Into This Box

You are yesterday

A self, exhumed

Shackled by wild doubts

Inside the tomb

Into this box, I place my statue,

Just meters tall, survives the Fall

Cracks climbing your sides, you won’t live for long.

So I set you down, close this chest

Put my cold to rest

This describes me almost exactly.

Autumn Deluge

Autumn Deluge, how could I Fall for you
never in my wildest doubts did i think
something so grey could become so blue

flooding out the summer tunes, i only hear the haze of you
sinking in the sea of leaves, a bright red blue coursing through
filling up my lungs, the sharp grey ash from a summer passed
reminding me of what i had, and what could contain the vast

like a tree without a past, or a dusk that doesn't last
you left too late and you came too fast



i can't say i know what inspired this.

Redding

 Jake Redding

I wake violently; it is the Sunday following a night of lewd fun and binge drinking. An artist needs his vices. Outside, all I can hear is the sound of people stepping on fresh snow. Marching along, they all make the same noise, even with such differently sized feet.

I slip into my own comfortable footwear and freshen up for the day. Mundane moments follow as I decide if today’s a red day or a blue day. I decide on red. I put on a red lumberjack outfit, complete with a disheveled and bearded wild man. I stare myself down with vicious confidence, eat a small breakfast and leave. It’s time to work.

The work day is predictably difficult. I’ve been working with the local lumber company, Dorian Lumber Co., to help prepare for the coming cold season – it doesn’t pay well, but it finds other ways to be rewarding – and besides, my tastes aren’t too expensive. It allows me to practice my small-talk, and keeps me centered on what it means to be social. Miserable though it may be, I live for those moments among other men – not because I care for them, but because these men, with their empty eyes and sleepless nights, remind me of myself. An artist always has a mirror handy. We are the metronome.

After work we head to the bar and trade stories about our recent successes with women, and try to recollect last night’s events. I vaguely recall threatening to burn down an outhouse, which unfortunately never happened. We laugh it over, we work through our shame, we drink some more. We glance at the small TV mounted at the corner of the bar, and we watch in horror.

an example of why i should just write a story instead.

perched atop my desk, you rest
it's late in the evening, and i'm in search of
a sweet thing- you aren't so flawless,
but the day is ending and i've cut all my losses

you're there when i need you, you're vast and
unrelenting- your love is unending.
but you're cruel when you misspeak, you're
the issuance of death and the formality of ends

sweet thing, you're faceless
and last i heard, you're sour to the tasteless
it comes from deep down, in the sine of
your intestines - you brag of good intentions

silence bound to a button, you can be
twisted to a whisper - only a whimper.
you are a voice in the dark, moving bodies
swimming around, you are resonating sound

Words Unspoken, Silent Devotion

/they say home is where is where the heart is/so i keep my heart inside me/





It's one of those odd feelings I have to(night?)day, I can't quite describe. I guess I could call it "forward". I'm moving towards something.
I dream so much more now. Peculiar things, stuff that doesn't make sense. I dream of being in love, which is the most out-of-the-ordinary of all (that's never happening again). She's a shapeless thing in my dreams - I keep coming back to her and she's got a different face each time. But I love her dearly, and passionately, and it's in my best interest to please her. She causes euphoria, nostalgia, and excitement. I don't believe in dream interpretation, really, but I do believe in the power of the human mind. I am definitely in love something, and I think it might be music.

exsanguinating fury

I was a bluebird once,
but you clipped me nightly
(because I gripped too tightly).

my feathers earned, but later burned
I've grown into a monster now,
no longer blue, and older too.

i've grown my teeth, gritting and grinding
so i can bare them, snapping and smiling.

it's summer still, and now i'm freezing.
slighted them, her bones now twisting

among him and many, flayed and furious
skin grows back, and i'm very curious.

this anger is tidal, crashing over you;
but the moon is too, and leaving soon.

The Bend (Revisited)

she is on a shoreline that is too rocky
and she only knows how to keep on walking

i am the air she cannot breath in
and the sea she will not sink in

a blast goes off in my state of mind
like nothing i could ever describe

i am the bend in the spine she uses
to break my will and burn my fuses

go out and love, she tells me softly
go find your one, ever so sweetly

i am the peace she won't agree with
and a conclusion she will not deal with

words of kindness, self-defeating
if it's weightless, it has no meaning.

