoffed,
           As tragedy would then seer its mark
on every beautiful smile
                         that was.
Oh the risks
to love,                           to expose
the soul to its most
                     notorious destroyer
            Yet,
to breathe within the moment,
the moment that will be added to that collection,
      is the most blissful scene;
                       Oh how it brings me peace.

Pursuit of Dust

Uh, hey blog.. 
Today I write for you, blog! A journal entry of no fictional nature...  

Ever have those days when you think,

"what the heck do I even have going for me?"

Well, 4am confession time, I can't get away from that line. Glances in the mirror remind us [or i guess i'll speak for myself] that I am the embodiment of that thought. That string of words creates a meaning that hangs like some aged wooden sign at the back of my skull.

It's always there, and when I shake my head around to try to get the creative juices flowing, it swings through that hollow cranial cavity and hits me right in the temples.

Basically I'm burnt out. I hate to sound like a hypochondriac -- but I have anxiety issues; something I never thought I'd have to deal with. But it sucks me dry, it absorbs all my emotional energy. Instead of throwing my mental energy into composition, it gets eaten by this parasite-- this filthy anxiousness that never ceases quivering. Time is its parent.

Apart from that, I'm watching my nature change. This shouldn't be a bad thing, this should be a healthy thing. Not in this case. The way I'm seeing it, I'm falling backwards. The anxiety has taken away my confidence, even in the way I interact with strangers/acquaintances or respond to new situations. I'm more and more reminded of my 14 year old self, and that makes me wretch.

I can't afford to fall back towards the type of person that says nothing. One that has an opinion but doesn't care to fight for it. One that tip-toes around the intimidation of peers. absolutely not . I want to bring something to the other members of humanity.......

and say "hey, look what I have to offer.."

Problem is, assertiveness requires a shell filled with confidence behind it; a person rich in assuredness and faith in their ability. 

(don't mock my visuals, i haven't written in a long time) . 

Right now, I feel that shell is empty. My body is empty. I can put on my confident face or attitude for a time, but after a short while I'm exhausted by the weight of trying to carry a dense personality with a shivering shell that asks,

"what the heck do I even have going for me?"

I've let it all go. I've dropped all that I was originally offered. I'm scared to touch the piano for fear I'll have retained nothing. I'm afraid to start a painting, for fear a) i won't finish b) my piece will be boring - it will be the same offer I always bring to the table. immature. meaningless.

I pick up my pen to write and I'm appalled at what comes out. It's dry. It's lifeless. It's boring. It's immature. It is foolish. 

What have I to offer? What the hell do i even have going for me? 

Motivation? Skill? Intellect? Pft. Things I used to hold dear. Things I thought I could associate myself with.

Nah, it's a hoax. We train ourselves to live up to the hoax; the invisible image that paints us as what we want to be. We then paint ourselves, but we are not the embodiment.                                                                                    So fuck you.

At least not those of us with nothing more solid to stand on than an empty shell.

Empty of motivation, empty of energy. Empty of skill, empty of intellectual ability. I'm not an artist, I'm not a quick thinker. I'm just someone. Someone who's run dry of paint with which to create the image of what I want to do. ya, to be.

what do i have going for me? i sure as hell don't know. What do I have to offer? i sure as fuck don't know.

I'd like to end this on a positive note. To run off in a trail of dust, wherein sits a whimsical phrase discussing my turn around - my pursuit of motivation.

But I can't.

Not yet.

Ya, not yet. There's a strand of hope. Stringy little strands. ... lol.

I will admit that I take for granted a lot of things in my life. I love my God and my faith,  And I love my other half. still a keeper. 

Look at a situation, and find something positive about it. Search, and change your perspective. Find that hidden, glowing aspect. cling to it.

You don't need an entire string of pearls to see the value in just one - washed with salt water ...

And if that's what it takes to keep your head above water, then its purpose is endless.

Hate.

I feel disgusting. 
In the sense that i have no creative productivity, yet i swear my subconscious is demanding i find an outlet for, 
i dunno. whatever's going on up there. 
But for now, i'll just keep posting old stuff. better than nothing. 
This is a description of Hate. 

