Disappointments for sale (inclusive of despair)

8th circle of hell

I am a waste of life
life is wasted on me
they called me friend
yet I would see them bend
break their rules and heads
for someone who wets the bed
in the midst of chaos I lose their grip
this hand from left excuses me a slip
oh sweet pain! you return at last

I like to bleed
the sear of a wound
dripping crimson ink
lightens the burden
absolves my guilt
or so I feel it drain
my sins silently, along with memories
under showers where no one will see
I lie still, remembering why
it makes perfect sense in the moment
the incision will be subtle, but deep
enough to hurt and spill from

I will disguise my face
so no one can know
the obvious truth that lurks
beneath this skin of glee
I should have been accustomed
to losing what I love and care about
even if they mean nothing, I’d still want them around
It’s harder than it looks to let go
wound around my fingers, the strings, cutting into them
and I pull, I still pull, till the bleeding is a norm
but eventually they’ll take my fingers along
and I will fall, not from pride, or high
but gall, against myself
into pity and apathy
sneakily creeping through the silences
I’ll look for resolve in darker things
and wither in the light of regret
until the next string breaks
and the cycle begins again.

Sonata

Hopelessly dependent on your heads and hands
were the pieces of me strewn on your platters
spinning wildly, correcting, dissecting my faces
praying for movement of the allegro, sans.

*{An insidious little fox with her naughty tail
came to wrap around my being and close
never you mind what transpired next,
a shattering soul was no longer frail.}*

But back and forth the fugue swings
never fulfilling the adagio’s haste
the remnants of me are long since lost
scrambling for nothing, my madness sings.

Now I am left with no memory or past
now there’s naught to look forward to
now I can die a regretful death
now the scherzo, can take flight, at last.

No tears shall fill this olive grove
the sorrows of a few grace its arches
the final movement is now at hand
slump, lively, into the irony of the allegro.

Seriously

alcohol tears away at the soul
we’re bound to its discrepancies
but alas! we are materialistic creatures
if not, then we are simply animals.

Matters of Importance

Like a pin cushion I wait for the next edge to serrate,
it’s been months since I’ve felt such hate
The metal will not yield
It refuses to bend and spill; lashing obscenely, obstinately adamant
The screws which drive this hastened race have failed to open
And the cold is ever vigilant, lurking in the sinuses of apathy

Forlorn attempts to reconciliate have piled consistently
And further ones will also fail inevitably
The need for a past is much greater than the search for a future
Knowing what has been matters more than what will come
For dying knowing what could have been is easier,
than to die not knowing what was

When Titans Fall

When titans fall, they become legends in the hearts and minds of men.
There are stories told of their greatness, tales of their shortcomings erased.
Edified as icons and fed like fodder to the masses of the nexus.
They’re transformed into gods once their mortality overruns them,
and the people bicker and boast until sour and roast.
So damn on you all, if ever should come the day
your putrid black tongues would choose to sway.
These titans, to me, are greater than gods
the music they’ve bled is what puts us at odds.

(R.I.P. Jeff Hanneman you will be missed)