Suicide.

Hello no one. Missed November. I'm terrible at self-commitment, I suppose. Oh well. Take a gander. A brief piece. 


Flicker of the candle
Flicker on the mirror

Sparkle of the eyes
Sparkle on the blade

Reflection of the glass
Reflection on the metal 

Eternal peril of the moment
Eternal peril on the mind

Power of the self defeated 
Power on the heads

Blood of the martyr
Blood on their own hands.

Perfection of Evil

Hey there, invisible folks. 

So this is a piece that I wrote once again, a year and a half ago. Reading it over again, I'm not terribly fond of it. However I do like the concept - but i'm more so posting it here and now because - due to school - I missed posting a piece for September, and I am about to miss October. I do have pieces on the go, but i have yet to perfect them to "publishable" form. Ugh - yes, i consider this lonely hole in the internet to be my publishing centre. So help me. And 

Happy Halloween ;) 

The skies were grey that day, an occurrence that, since the purge of the last distortion, had become rare. I suppose we should have realized, taken that dismal atmosphere as a sign of what that day would mark.

                Lizzie was always the complicated one, always making the daily rituals such a bothersome event. It was like there was a different flare to her, one that if provoked had the capacity to scream out in rebellion. However one could never imagine why – we are free here in our state, under our state.

                I believe Lizzie had been in school with the rest when the one that was called “Sophia” came into the community. The radiance of her outward beauty glowed especially bright in the dull and grey landscape. With that stunning smile, perfect shape, and voice as smooth as glass, it was not unusual that Sophia was instantly integrated into the state’s system. There is no doubt that she is perfect.

                Upon completing the assimilation procedures, I can recall Sophia being placed in the Eye district. I spoke to her there once while paying the respects to the state head. She had stood in front of me as the Beckoning Music played throughout the community. She had chosen to speak to me, and I fumbled for an intelligent answer as she squinted her eyes in the sunlight and leaned away from the reflective glint of the window. She is perfect, her very being somehow seeming to climb above that of the others. She is kind to all the right people, and draws in all her peers with her overpowering essence of popularity and long flowing locks. The state soon appointed her female representative – thus dictating her as the ultimate image. It wasn’t long before she found her faithful followers; every young citizen in the city strives to imitate her perfection. I know I do. But to be fair, when I say all, I mean all except one.

I remember the bitterness and suspicion that would strangle Lizzie every time Sophia entered the room or the conversation. Citizens soon started to notice Lizzie’s difference and subtle resistance to the way of things. Unlike her peers she veered away from Sophia and her standard, and she started to reek of imperfection - even defiance and deceit. It seemed she sensed something peculiar about Sophia, and it seemed she would stop at nothing to find out what it was.

The memory itself I feel to be repressed, but in the shelter of this story now, and for the sake of discoursing history, I believe the state would allow my digression. Lizzie, that divergent, had not been compiling with the state’s order; it seemed she wanted to be as distant from Sophia’s perfection as possible. The state could not have that, allowing even the slightest hint of rebellion from the ideal would result in the pollution of our perfect structure of humanity. As would be assumed, her attempts to resist the Sophia image and lifestyle soon made her appear grotesquely deviant. The communal spirit of peace that domineered the citizens was obviously fleeing Lizzie’state, as new and foreign emotions such as anxiousness and paranoia emanated from her like a toxic mist.

 I had watched her follow Sophia home that day; how foolish of me to think that it would amount to nothing. Clearly Lizzie was merely trying to find the source of Sophia’s perfection, but what she saw instead is what I think drove her to her absolute mania. She had watched through the window as Sophia had entered her bedroom and hurried over to the community-standard dresser to replace the white sheet that had fallen off its mirror and onto the floor. As Sophia had stood in front of the mirror, shaking out the crumpled fallen sheet while her skin gleamed in the light, the breath caught in Lizzie’s throat. The colour drained from her face as it watched the mirror’s reflection. Course, black and glistening fur now encloaked the bulking figure in the mirror. Huge hooked and merciless claws hung from the beast’s paws, and fangs like that of a cobra glistened in its mouth as slick murky venom leaked from its jaw. And oh but the eyes; blood red rubies that glowed with an enrapturing capability that was no doubt the source of the creature’s hypnotic popularity. The horrid reflection in the mirror was swept away from sight as the sheet draped over the mirror once again, and Lizzie altered her terrified gaze off the mirror and on to Sophia. Radiance once again filled the room. But Lizzie’s breathing must have regained itself a gasp too loudly, as Sophia’s head jerked around with inhuman speed towards Lizzie’s presence. Their eyes had locked, and Lizzie’s horror stricken face quivered and teared as a red smoke began to plume from behind Sophia’s sparkling ice blue eyes and a forked tongue escaped through her teeth. With that Lizzie was running, running blind as foggy tears soaked her face with salt and terror.