In the beginning it is small, perhaps even insignificant as it clings to the breath it seizes from the attention we give. 

Seeded by lies and fed through hypocrisy, it grows in resemblance to ignorance.

Masked in many different auras, its subtle yet rapidly burgeoning smog will engulf and possess even the most innocent and angelic people.

It is heartless,

It is vicious,

Yet its evil has become commonplace,

Blending and concealing its destructive capacity within our societal norms.

Seeping through us, it has caused an unhealthy bleed of human ethics and common sense.

It is our condescending glances,

Our swift lashes of the tongue,

Our assumed intelligence,

Our blatant ignorance.

Symptoms, subtle but toxic indicia of a decaying respect for humanity,

It destroys us,

And we don’t seem to care.   

Never Let Me Go

Hello no one,
It's been a while, lady no-one.
So this is a more recent piece, I think it was composed last summer >_>
I hope to really get back into this in the summer; I'm done my semester at this point so technically my summer is now. I'll have to get ambitious.
I know for now this stuff has a juvenile air to it, but give it time, we're all growing.
I hope whoever's lurking out there likes this; or at least reads it.


     Evan's thoughts swirled around the edges of his brain, following the motion of the whisky in his shooter.  The alcohol buzzed down his throat and sent its echo throughout the rest of his body. He blinked as the dim lights that illuminated his corner of the bar buzzed and blurred. He lifted his glass slightly and brought it back down to the scarred counter top, the noise beckoning another filling. Evan liked the people here, they didn't cut him off. They didn't care.
      Almost as soon as the thought finished drifting across what little consciousness was left, a rattling motion shook the far end of the bar. His gaze panned from right to left. 
Evan lifted the glass to his mouth. 'This is who I am.' The phrase came and played through his mind as if it was a ghostly broken record, returning every night so that it wouldn't be forgotten.  The phrase propped Evan up, gave him identity. Purpose. That's why he came here every night. 
     The far end of the room rattled and shouts rose up. Evan felt hot breath drift towards his neck as the bar-girl approached him, again. 
     "Look at them going at it over there, same thing every night..." She said in a whisper that slithered through her lips.   "Why can't they just take it outside..." 
      Evan turned to watch her speak. The enamel of her teeth glowed in the dim light, contrasting deeply with her darker complexion. She turned to face him. He pulled his face back.
     She brought her body closer, bringing her elbows together as she leaned over the countertop.  
     Evan's vision focused on the cascade of vodka that fell into his shooter and then blurred again as he leaned back and shook out his hair. The words coming out of the bar girl's mouth seemed to slur and tangle in his fingers.  
      He left the shot and nosily got up from his seat, ignoring the ongoing susurrations of the bar girl. This scene unfolded similarly every night, and every night Evan just couldn't be interested.  Not since that night. 
     Chairs screeched and screamed as he slid them out of his path. The other customers filling the bar with smoke and natter remained completely unfazed by Evan on his jagged route out. 
     He reached what had to have been the door as the bartender offered a goodnight.  He mumbled something of a response as he stumbled outside into darkness. 
     The chill of the September night immediately slipped down his throat and woke up his bones; he shook his head again as he waited for the blur to fade. 
     Emerging from the blur she appeared. The ghost he had created. She was his hindrance. No matter where he was, no matter how much he drank, she would always find him. She followed him into the bar, and she sat silently beside him as the other girls offered favours. She would follow him outside as he lit his smoke, and she would follow him home. 
     How he wanted to hold her, to take her in his arms and never let her go like he had done before. He wanted feel her again, run his hands through her delicate hair and prove to himself that she was still there, comforting him. But all he felt of her now was the cold disappointed stare of her invisible eyes. 
     Evan wanted to claw out the sting in his eyes, claw it out and then rip the memories and mistakes out of his brain. 
   But instead he was left there helpless, a victim to the painful infection of regrets. The air around him stirred and flew past him, painting tears across his face.


- Vox Sententia 

You Must Keep Going

Something I whipped up tonight, amongst untameable taunting of the mind. deep, i know.
But this is the first poem I've done in a while, and if I'm not mistaken one of only two or three I've ever done...
There's some intentional patterning in there.... Let me know what it makes you think..