Swim 95

I remember when the red was drowned
the sharks swam with the snakes
my little blue planet got less lively,
the ponds turned into lakes

I crashed into a weeping wound,
drove right into you
turned around and found my way,
i ran till red was blue

 you never should have spoken darling,
your lying cleared the room
now I can't believe the sea is parting,
the ocean split in two

I twist my neck around
and show them how to swim
If I make it out alive today,
tell them I am sin

 there's no sea of love to drink
no place i would like to sink
no quagmire that is deep enough
to keep me off my feet

there isn't a sunrise close enough
that I would like to reach
no moonlight kind enough
nor one that I could ever meet

you might have sung of days to come
of how much you love him
but you never should have asked me that
when you know that I can't swim

Lienne La Havas | Tease Me

:)

yawnder mourning

Encased in Ice
The boy must rise
He finds himself upon a lake,
where nobody is safe
For the sake of feeling,
He keeps dreaming, sleeping

He finds himself inside the snake,
What a terrible place to have to wait
This isn’t so bad, he tells himself
He can't move, not without some help
He must die before he reveals his wealth

He is naked, broad and broken
He hasn’t woken, eaten or spoken
The room he stands in is still, dark,
Refining the sound of a still heart

Emblazed tonight
The boy must rise
He finds himself upon the moon,
Says goodnight to his darling
Reaches for his gun
and waits for the sun

inspiration:



retrospectively, i can see this might not make much sense, but few dreams do.

Turmoil for the rose

Did she know the difference between the sunset and speaking of it? She's elusive, hard to look at, hard to see - you can find her in any book, hear about her in a number of songs, but have you ever seen her? She's beautiful, but what does that mean? It's only beauty that you were told of, not beauty that you know, or beauty that anyone can be.

She remembers the smell of a rose, and what it meant to enjoy something simple and sweet. But she can't remember how she held it, or the plant she picked it from. She can't remember the richness of the soil, or the radiance of the sun. She can't remember how she got there, or who gave it to her. She only remembers the rose and what it meant.

She wears that band around her arm to remember how the starburst burned and left many scars. She wept on those days that she heard the songs that reminded her of what happened, trying to only remember the positives, the person she was glad to have become. That rose had thorns, she couldn't hold it long.

There was no sureness, only closure. There was torrential crying, drowning out the world with music that only made the world that much more inescapable. There were those words and roads and places she couldn't say or travel or visit, because of the people she remembered, herself and they. There was only turmoil, patience and the eventual numbness that is made when a heart has been struck so many times that it's only something she can sing about, and something she remembers fondly.

She remembers the foggy morning she woke up and realized that there was something in her life that wasn't going to be there anymore, and how she could never grasp and hold that warmth. She remembers taking off the mask and struggling to smile. She remembers how it felt to see someone scream without uttering a sound. She remembers how hard it was to breath under that mask, and how she couldn't smell that rose or wipe her tears. She remembers falling back into bed to wait for this day to end, and she remembers there was someone next to her that day. She remembered the day that fog cleared up and rain came through.

She remembers the day she realized the rose wouldn't remember her.

She remembers trying to paint a portrait of herself, but never quite being satisfied with her eyes. She remembers not liking the frames she saw, and she remembers trying to paint the rose but never quite knowing how to picture herself holding it. She risks her sanity trying to paint that portrait, day after day, to try and crutch her memory. She remembers the fall nearly killing her on the way down, and not having someone to call an ambulance. She remembers when she could walk again, and she remembers that excruciating pain she felt almost every day. She remembers burning the painting for what it did to her, and allowing the embers to consume the house she couldn't call home anymore.
She remembers the air of doubt she had for the so-called qualities she was told about her. She remembers how easy it was to chop off her long, beautiful hair every year, and she remembers how easy it was to rid herself of such petty physicalities. She remembers driving in the rain and being glad she was sheltered from it, and she remembered the song she played all the way to the grave.

vines

dance around in the bramble,
while the heart is raw and ample
cut all of the entangled vines
that all end in something nice
i watched you have a heart attack,
sliced the veins that held you back
it oozes out and fills the room,
i hope you will be leaving soon
this bowl looks like the bleeding moon
these branches crack like thunder now
like power lines that touched the ground
and electrify the man they found

Loss (2007)

I wrote this in 2007. I wasn't even experiencing a heartbreak at the time. That's so odd.

i feel perfectly fine right now, i just stumbled upon this on myspace, of all places

Loss

Is falling fast, trying to catch her
knowing you're mad but guilt consumes you
a dreadful longing, forever a murmur
you know you love her,
but you can't help but hurt her
A years long story running out of ink,
the last few words written with tears
the book slams shut but the heart wide open
you'll close your eyes for everyone but her
and you'll read the book between the lines
the book maybe closed, but the story continues

all entangled vines should end in something meaningful.


i'm really struggling with nothing more than finding a definition for what i am, these days. everything else is falling neatly into place for me. it just seems like all of these things in my life have nothing to do with me as well.

 it's been that way for years.