I suppose she was hysterical when she tried to tell everyone, I suppose her eyes lacked more life than they had before. All I know for certain is they didn’t listen. There was no way the city could allow such lunacy.

I had liked Lizzie. It used to feel like she had the ability to cleanse the room of its stale air, but I suppose now, I could not gather the difference. 

Paranoia.

Happy news every-no-one! I'm actually re-discovering my passion for writing, and for fiction nonetheless. Here's something I started and finished today. At this point in my travels, this is excellent progress. Pitiful that I've come to the point to say that, but still, relative excellent progress. Striving to improve, take care,

Paranoia. 


She had become great friends with Paranoia. He accompanied her almost everywhere, but became especially talkative when walking hand in hand with the dark. This evening had been no different than the rest of those blackened November nights, save for the heavy silence that hung over the streets and weighed down the trees. 

Paranoia was waiting for her at the end of her shift. Tonight, he leaned against the dumpster that she fed sticky boxes and cigarette butts all day long. She hurried past him, hoping he wouldn't see her and she could forget about him for just this one night. It had been a good day; she had even let a boy catch her attention. Her eyes brightened as she remembered his smile and the way he laughed as he dropped the coffee she had poured for him. She wondered if he would come into the cafe again. 

But Paranoia decided to interrupt before she could think of how to offer her name. She jumped as Paranoia exaggerated the sound of a cough that echoed off the porch of a house. She drew her eyebrows together and took longer strides. 

This ritual was always the same, but tonight she was determined not to let Paranoia dance around her feet. She had to take control. 

A street lamp flickered above her as she turned off the main road and forced herself to take deep breaths and slow down her pace. 

Silence and Paranoia chatted in harmony of the abandoned streets. They hollered at her that the town was draped in silence, save for the muffled car engine that was approaching her from behind. 

She ignored Paranoia when he told her to turn and look at the car. As the car passed, she instead told herself that she should feel nothing but comforted, since the car was a pricey looking silver BMW. She couldn't help but wince, however, when Paranoia pointed out that the car turned down the street that would bring her to her home. 

She soon reached the corner and was relieved that the moving car was nowhere in sight. Paranoia grabbed her shoulder as she passed underneath a low hanging branch, but after stifling a gasp she was able to contain herself with much greater ease than previous nights. She felt confident, but protected her courage by keeping her eyes focused on the simplicity of the ground in front of her. 

She didn't hear Paranoia when he told her of the car approaching behind her. Instead she heard what she would say the next day as she introduced herself to that boy with the smile, and the laugh.. 

                  "My name is..."

Her words slammed dead into the inside of her forehead and dropped like rocks to her stomach as she watched a silver BMW roll slowly past her moderate pace. The sound of the tires sliding over the damp asphalt pierced the silence of the night as Paranoia held a flare in front of her face.

She told herself not to look into the windows that Paranoia told her were tinted, and instead kept her stare facing the cracks in the pavement. She shivered as the car finally seemed to leave her in the distance. 

Paranoia asked her why the same car had passed her twice, and in his alarm did not hear her explanations. 

But it was then, as she lifted her head on que and watched the BMW slowly park within the darkness between the street lamps in front of her that Paranoia let out a screech. 

Her instinctively accelerated pace gave her no time to reason with Paranoia; her eyes bulged and watered as she saw the lonesome figure, leaning against a silver BMW. Paranoia screamed in her face, tugged on her heel and begged her to turn and run, but a new voice had entered the scene. 

Terror now paralyzed her thoughts as adrenaline kicked her pace into overdrive and she sped towards the presence. 

                     Saltwater leaked from her bulging eyes and her teeth clenched so hard that her jaw began to ache. Terror's 

                                      inhuman moans distorted 

the panicked commands of Paranoia, and the voices in her head blurred 

                                          to a chorus of mania. 

As her body became parallel to the pricey looking, silver BMW, the 

                                                                                              mania swelled to

                                                                           a blinding volume.

Paranoia writhed in sorrow and dropped his flare, igniting the 

                                                                                    chaos in flame. 

She could no longer hear her own scream as cold hands approached 

                          and 

                                                    seized her by the elbows.

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