I was spawned without logic,
Without reason,
A vacuum behind the eyes,
Only a glitzy nebula in the gap,
My mind must be locked up elsewhere,
Incarcerated in absentia,
Reason has formed a bogeyman,
Trying to drag me away,
To mundanity,
But I won’t go,
I’m fleeing sanity,
Cloaked in oddity,
I live as a madman,
Bereft of marbles,
Skipping gleefully along the path,
Sidestepping what you call common sense,
Seeing carousels and masquerades everywhere,
Persisting on this demented track.
While walking these stone alleyways,
Those blank faces drifting by,
They’re all fighting demons you can’t see,
Beasts the likes of which you’d never imagine,
Shadow critters,
Ghouls and wraiths,
Dragging them down like gravity,
Clawed appendages slumped over shoulders,
A spiteful piggyback,
Suffering may lead some to appear surly,
Cruel even,
The world eats away at us all,
You too have your demons,
So don’t judge,
Together we’re winning the war.
We glide through heaven daily,
Battered like a hot air balloon,
Swirled through lifes winds,
Thrown to and fro,
As the worlds zephyrs are thrown against us,
Heartbreaks and triumphs evolutions,
Air pressure in all directions agitated,
The beat of life is an ebb and flow,
No clear route is existent,
An ascent after a swoop,
And back again,
There’ll always be another climb,
So keep flying.
I find,
When attempting to pilot this stardust skeleton,
For this game of life,
I keep falling at the first hurdle,
Tripping over my tongue,
Barely getting going,
I’m not equipped for this race,
Scruffy sneakers and squalid prospects,
Social mores handicap,
Always a step behind,
And as I approach that first obstacle,
I foresee another tumble into obscurity,
I’m not competition,
Because I can’t compete,
Barely rising to any challenge,
Sprinting half-heartedly,
And falling flat on my face,
Every time.
We’ve all been stabbed in the back,
Either by our own mind or by another,
Either by past or personage,
The heat is the same,
It changes you,
Mutates you,
It turns your blood to acid,
In turn calcifying you to the outside,
It will influence you before you know it,
As if a dark spirit was bestowed on you,
Inevitably it leads you to pay it forward,
Malice is an universal human trait after all,
My friends,
I sympathize of course,
Betrayal is a hell of a narcotic,
And spite is the chaser.
Today I realised,
The lane of memory is laden with broken glass,
Sown amongst rose petals and photo snaps,
I see it from astride my metal steed,
Daydreaming down the highway,
Traversing it can breed torment and pierced feet,
Slicing at your pupils and spirit,
Bittersweet images play out every few yards,
The past visualised like stained-glass,
Faces and places like prismatic daggers,
Some memories bite less of course,
Not all glass is jagged,
Some merely graze,
That memory lane can indeed be tender,
But is forgetting preferable?
The end growled,
So I put on some body armour,
A flimsy stab vest,
To protect me from the bite of her exit,
And indeed did a knife come,
Sharp as a sour tongue,
And heated red in a lovers forge,
An anvil rendered mute thereafter,
There was no malice in the blades drive,
Nor the hand behind it,
Just a soul scorned,
My vest prevented a terminal break,
But the strike bruised all the same,
Freezing a heart in its cell,
Forever more.
You know,
Inside your head during any dilemma,
A contest is played out,
A game of chess with one player,
Yet two distinct perspectives,
And only a single piece wearing your face,
A mirror lies at each end,
Straight-laced and logical on one side,
Flamboyant and passionate the other,
A reptile versus a clown,
Taking turns at your heartstrings,
Your next action on the line,
Whomever wins,
You may lose.
They ask me why I sleep so much,
Do they not know?
Have they not seen the world?
The throes of its descent?
The night is an escape,
Sleep is a shroud,
An aegis of unconsciousness,
It protects the spirit in its nocturnal embrace,
As I snore,
The horrors of the world don’t exist,
The gripes of phantoms are inaudible,
And the stink of blight does not stir me,
Am I slothful?
Perhaps,
Yet I don’t sleep for fatigue,
It’s not so plain as that,
I sleep to not be awake.
At times my mind becomes a cranial soup,
A colourless slop of muddled ideas,
Far from palatable,
And even further from the acumen I strive for,
An anarchic hodge-podge,
I’ve lost my centre,
I’m disoriented,
I’m perplexed,
Grossed out by the muck my brain offers up,
I hear it sloshing about between my ears,
When confusion takes over,
I try to separate fiction from logic,
Taking sips begrudgingly,
Hoping to digest an ounce of sense,
But the odds are undeniably stacked.
WorldofHarley 