self awareness


I was flipping

thru my papers & stuff

& I found a signed copy

of Richard Hell's book

The Voidoid.


He wrote,

"For George,

Stay George."


Well, I don't know

exactly what that means

but I can say this

I will stay George

because I don't know

any other way to be.


I have tried

to be different

I have tried 

to be other people.


It just leaves me flat.

I can never

actually pull it off.


I'm kinda stuck here

in this persona

which isn't actually a persona

but just who I am


which may not be much

but it's what I am


and I have come

to terms with that.

I've resigned myself

to being me

and nothing else

and no one else no one else.


I yam what I yam

to steal from a sailor

which is why

I am what I am

and nothing more.


The irreverence

has deleted

all fear of failure.


I don't try

to be anyone else.

I don't even try

to be myself anymore.


I just let it flow

au naturel.

I am quite certain

it'll be all right.


I have stayed George

with minimal effort

cuz if you really

get down to it

there isn't anything else

I ever could've been.


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Pressure on the Wound

Put pressure on the wound,
Although it won’t stop bleeding,
Insecurity has a hold around my neck,
As reflexes punch and kick.
Trying to get to the surface of a crowded mind,
Paranoia whispers chaos formed when silent and alone.
Too scared to lose what was always wanted,
Grip so tight it breaks under the demand for an answer.

Submerged in the chemical breakdown,
Six feet underwater, lungs heavy and full,
Sinking below what you once knew was true,
Lost in the anxiety that comes with the withdrawal.

Love is a dangerous drug; intoxicating,
Always leaving you wanting more:
Too much will kill you,
Without it we’d never feel alone.

Walking into a reality that shatters all form of sanctuary,
The ugliness of a lover’s hold that once felt safe,
Leaves a bruise of an embrace turned restraint.
Fear is a cunning manipulator,
Planting seeds that grow the inevitable tumour:
Put pressure on the wound and hope it stops bleeding.

Cathartic Liberation

Here comes the downer,
The falling from my pedestal,
Smashing my knees on the impact of the fall.
Thought I was so high and untouchable,
Now I’m a worm crawling across the floor.

Chewing at my skin to find the feeling,
Self-preservation in a tightly-wound cocoon.
Hollow on the inside,
The scream is nothing but a sigh,
Trying to hide the pain,
But this heart is shared and isn’t all mine to have.

A face painted with beauty that has no ego,
Is a watercolour that blurs in my mind.
I reach out and touch perfection,
It dissolves in ripples by my own hand.

Here comes the upper,
The muscle tightens as I run on scarred limbs.
High on my cathartic liberation,
For the first time my reflection meets my gaze.
Burning the pedestal,
There’s more to myself than my selfish needs,
So much to live for,
Time has an infinite story.

I search to find the limit to my own evolution,
Hindsight comes with the regret of being too slow.

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until today: bricks & ripples

She did the best she could
Will all the guilt and shame
Handed down from generations.

She made the best of love
Though there wasn't any good examples
to draw from.

She loathed pain
Yet could never separate herself from it;

Today is the catalyst
For all of her tomorrows.
She is brave, wise
And able to overcome her fears.

She still feels the doubts, uncertainties
Common in modern life,
But the wisdom of the ages
Is there to comfort her.

Her ego and higher self wrestle
About what is to come next,
But she makes no decisions
Defaults to the divine instead.
It gives her peace and the outcome
That is best to be anyway.

Floating downstream I see a
Reflection and realize
She is me.

Midnight Souls

In the purple hazy skies,
Beneath the tree of the weeping fruit.
The nocturnal stare into patterned clouds,
As they slowly breathe the voice of tomorrow,
Secretly screaming for another way.

The sharp horizon severs the world in two,
Cascading waterfalls bend rainbow wishes,
Contaminating them with mists of despair.
Across twilight moons,
Shadows steal stars from the sky,
Locking them in vacuum pockets.

Without the light to guide them into the destination unknown,
Mothers drown their babies as they tread thick water,
Holding their breath to capture the voice of tomorrow,
Secretly screaming for another day.

Brothers cling to each other’s life,
Swimming in separate waters,
They stray to find their own path,
Freedom from the chains of imbedded fate,
Escaping the judgement of society’s imprint.

In a desert oasis,
Far from the voice of yesterday,
Two twin souls embrace,
Freedom in their own desert garden,
Clarity in every new movement,
Future days,
Another way.

Climbing Inside Perfection

Falling whispers float like butterflies across cherished skin,
Curtains raise and fall in smooth, fluid motion.
In that moment I know you're still breathing my name,
Across oceans draped in stars,
Sky pours crescent sunsets into the Earth's horizon.

A shudder misplaced as the breeze,
Unknown spider fingerprints delicately sweeping across my naked skin,
Through the candlelit window a ghost nurses me to sleep,
A parallel distortion of one who feels dead inside.

A victim timid and shy,
Unaware of the sharpness of his fangs.
Laying naked upon the bed sheets,
Giving his body to the ghosts and the stars,
Turning butterfly wings into black rose petals,
Climbing inside perfection.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I hate trying to come up with tags.

The Facade/Iron Wall

Confident, loud
Bright, proud.
Until the lights go out.
Small, sad
Hurting, mad.
She curls into herself.

Fun seeking,
Loving life.
She struts throughout the land.
Wanting love,
Scared of it.
She cries when none are there.

Loved by all
Loving all
She manages to fool herself and all.
But get too close
She lashes out
To protect her Iron Wall.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

All comments are greatly appreciated negative or positive. I love to know what people think of my work.

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In the eye of the creator

The year is 2065, her name is Jen-1; status, obsolete. Selection, dismantling. Her self-directive; To escape termination, to transport her own dying body back to the creator before depletion. Transport of choice, one of the last gasoline engines in existence; saved from extinction, hidden from the corporate/government holocaust of the old world; a 1993 Corvette ZR1. What will become of her? What will be the fate of the one who chooses the freedom of existence?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Jen-1 is the title of a poem I've written, but has nothing to do with this story. I may, at some point change the name of the character. For now it will do.

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