Bad Horse

vociferous hungering and vivid illusions,
can't feed the soul, can't delude the brain
but i'm trying,
while tired and weary, sitting by the road,
trying to fill the hole, trying to fire a spark
i wish i was dying.

Is there no hope ?

Burning flesh, and molten bone
golden like the setting sun,
solid like the mountain stone,
they excite.
A passionately performed ritual,
and the conversation residual,
as the carrion feast,
why ignite ?

All we need is dope ?

Some whispered words, with melody too
don't bring you nearer, unless sung by anew,
my love.
As i disappear into the background, 
dont get noticed by anyone around,
i see flames, games
like dancing on a stove.

I guess there is no scope.

Now return, to where it had begun,
the dark cave, my shallow grave.
Silence.
No words uttered, no swear words muttered
My lungs compressed, waiting to burst.
Violence.

Bring me some rope.

Six feet from the edge

And I'm down to one last breath.. 

Is it strange that I write while listening to songs ? Is it easier to speak to oneself in these quiet lonely moments, while the brain is lulled into a deluded state.

Is life an avalanche.. An unfathomable uncontrollable flow.. Am i just in for the ride. 

Vocabulary weak, struggling to speak. Where is the voice now ? Tell me what I am, what to do. what to say. Gollum. Consume me once more, I call to you

I need it on loop though. The music stops and so does the world. I enter a strange horrible new land. Cold and dull. No country for old men. 

What a horrible movie. I couldn't bare 30 mins. Naked it was.. 

You trained me well. I can't write about real things anymore. 

Anyway the music is back. And I guess my cryptic lines will veil reality well enough, only until the veil is lifted.

Time's running out, and it seems, all roads lead further away from my imagined destination. 
Except the narrow one. It seems to loop in strange confusing ways, but far in the distance i can see it leads to an eventuality. A singular among singulars. Yet whenever i try to get onto this causeway, it seem to shift. Or maybe it is me that missteps. The ground keeps moving under my feet, so it is hard to tell.

Is six feet, really that far down ? Maybe one day i shall choose to fall. Purpose seems to lead me down the road to nowhere, even though i dont have any. Maybe finally, i shall do something with purpose. Or maybe it will be a mistake. I could trip. The ground doesnt stop moving. Easy to trip.

Can the brain exist without the body ? Maybe that is the key. Rather than find out how to solve global warming or go to other planets. Do I split sentences in uncomfortable postitions. That is an exercise for the reader.

Time to Accept. My parallel existence demands my attention. Creed calls. Scott prays. Comfortable is this place. Warm. Still no purpose. 

Summer Rain

She is torrid, like a tornado.
You are calm, like the eye of a storm.