(This could be turned into something more)

it could be anything, anything at all-sorts of oppression, repressed patterns and movement, the way it's all expelled, the fever
 it haunts you
in your gaunt face
carried away with a wispy, daunting demeanor.
a man of true definitive purpose
lost in the vermilion of his hands,
dripping with life,
soused in death
the paradox without purpose seeps into his brain,
where he wonders if anything integral will ever catch him by the sleeves,
if a cold, brittle hand will brush against his collar,
begging him to "come this way", and to turn the right corners
of all the right pathways,
manage yourself,
right mindfulness, right intention,

galaxies spin below his drooping eyelids,
adrift on the ceiling of sleep
weighing out options on a faceless scale,
and a thought weens its way into that thoughtless brain,
"serenity lies within violence",
his wan eyes crack open,
he dons quite the disdainful disposition.
he'll die without categorization 

Hypnosis

the potency has left the building,
blew down the door and unstrung all the hinges
competency lost it's original place in line,
it's taken up a whole new stride.
Brushed up against the Earth,
a lover amongst the sheets,
tangled, twisted,
where I'd like you to be
where I thought to myself
 that you didn't make sense.
The pages lost their places,
and the faces, half-erased.
In memory of you I made a fire,
and I watched it burn on endlessly
until the embers blew against my toes,
scorching them, and scarring.
In memory, I said nothing to anyone,
but sat amongst the trees.
My organs painted vividly inside,
with movement, with grace,
with silent security.
Alone. 

unfinished

I remember the day I found nothing but a vacuous, hissing void begging for my entrance.
I crawled with disparity, in need of reaching a path with more gratifying destruction.
"Worship all, disown all" was what was written in the foyer.
There could be no more occupying thought than the thought of the day in which you'd find yourself amidst the web of silent humanity, quieted by the hush of 

unfinished

I have an encapsulated goal held tightly within my palms
tethered to fingers so obstruction never follows
not even in mirrors, not even in film
I etched words to the insides of my thighs,
to remember the night that I dreamt of animals
fighting against the wind
coalescing with the land
falling into graves, into Hades, into the depths of the ocean,
wandering in their own worlds, in their own minds
carried away by feathered emotion,
by balloons full of jovial breath,
I carved these iambic syllables into my fur,
into my olive-coloured hope,
shoved into some skin
worn away by age
worn down by heartless discrepancies
tattered, bruised, and haggard,

unfinished

I don't know what to do with myself.
There was self-induced loathing,
A contrived sense of loss,
A methodically planned congregation of dread and chills.
Lacking knowledge in intrinsic areas..
I wasn't sure where I was headed, but I went out the door. I learned today that frustration doesn't come in moderation. It isn't modest, and it does't wait. At least not within myself. I starved myself, I became emaciated due to the cornered thoughts that chased the serotonin out. There was no expulsion of any feeling that ever seemed to occur within my mind. It was all fused inside. Life in a glass cage. I held nothing but ambivalence for them, for it, for each and every absolutely unnecessary and uncalled-for emotion that had even yet to be categorized, dubbed anything. There weren't words for the intensity within, intensity that wouldn't excrete any bit of sympathy for the remainder of my body.
It screamed to me at night, it told me there was nothing better to do than to deal with it, but I couldn't just allow it to sit, stagnantly, recumbently with some sort of sardonic manner lying in it's look. I tried to sort out each image, each insignificant word that laid itself upon the tissues of my cortex. Whether it was relevant or irrelevant seemed to matter not, but I knew none of it would feel satisfying, not remotely. I thought, I tried to think, I did the best I could to remember a story. To think of someone else to be, to praise, to write an ode about or even a condemnation. But where am I now? Nowhere but atop this tombstone clicking my heels without any grace, without any stage presence. I sit here at ease, with pieces of emotions seemingly from every place and every which way there was anything, anything at all. Throwing itself at my back, aiming to tip me, to clear the conscience that should be placed within. I was in too much of a rush to live. So I was fixated with death. Give me a purpose! Give me an answer as to where to find where I'm supposed to be, supposed to go. So, I left tonight, I left with your bags and your wigs. I strung them together and pushed them into my suitcase, nothing else fit. I knew I needed to get on the plane sooner than later. Sooner, because I knew you wouldn't come looking, and the longer I knew that, the more certain it became, the more captivated I was with the idea of tearing your veins open.



Screaming these pitiless opinions at the top of my lungs, abrasively...
there were ideas, think of some, live, please, please live for me...
One day, some day..

A ticking of mankind, a trickling whisper, makes your spine shiver,
Tremulous at the thought.