SilentPsychotic

Creaking glass contends with youth, breaching; cleaving chime in two. Days come and break upon the wall, on which the record accounts for all. But reaching tear, and weeks in fear, and creeping stone, with weeks in time, she knows she's written once before, and broke from dreaming ill inclined. But red night spills from her vessel, and lingers on the midnight crawl, it taught her to be cautious; willing, but in the end, to damn it all. Racket broken, left alone, cleaves my measure, leaves the tone, breaks upon unbending stone, and leads my sense of self away. Touching ground, faces numb, tasking me with acts undone, the lord

Redfaced and tired, we squabble and clamour about the Earth like crabs, every part a piece of a whole too vast and too open to ever know sensation. Prickled and pearly steel are the blades of industry. They rotate, and whirl, and cut down all things unfortunate enough to cross their path. From distant prairie a battlecall whistling for all the terra to hear her to fear her. People of principle, daughter of mine, ride white terror from the west. As winding one, the blinding sun will act as their challenge best. May blades and battles sing you, daughter of mine, to sleep, to dream of ripping seams. May it's voice rile and whi

Revulsion at the act employed contention skewed, and age recoils, from Tempress used, and collars void I speak my questions loud Knuckles bruised, and brush in turn, I leave behind that selfish cur, and further, darker, I incur, the wrath of one with rage allowed. That gropes and grasps and places fear, the lost, begot, and tried by tears, at times, I try, the best is clear, but nothing holds the conscience dear. I want to see you in the white sun heating, all of the hurt hearts beating, with words they never knew before. So when the queen's done leading, and when I've stopped breathing, I contend, I should have known much m

Breaking; forcing; anger; taking. Compulsion to break whatever it is between them. Force compelling one to force relations. Anger at having been ignored. Taking the path of least resistance. Hunger pushes her forward; revulsion at her heels. Music convulses and twitches at her actions. Nothing is safe; sacred; benign. Anguish pulls her from eternity denied. Beginning; forgetting, addition forgotten. Eternity forgets of blood begotten. Token squalor; urgency remembered. The itch to scratch, and urge contemporary. I want to fill the place unbidden, with pieces still, and peace forbidden. Content she is, permission given, embrace

There begins in each and every person a point where enough is too much, and life continues on. We spend our days imbibing the results; the fruits of our labor, and we fill our emptiness with insignificant pieces that we attach meaning to. Mouthpiece catches on the microphone you've used to build cities while you tear down nations, and I've been burned into the wood for far too long; it's fine, I'll leave now. Please don't ask me why Blocks are built up to surround your cities; I grow weary of their bolted gates. I will not allow this slight to remain unredeemed; forgotten; A Temptress of the Future. We are the only ones left now,

Days go by while time sits still. It ponders the sounds that emanate from her chest in the dark, it's cubicle sterling and immaculate. But where would one start? When does one communicate to their sentimentality that part of themselves that desires change? We all feel a little cold, and just the slightest bit empty. She's there, making quiet sounds in the dark, and she's ready but unsure. Stranger than fiction this just might be, but there isn't much that confuses her now. She'll run along rooftops, and make conversation with strangers, and gently probe the depths of her will, and she'll tear her limits to shreds. She's going to make t

I can feel it. This is what they all wrote about. Every poet, every river compelled to the same place it had always chased. They run to their objective, with vigour unthought of. (And so must I.) There was a time when I believed them all mad. A time when their words meant little more to me than those of a fairy tale. A children's story has no more meaning to it than what it simply is; a story. Such stories throughout these ages have held little to no truth to them, but this... this is one that can be understood universally. A song sung by all through lips sewn tightly shut with invisible threads, thin as silk. (But with strength like wir

Envelopes are left unopened on my doorstep, left demanding. Stairways creak as I crawl and tear it all to pieces where once left standing. Homewards, we are unanswered, so let's just all pretend. We still possess the simple stress that leads to an early end. Nothing remains here, resurrected or born again. Shells still seek their empty beach but are in gentle fields left lain. A doctor called my house today, he said he had something to say, begged my mother not to call him back. Observed, he tries to start his tale, of bitter lies and bitter ale, and says to her something is 'bout to crack. He says to mother that he's gone again,

It's absolutely everything I am and all I'll ever be. What exists, she knows not wisdom, but suffice to say it's part of me. Imaginative yet perverse it seems, perseveres like opened seams that bend and break and string out tight, and forget what we had said that night. Forget the days we spent alight, and take me out to live tonight. We burned in backwater brush, we always knew fire's gentle touch. Blistered now and breathing hard, the World becomes prepared to start. Old friends die and live and breathe, in tattoos laughed at on our sleeves. But where is there to be a line drawn, in seldom static sand, I'd rather see castle