PrimaryAmnesiaTheory

we jealously take up sides at this table, a small circle of neutral ground and as you look at me across the interminable distance of our lives we speak of what ifs and why nots and who was to blame. your hopes and dreams there my failings and dramas here the junk, this clutter of reality coming between us a gulf of eternity, only ten inches wide then the setting sun just over your shoulder illuminated the only real truth I needed to see this chasm of indifference, at times insurmountable, can be bridged with the honesty we continually bury under recrimination and fear ..and by my bravely reaching out just a little furthe

a cracked and splintered ceiling showing its age baring its scars for the few who look up to it. I see them. from my vantage point flat on my back here on the floor beneath it. eerie. overwhelmed by unease… troubled by random thoughts that the floor will give way below me or the cracks above open wider to engulf me. exposed like a last intact vein or a withered umbilical twelve inches of electrical wiring hang limply from rusty mountings illuminating nothing I search the depths of my soul for some clue as to who I am here in the midst of this calamity the loss of any sense of purpose without you in my life the ice cubes

you signed a crooked smile with moist lips and left wanting for documentation, substance of a less fleeting nature than the air of promised intention, your corporeal presence in trade stolen back with a furtive glance your passing such elixir of hopeful ambition, potent spirit of their very essence - staked a claim, they to you, forever bound by a mistaken name slight by nature's whimsical fancy made, what call you, by they to put halt uncharted passage in a timely imitation of formless thought and wondrous memories before the fade

how long have you been there why have I not noticed you before what cloak of invisibility have you suddenly shed to stand revealed before me now what are these new feelings that you have awakened deep within the recesses of my soul what pull do you have on them... on me... that forces them ever so powerfully to the surface do I acknowledge their existence or timidly create my own shroud to hide myself from you and risk losing you forever

Do you feel comfort from arms wrapped tightly 'round your waist? Does one single kiss, feel like a breath of life to calm your heart, made all a-flutter by someone's mere presence? Do you close your eyes and dream of a love everlasting? Does it feel like it's just around the corner ('and would someone please take my hand and lead me there') Do you believe in the possibility of someone understanding all there is about you and feeling safe in the knowledge that they'll never turn away? Do the stars overhead call your gaze upwards towards heaven? A heaven, the existence of which, you imagine seems very much like this spot that y

how close are we really to the clouds in the sky? does a speck of dust have a conscience, do trees possess souls? will water crashing on the shore feel the sun's warmth before it slips back to sea? as the lightning flashes down from above it lights up the darkness and the thunder echoes in the vast emptiness of the black turned bright. once, all was blackness. no conscience, no soul, no sun warming the waters of life ...then, there was something. an existence around which all things could take form, upon which all things would depend, without which, the black would never brighten the waters would be forever still and w

my hands caress your body                                  my thoughts caress your soul                            my hot breath falls upon you in waves                                and you know the fire inside me.                              I burn at your touch, as you do mine,                                   and this intimacy - our intimacy -                                       will continue all night long.                               a kiss to your lips (as succulent as                                               forbidden fruit)                          and you are as alive as ecstasy unbound.              

this morbid fascination you obsess with death and destruction cause for distress I possess no notion of what to say random images swirling gray incoherent at best three legged chairs shattered glass bloodied clumps of hair from the cat's last pass boarded up windows holes in the wall massive anxiety attacks only candy coat your fall from enlightened grace is this what it feels like inside your head wretched excess of violence until everything lies dead it didn't turn out the way you wanted it to stifle your shout look inside my head see the pain I feel too

You have just now - again - left my side       and I ache.     The scent of you hangs heavy and still       in the night air - and one last time tonight       I will breathe you in         deeply.     Your laughter - the sweet melody of your voice,       music of the angels,       still plays in my ears.     Echoes linger in the distant corners of the room       - and I reach out to pull them in       - as I had just recently reached out           to you,           to draw your body next to mine.     I can still feel the weight of you upon me       so pleasureable a sensation as to seem       as though you wei

I whisper words that chill to silence the rhapsodies of your soul a being materializes from a mere hiccup in the bloodline of gods a mistake – an aberration of perfection crimson poison spilled upon the sawdust of creation forming a pool of disgust lackeys and lapdogs both heap insult upon its very essence You sing torrents of warm embraces smothering the hatred in my heart sowing the seed of destruction requires still a nurturing hand be wary the untended garden purloined of malice and madness the keeper of crops of evil must ever be vigilant against sunlight, hope, salvation With blackened thrust I pierce the timid veil of y

 I don’t know how you people can stomach writers. What a despicable breed. Writers are egotistical, self-deluded little creatures. Sure, a lot of them put on a good front. Most are fooled by the façade of humility and, more than occasionally, bookish bashfulness. But make no mistake; writers are, by the very nature of their design, the most pompous creatures that have ever lived, setting aside maybe politicians and the ridiculously wealthy. They love their own voice enough to meticulously mark down their every thought on paper, somehow convinced not only that this effort is worthwhile, but people will care. People will care about

A travesty; the bastille of innocence penetrating the ill confines of a lonely existence, diluting the ashes in its wake before evaporating with the souls of spring. A farce; teardrops may fall on sand, let it trickle deep and crystallize under a summer heat, just to show how fragile the figure four tongue lock could be. A novelty; once a jaded reflection, pulsating like a new scab wound after a fresh papercut, wearing off to show the inner hormonal beauty of a beast no more.