When a star goes nova, it ceases to be the concept of a star, its existence continuing as constituent particles, now individualized to purpose.
When a person dies, they cease to be the concept of a human.

I am disappointed in the very nature of existence.

misremebered K

your mouth has lived far too long within me.
my lip stained blood quickens when I think,
boils when I remember, and cools when I'm longing.
Your eyes still reach for me, if only in my head. I saw such wonder, but so quickly they turned to a prison, containing me in your verdigrised irises.
I made no conscious choice; the heart has its own volatile volition. and the heart caused suffering.

And we died together, by inches, our legs untangling, our fingers falling loose, our eyes drifting until we said goodbye, and even one last kiss had no resuscitative power.
But I remember how your lips stained my blood, even though that old blood has long been washed away.

notes

(when things become as they are, it's like seeing through an oily lens. every process slows. my thoughts creep; i can almost feel the neurons struggling down their pathways, as if the dendrites have gone limp and the core struggles by will alone (but the neurons ARE the will, so there's nothing but pure chemistry to convey them along, anyway, so it's a futile and fruitless game trying to anthropomorphousize my brain cells))

(I need to swim out from under this weight(in all dimensions)) else I'll be trapped again and fall deeper. Again. I cannot allow that.)

Despair is as fleeting as joy,
the trick is to remember that it can only sting for so long
and to forget that it only feels good for so long.

failure is a tool

staccato bursts of unanswered questions swirling through my cavernous and hollow head, each fly looking for some sugar to consume, to feed and grow upon, but the flies lie still and starve; there's no sustenance in the cerebral death valley. It takes more than supply drops, the entire ecosystem needs revamping.
These once fertile fields have been laid to waste by the decay of unused ability. The ground has lay fallow for too long, you can sow no seeds, but there is nowhere to go, and sitting and starving is growing so old.
But this emotional and psychological decay, this mind death serves more than just as a venue of sorrow, it feeds the humus, and the fields, if tended correctly, will become fertile again.

the echoes ringing through the hollow man are attenuated by the viscosity of his flailing and failing emotions,
a bitter brew, seething and simmering, a demi-glace of despair and desperation,
but even this ichor, when held to the sun, refracts the light,
and even from the bottom of the pan,
hope is visible,
even if that star is but a bitter memory.

the old days were the gold days

i'm no seer, no scryer, peering into murk, fishing for the future, prying into the dark with heavily gloved fingers, straining for impossibly transferable detail, but i am an invader, a sapper, tunneling beneath you, desperate to penetrate, willfully encroaching upon your sacred grounds, skulking about, after your treasure, knowing full well that all of your jewels are but reflections, waiting to be disturbed so as to ripple away.
My lack of foresight tells me that every thing turns out with the idiot grin and the blank, doe stare and the vacuous laugh and the hollow ringing of your heart, and my lack of foresight shows me that I can get deep inside and stay awhile, becoming a prisoner to your platitudes, becoming dependant on your spoiled milk because I will eventually lose the taste for clean and healthy living.
In the end it will all have been worth it; it's another lesson learned, another chapter scrawled in my bloody ink into my dark codex, forever locked away and forever remembered.

until the next time.

madness seeps into the concrete sidewalk,
pathways saturated with tears and fears that make the surface
slick and unmanageable.
Somehow, we'll make it through,
but every eye and every mote goes unnoticed until tread upon
so cruelly.
I pray that today you wear your comfy slippers,
as I'm on the verge and the cracks are showing,
and my humors are weeping and seeping away,
word by word and drop by drop

my skin, my skin, is sinking in
and revealing the flesh and exposing the sin
that doesn't exist, not without but within
this sacred temple, behind this wicked grin,
not of joy, but the rictus of my chagrin,
i'm losing ground and starting to drown
but I am satisfied with the fact that there's no thorns and no crown.

this is exposed like a peel not a wound, to be consumed rather than abused.