Smile Translator

The sunrise is not so distant
The words are hard to read, but still remain:

Happiness isn’t born from an instant

Mellow sky drapes over like a blanket,
The sun is gone, yet the warmth remains
Rise again tomorrow, to spell it out
You shown the world no sorrow,
So you should never doubt

Smile, sunset
you haven’t fallen yet

The moon will weep in your wake,
Tears of joy, while you yet stay
The fall translated into birth,
and beauty was born not a second late

Smile, translator
You’ll rise again later

I dream of days that never stay,
and words i'm glad i'll never say
happiness is in the sunrise
there's beauty where the sun dies.

clutch and hold tightly,
the sun never waivers;
he is bold and mighty

blessing is being untied
from her starry mantle
wading through the sea
in the endless scandal

i rest with her,
and rise with you
to end with her,
and find my true

love, come later
i'll perceive the sky
as a facilitator

for my own consideration (repost)

Careful Cuts
She Swallowed Stars
When It Rains, It Pours
Vital Signs
A Rational Fear Of Heights
Knights and Weak Ends
Compounds
Drown Ing
& black & white & grey
The Dead Of Night
Frostbite
Statuesque
Crying Wolf
Disappearing Ax
Discipline

Statuesque

time for you to get some rest,
know a little distance from your death
i know you need to catch your breath
you have to salvage whatever's left

your eyes are like diamonds,
glassed over and light-less
shattered to pieces, you're falling
into the sky, you're statuesque

your skin is pearlescent,
white and lifeless
sinking into the depths,
scattered among the rest

you were watching and waiting,
it's burned into your eyes
this is what it's like
to watch a person die

not a word of restraint,
you're a flint against the tide
blue now, in the ocean
you really should have spoken

now she is statuesque,
bruised and broken

Knights And Weak Ends

Haste brings you closer to bed
Don't fear, don't run
Count yourselves among the dead

Don't feel, don't burn
Stand still, keep will
Don't rear, don't turn
Someone, somewhere
Will Help
Will Come

Don't hurt, don't stop
You'll rot, you rock
No help
Will Come

You crack, you're stunned
The sun has burst
You've felt the worst
Don't breath, don't die

Don't leave with one goodbye

Ironclad, can't move
Can't land, can't choose


You're coming loose,
It's breaking you

[this is more of a sing-able song.]

Vital Signs

It’s not something you could easily divine,
How to hold a knife
Or if you could even see the vital signs,
How to lose your life

How to watch it pass you by
How to bless the walls
Made to confine

Avert your eyes, it’s impolite
To watch a cripple try to shout
To see the tear-less try to cry
To watch it drowning in the tide

Amputations teach you what you were born to live without,
How to cut the line
You can only hold someone as tightly as you’re held,
How to change your mind

I could show you how to decide, I could show you wrong
I could show you how to leave behind, I could show you how to die
I could show you how to hold my hand,
But I can’t show you how to give it back

For my own consideration

Careful Cuts
She Swallowed Stars
When It Rains, It Pours
Vital Signs
A Rational Fear Of Heights
Knights and Weak Ends
Compounds
Drown Ing
& black & white & grey
The Dead Of Night
Frostbite
Statuesque
Crying Wolf

made from broken CDs.

isn't it me?

Anorexia

Seemingly,
nobody ever really stops being anorexic, they just starve their mental health instead.

I am accidentally polite

I am accidentally polite
It's not that I'm not trying to be,
I just never want to fight
I ask because I care,
You would doubt and I would dare
Nice is no reason to be scared

Because you're egyptian cotton,
worth wearing and uncommon,
you tear with just a tug,
which is why I welcome with a hug

I'm open like a wound,
wound up like toy,
I'm barking at the moon
hoping it'll come back soon

I am the meaning behind the manner,
and the screaming behind the silence.

I am the blood dripping out of a hidden plunge,
the smile that veils a missing tongue.
I am the one that waits at your doorstep
so you can walk all over me.