Tag Archives: self-study

Monsters Under My Eyelids

Good morning. Every day is an opportunity. Gotta keep telling myself that. A child, faced with a monster, closes their eyes. What do they do when they’re still there in the dark behind their eyelids? What do you do when you close your eyes but you can still see those things you find most terrifying? Grab your little toy hammer and grasp it tight. Face them down. First and foremost, you are your own protector. Become a hero to yourself and you will find peace.

Die Helden von Einst

that’s where i want to be

not waiting to see

not fleeing, but flying, steadfastly alighting

my course, ever self righting

all’s well that ends well

building a boat

rise above the ocean swell

never to glean, never to gloat

a good man

realizing how i ran

never again

to find in others, that sacred glen

i find my peace

whence from me, you’ve taken a piece

amidst ancient stones, druidic hymn

not for him, just for him

Going east

searching for the beast

in the forest, hearing birdsong

i know the journey ahead will be long

Enduring quest

runic test

training and straining

the beast’s strength never waning

and with my spear and shield i trudge on

ever further, unto the dawn

drawing strength from heroes past

knowing my line will not be the last

von Helden komme ich

und Held werde ich sein

Busts and Buttresses

Good morning. Nothing, you see, has quite the same longevity as stone. It is ancient when you’re born, it is ancient when you die, and it will be ancient when your great great grandchildren die. When nothing else survives, so the stone goes and lives on. Always there, perhaps changing ever so slightly, but always there. You may not last forever, but your sculptures will. Make your busts and buttresses. They’ll outlive you.

Saga of the Stone

So too, do all things, turn from ash and bone

to dust and stone

It matters not if you atone

For all is ash as dice are thrown

Turning leaves with the rake

Doing all this for your sake

It matters not if you will break

For all is bone as beasts awake

As bricks and timber start to quake

There’s no time and nothing to take

Flee, my child, there’s no need to shake

For all is ash beside the lake

Answer, answer please, the telephone

I only wish you could have known

There is no need for terror sown

For all is stone,

And you are alone

Black Bangs

Good evening, friends. Busy day today, preferable for me. Posting from my phone on that account. Truly a blast. I have for you today a poem that I spent the last 30 minutes writing. I think you’ll enjoy this. Without further ado:

The Last Musketeer

How am I supposed to function

This pain in my chest

Beating heart, myocardial infarction

From which I have no rest

Rippling, rifting, sifting sanity

Robbing, sobbing

In the mirror, the vanity

For apples, we’re bobbing

Tubers and shoots

Zipping through my chutes

Down through my legs

And out through my boots

All my fingers

And all my toes

Slender digits, saintly timbre

Singing souls, lovely ghosts

All is cinder

Burning timber

Start from tinder

Detach the limber

12-Ilber horse artillery

Sound the cannon

Turn that pillory

Into a canyon

“All for one, and one for all,” said the first, said d’Artagnan.

Ready, Set, Lose

In the words of a man who may or may not exist, “If you ain’t first, you’re last.” How can you feel what it’s like to win if you’re not the best? What’s it feel like to be at the top? The bottom? With no way we can all be first, let’s talk about what it’s like to lose. How’s it feel to never be good enough? To never be the first pick? Even the last pick gets recognition. But what does it feel like to get picked third to last? ———PS: Follow and share links are at the very bottom of every post, near the comments, as well as ways to donate at the bottom of the about me section if anyone would like to support my writing further. Thanks everybody for the resounding support I’ve had so far!

Stasis

your strength fades

no light behind the eyes

all that’s left are shades

all that’s left are lies

growing and multiplying

now metastasizing

weaker and weaker you wane

as your disease waxes

christ alive

lost your drive

hope is gone

missing the sun

muscles atrophied

bones of glass

pallid face

and glossy eyes

still breathing

light already leaving

you lost the fight

how pathetic a sight

Drifting Down The Styx

Good morning! To do good, to do evil, which do you strive for? Which do you avoid? Imagine for a moment, a world in which you choose to do neither. You live your life wishing you had made another choice and in the end you wish you still had choices to make. Imagine living your life so as to have been sent to the Fields of Asphodel.

The Fields of Asphodel

cloaked and faceless figures drift around you

aimlessly

formlessly, shapelessly

drinking from the river lethe

you are no one, not anymore

glancing down,

glossing over grey grasses

flattened under foot,

softly swirling dust devils

tickling with soot

you do not hunger

you do not thirst

you shuffle, without suffering

no atonement

no respite

your mind a haze

you’re caught in a daze

almost, in the distance

you can see… something

too hard to focus

you’ve lost your locus

crossing beneath vaguely outlined equidistant aqueducts

already forgot, always forgetting

you did not good

you did not evil

and now the consequence

you’ve arrived at the boundary

of the fields of asphodel