The king left on a grand crusade, A campaign ‘gainst that dragon or this demon, I’m his regent, His steward, I was to warm this volcanic throne, Until his triumphant return,
Yet the kingdom rots without him, As if its lifeblood has been drained, The peasants grow skeletal and despondent, The very earthen foundations of our nation crumble, Our royal academia lectures only madness now, Our lone remaining knight now rides a pale horse,
Look yonder to the fields under my reign, And see that they are barren, As if a royal magic is dispelled, This charge seems a curse, He bade me this unwanted duty, The crown mocks me from its waiting pedestal.
I grow weary of winter, Sadness is too identic to the blizzards, The misery feels like any January day, The snow doesn’t resonate my grief amply, The icicle xylophones no longer echo sufficiently, And snowmen make poor clowns, The cold only brings souls closer, So internal hibernation becomes a vital chore,
Give me warmer climes, I’d rather grieve in spring, Pitting sorrow against new life, I want tulips to brush my tears away, For lambs to harken to my dirge, To fade into fields of fresh green for hours, Woe in winter feels like par for the course, A world newly alive is a far better stage,
You wield that word like a sabre, As if to preclude my words and humanity, To write me out, And yes it is true, I don’t exactly fit any puzzle, Always out of step in conversations, Odd socks and baggy shirts, Socially awkward in the extreme, But what of it? A tiger can’t change his stripes,
This moniker you have bestowed upon me, Freak, Oddity, Weirdo, Loser, It is a badge of honour, I am proud of the war I waged to earn it, I am strange, And I’ll die on that hill, With a weird grin on my face.
How is everything going for you lot this week then? Very well I hope! January is marching on it seems, I’m rather surprised how quickly it seems to be going. I’ve been rather happy with the work I’ve scribbled this week, including the pictures. Anybody who has followed me for any measure of time could tell you that is rare. I never really bother with new years resolutions or anything, but one thing I told myself I would do is sort my desk here in the asylum out. It’s now probably the nerdiest thing in my room aside from myself. I’m rather content with it though.
So, you didn’t come here to listen to me narcissistically talk about myself and my desk. You came here for music right? Did anybody see todays theme clue? I did post it a tad late I’ll confess. I bet you didn’t guess it.
Without further adieu, the musical theme for this here Harlequins writing music post is chillstep! What is chillstep you ask? I’m very glad you’d like to know. Chillstep is something of a derivative sub-genre of dubstep music. You’d probably not be able to tell that they’re related though, they sound rather different in practice. Aside from both being electronically created of course. As you may be able to tell by the name, this genre is slower and softer (120-140 beats per minute) and tends to have an almost ethereal quality that lends itself well to relaxation and chilling. Why did I choose chillstep this week? Well, quite simply I’ve primarily listened to it while I write recently. At least the last month or so. It really has helped me creatively and I wanted to share it with all of you. It’s not all about screaming and heavy riffs you know!
So, why not join me as we delve into the musical minds of collected artists the world over?
And there we have it! Feeling a little bit loosened up? Feeling a sense of peace? Well, that’s chillstep for you! All of these artists seem to be a little more on the obscure side (maybe an exaggeration) so I’d very much like you all to go and show them some love. They definitely deserve the attention, they’ve really helped me recently.
So, speaking of helping me, would you like to see my social media links? The asylum has a page over on Facebook, an account on Instagram and a page over on Twitter as well. It would mean a lot if you’d consider following me over on those sites. Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please also consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page. Thanks for everything!
When love is broken, It’s like being thrown overboard, Dragged right under the waves, Diving into the aquatic depths of melancholy, Breathless and sobbing in whalesong,
The blue holds you in the dark, You languish there in sorrow cultivating a shell of coral, Pressure like punishment for your heart broken, Even the most advocating voices prove drowned out, Supportive sonar failing to pierce the muck,
This drowning can last years, Staying alone in the safe womb of suffocation, But humans are social creatures, Eventually a light may shine from the surface, Like a gulf stream in human form,
A new infatuation from above like a fish hook, So you swim towards it, But do not be overhasty, They say that ascending too fast is hazardous, You could get the bends,
Jumping from that ocean to the dating pool, You could be beset by paralysis and constriction, Twisted like a soaked cloth, And just like the great blue, Acting in rashness could crush you.
Within each of us is a forest, Wintry and ensconced in deep fog, It is replete with demons, Past events given terrible form, Haunting each day we open our eyes, Every emotional wound, Every failure, Every neurotic belief, Every chance you didn’t grip,
But a piece of our soul fights back, A demon hunter, Our internal dialogue of positivity, Leather-clad and under wide-brimmed hat, A spitting image of your self belief, Fighting blade and hammer, Stalking each incubus with stake in hand, Sparring with every horror that brings you down, Decapitating every insecurity and exposing their fatuity,
This slayer of monsters, Their war will never cease, To once again bring about your dawn, And sustain your smile, If only you’d believe in their cause.
I attempt to scribble each day, Ever since I met Shakespeare I wanted to write, Since I broke bread with Lovecraft, Was lectured by Nietzsche, Sipped fresh tea across from Austen, I longed to put my soul to paper, Their work is a literary blueprint, One that I follow poorly, My pen is a crayon in comparison, Macaroni art to their opuses, Put on the fridge by an indifferent clientele, Stood beside those greats, Those mavens, I am a wannabe, Playing at authorship, Faking it and not making it, A nobody.
It’s time for a scary movie, So turn the lights down low, Let the atmosphere surge in weight, Hear the faint whispers from the VCR, Insert that old cassette, The cultural id of an era gone by,
Through this box television portal, The static has such horrors to show you, Of masked faces and demented dolls, Corny gore and monsters in your dreams, Hooked chains and torn skin, The ornery song of a chainsaw,
Even pixelated the terror feels real, Your pulse quickens, Transfixed as you peek between sweaty hands, You can almost feel the wine on your face, Don’t succumb to the fear child, It’s only a movie after all.
I was a foul caterpillar of ineptitude, The time came to become better, So I coat myself in stone and feathers, Material for the renaissance, But something is amiss, This is not the cocoon I was promised, But a sarcophagus, A cell for my bodily stagnation, An incarceration for each magpie I didn’t count,
Now more sludge than butterfly, I am instead stifled by this cage, Why does metamorphosis elude me? I just wanted to finally be better, Nothing more than to emerge, To evolve, To be superior to the me of yesterday, Yet it feels as if it isn’t to be, Like a moth plucked of its wings,
That time at the lake, As the mist looked on expectedly, When I cried sad crystals, And they flew skyward, Joining hands with constellations, It was then that I knew, As my eyes still spilled celestial ink, That the night sky was built on hurt lovers, Cosmic beauty derived from pain, The night was an anthology of romantic tragedies, A sky of stories, A landscape painting of bloodily cut diamonds, Bled on to the firmament by the brush of our tears.
WorldofHarley 