Step Through the Event Horizon

Step into

my abyss


I am not like



I was not cut from 

your cloth


I am what you

envy and detest


My sky is not blue

but grey


I don't play your

games and I'm not on your team


There is a hate

that I battle


But I can overcome 


I have always detested sycophants

and suck ups to the man


You consider yourselves rebellious

and contrary to god 


But your nothing but sell outs and 



Popular kids destined for the fire

everything handed to you on a silver platter








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Hmmm, do I really need to be writing this?  I’m thinking through my philosophy.  I am not religious determined by standard definitions.  But I do perpetually seek to find the absolute during the course of my journey.  No one knows when exactly it will end.  But hopefully, the governor will issue a pardon because I do need more time.  I don’t much fancy electrocution or lethal injection.  I have not yet found myself hence I have not yet discovered God.  All I feel are vibrations that hint at the presence of seraphim.  And in my soul I feel as though I am having an epiphany.  It would be a tragedy were an innocent man be hung but I deserved not to play with your sympathy.  I dare not ask you to understand that things are not always what they seem.  Smoke and mirrors are often used to conceal the truth.  Many who don’t even know me sneer at my request for dignity.  But what is in my soul remains my own.  Why I was so careless as to blacken the purity of that childlike spiritual transcendence, I can not say.  But my actions have often reflected an exact opposite to beliefs.  I can’t seem to realize the full range of responsibility.  I do many things without consciousness of doing so.  Perhaps I am already dead but do not know it yet.  But as this tear drips onto the page and blurs the ink, I must confess that I sometimes cry.  And often for no reason at all.  It just seems to be a really natural reflex.  The hemp burning in the background does little more than stir up many memories.  In a cloud of smoke, the hazy dreams slowly replay themselves and I feel a degree of sorrow.  I face the demons and worse still, I finally face the truth.  The blade of the executioner will descend upon my nape.  Then will I still in denial?  It seems certain that I will.  Pompous pontifications will do little to convert blasphemous heathens.  I can hear harps playing softly and it sounds like my funeral song.  My desire to live might not be enough to survive the night and the cold eyes upon me crawling on my flesh.  They know more about me than I know about myself.  I can barely breathe and the lump in my throat has grown.  I never know just the right words to say.  And nobody seems to be listening to me but my self pity has come up to my knees.  I will wallow in it as I feel no motivation to step above it.  I suddenly find myself thrusting my arms open hoping for a cosmic embrace from my maker.  A cut on my finger leaks blood.  There is little use in preserving it now.  I hear the tune of “Taps” and Scottish bagpipes blare out their song.  Dickens doesn’t seem all that important anymore and Quasimodo has surely long since perished off this earth.  I am sorry to all those who I have wronged as well as all those that I have failed.  Excuses are meaningless now.  All that happens is that time on that clock ticks along.  The seconds hand rapidly dashes around in a circle casually nudging the minutes and hours along.  Being caged like an animal will not diminish my humanity.  My status has only been lowered through my own endeavor.  No point or value can come from false prosecution or unjustified persecution.  I will not be the first person wrongfully nailed to a cross.  It seems to have happened often in human history.  And the divinity of life is nearly as rewarding as the eternity of it.  Bitterness has passed.  Just facing the final moments brings me closer to Sartre and Camus.  But I wonder if this existential moment is worth a damn.  The train in the distance sings a lovely song and crickets provide a rhythmic backdrop.  An old oil furnace sits on concrete.  The sounds reverb and gas hisses on through this ancient radiator.  I feel the time coming and the end drawing near.  My time to face the executioner as the hands on the clock continue to rotate.. .





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Dig the grave deep

So I can finally sleep


There is no end to my torment;

the scars run deep into the catacombs


Implosion is inevitable;

water continues to weather at the foundation


Flooding these passages

stealing the essence


Making me regret it;

might as well just fuck it!!!


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Living in fear;

doomed to the never ending abyss;

black holes everywhere;

land minds of hatred;

self consummation;

the ridding of sentiment;

raw power of black sun;

damned to be at one;


finally done;

 I am done!!!







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The Dead Pool

Dive into the black pool,

and bathe in these abyssmal waters,

forever a slave to what you hate,

always going in the wrong direction,

right towards your death. 

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April 10

An abyss, empty yet whole.
Falling down the rabbit hole.
Screaming soundlessly,
and waking up to a nightmare just begun.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Journal Poem For April 10th

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