Crumble Stars 
And all that was beautiful


Memories cascade as tears from the heart, 
Falling black unto the earth


Descend O Stars, from your impossible height, 
Fall one by one upon empty houses
That were never filled ...


Huddling in assurance of dusty scenes, 
Memories fight the chill 
Of cold words ...


Burning houses devour ambition and value, 
Where in was stored the wealth;
What wealth


Burning stars ignite the memories, 
Suffocation comes from worry's black smoke. 


Crumble Walls, 
And all that was beautiful


Save
For
Your
Embrace. 

Desert Paradise.

Hey to no one who's listening. You're a great audience. >_>.
Anywho here's a poem I wrote, one of the first pieces I've done in this basic type of poetic style, but I do enjoy it.

TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK.
please :)
and hey! if you like it, why not read the rest! In fact, why not subscribe! you'd make my heart sing...

Let them live like nothing matters,

Let them live like Vegas Pollyanna’s, basking in the short lived glory of cheap thrills and endlessly burning cigarettes,

And leave me in my desert paradise.

Go ahead and get caught up in the allure of easy [and easily lost] money, highs, and love,

Just let me swim in sanity.

Gleaming lights, pretty pictures, loud music,

In this I share their infatuation,

But in their delirium,

I do not.

Let them become entangled in a Hollywood web that glows of fame and popularity,

But leave me in my desert paradise, to dally in the sands of time.

With them I’ll live in the moment,

But in the face of foolishly wasted episodes,

Let me leave them, just let me abide here,

In my desert paradise.

Call me dull, call me lost, call me foolish for inhabiting the outskirts of town,

For dwelling in my distinction from the often unwise conformity of the city,

And it’s bright lights…

But it is out here I live my personal joy, 

Loving humanity’s people,

But standing strong in my ways,

Here in the vastness of the clear sky, dust, and endless possibility.

Here in my midnight desert paradise.

Their attraction is obvious,

The pull of the crowd into bright muggy rooms,

Fuelled by the rush of pushing your luck,

But for me, the room is too easily explored.

Remember I live for joy as well,

I also breathe in experience,

But the air is so much clearer out here,

Clearer than your smog,

Come out, to the original creation of night,

Come out and see the view,

A clearer view of all life’s capabilities,

Here in my desert paradise. 

Acceleration.

Hello lonely internet. Anyone out there?? Either way, if you do pass through, wait up a second and give this a read, perhaps even a comment (I would be ecstatic). This one's from I think my last year of high school.. I think it's still worth reading though,, just a little snap of fiction....

On the bench he sat, waiting, watching. Hurriedly the passers-by crossed his vision, but he was only interested in one type, he saw only one. With eerie rigidness he waited, his glazed eyes paying no homage to the glimmer of the moonlight’s reflections. Slowly he lifted his scarred arm, gripping the cold metal shape in his jacket pocket. Satisfied with its reassured presence, he returned his hand to its place; folded nicely with the other upon his lap.

Steadily the crowds diminished and left the streets lonely and still, minus only the seemingly ominous presence of a man on a bench.

 He sat unfazed by the growing desolation of the dark, he waited. He had only been in the muffled silence for about an hour or three, when she came. As she approached the pool of light that seemed to drown the streetlight it flowed from, it was then her fate was set.

With a silent swiftness he arose; drawn by the victim and its scent. Without so much as a blink, he soon fell into identical step with the delicate creature. His heart pace accelerated to a rate much higher than it had been while he had waited; he watched with a greater intensity, but the glaze over his eyes remained. As they walked and as he watched, his senses absorbed every aspect of his surroundings, and of his prey.

As if sensing the burnished stare drilling her open, she shivered heavily under the chill of the night, while her augural follower did not.

With almost inhuman steadiness, his pace accelerated in potent silence. The unconsented duo continued in their soundless scene with no one but the streets for an audience.

Coming closer, his veins tensed and bulged, his senses fed off her trembling aura. The alley was approaching; they were drawing into his lair.

   A final acceleration of footsteps and a swift transfer of movement from pocket to throat brought the swallow of the darkness, and they were gone.