Some random things from the vault:


My fists are soiled with the blood of my subconscious.
----

Scent of stormier seas,
strange incense of Nature's spirit
confessing it's dark thoughts.
-----

Desire clouds truth
and love becomes lies.
This bloodshed is my will;
I murder in chortling contentment.
----

Sometimes I get a lump in my throat
but I don't know why.
I sit in the corner of my sofa,
look around my apartment
Iike a sad curio shop owner,
the room cluttered with things I don't need
or maybe that have been acquired
to appease some subconscious need,
filling some empty space I can't see.
I don't know what it all represents,
if it means anything at all.
The walls seem too close,
trapping me.
But it's not the material things that
have me scared.
It's the reason for acquiring those things and
the chains of limitations they put upon me.
My worry pains the muscles in my forehead.
There isn't enough liquidation
to make life any easier.
The room is swarming with my weakness,
my love of music betraying my ability to live with ease.
I know my vices.
It's a life preserver made of cement;
wouldn't matter how well I could swim.
Do my fears feed it?
It has to be connected somehow.
Denial, my wily nemesis,
how well you work your magic.
It churns the waters so
I can't get enough air.
What keeps me from healing myself?
Fear?
Procrastination?
How do I push that lump from my throat
without the flood of tears?
Perhaps there is no other way.