In The Face Of The Wasteland

In the face of the wasteland,
The uncertainty to come,

Left alone in emptiness,
This wasteland I find myself in.

Wasting away in the searing sun.
Pushing on.

Defying my Gods in the wasteland.
Clearing my past.

My memories return.
Painful reminders of my many mistakes…
They pierce my soul.

Remind me of the failures,
Reminds me of existence.
In the wasteland of being.

Barren, dry and dead.

Moving on and searching for the oasis ahead.

Making my path forward.

Trying to kill the memories.
All my memories.

To wipe my mind to a blank state.

To stand. Within my empty mind. To face a barren wasteland.
Rather than the piercing wind of memory.

Quiet

All quiet. Nobody in sight.

All is busy, yet away from me.

Sitting here. Trying to build reason.

To reassure that I’m not alone,
Not the only person in existence.

It is so quiet though.

Reaching out, wanting a human presence.

To show I’m not the only person in existence.

Looking out at the window.

Wanting a change, yet the past proves me otherwise.

Alone. All quiet.
Reality, existence, barely there.
Hard to know if existence is real.

If I am looking into the cold wind,
The dark horizon.
The quiet eternal storm.

Old Wounds

Old wounds,
The scars continue,
The phantom pain,

The wounds unhealing, discoloured and broken inside.
The wounds holding back healing.
The storm in the wound,

A reminder of the pain, the hurt.
The lost part of you.
Broken inside.

Unable to heal, even as you try.

The ongoing reminder,
Of  an old wound gone past,
The remnants remain.

The chains to the memory.
Association of pain, even after it faded.

Hating the chains to the wound.
The crime committed against me.

The wounds on me,
The wounds inside,
The wounds of me.

Those that run so deep,
Internalised into my being;

A toxin,
Poisoning me from the inside,
The heavy blood through my veins

Heavy thoughts, breathing and heart.
Running, within my mind.
Spinning around my thoughts.
Wanting a fix, wanting to repair,
The broken mind.

To escape the reminders,
The immobility,
The paralysis of my broken wound.

Taking tentative steps,
Reluctant,
Collapsing at the weight of my mind.

The wounds that drag me down,
Chain me to the floor,

The abyss of my tartarus.

 

These old wounds.
Tearing at the chains that hold me, confine me.

Roaring in rage.
Into the dying light.
Through the pain, memories and chains.

My voice heard,
An echo in darkness.
Broken, beaten and belligerent.

Battering the prison,
Ripping free of my wounds.

Laughing as I wrestle freedom…

Wrestle myself…

Wrestle my world…

From these old wounds.

 

 

Just been thinking about old wounds, how to feel, how I may fall again. How to avoid it. But worst of all. How old wounds make me reluctant for anything that may produce new wounds. Fills me with rage and confusion. Will go on. Continue to distract myself, until I can find an answer, work out a solution. This is the song I was listening to on repeat when writing this.

Numbing The Pain

Numbing the pain,

Feeling empty,

Dark and cold, all around, to the touch.

Mindless monster, dead being.

Trudging on, unfeeling, numb.

A wreck of the past.

A wound on the world.

A chasm of despair.

The state of being, pain at losing life’s treasures held close.

Ripped from the arms,

Followed by the dark storm, the empty silence and coldness.

Piercing and digging like razors, sharp tendrils into by abdomen. Into my heart and core.

But…

But.

I feel nothing, numbness to pain that comes from its constancy.

Numbing my pain.

Bringing it in. Bringing it close.

Fully reckoning it.

Feeling it.

Until that is all I am.

A numbed pain. Constant. A broken thing. A wound of existence. A storm of calm rage. Outside Alice, while dead inside.

Black Pearl Of Night

The darkness smooth of night,

Patterns in the dark sky,

The silent night.

The emptiness and the dark.

The smoothness formed from irritation.

The blackness imparted on the rest of the world.

A different form from the day,

Small lights peppered across the landscape.

A dark silence echoed,

A world untouched by light.

The dark rolling hills,

The echoes of human steps taken in the human day.

Echoes of people unknown,

Activities of humans once passed.

Left empty and barren,

The dark wastelands.

The ice cold wind.

The scars left from day,

A counterpoint from the silent empty night.

The lonesome night.

The silent dark night..

The echoes left from day.

To the black pearl of night.

The silence.

The emptiness of space,

The solo existence in this emptiness of night.

Alone in the dark,

The only person in existence.

The solitude of my thoughts.

Left to the darkness,

This black pearl of night.

Empty, alone, silent, and solo.

The dark shadow cast upon,

The rest of the world, dark and empty,

Eternal. Empty. A mere echo.

A black pearl,

In its dark beauty.

Its dark radiant shine.

The dark storm encircling inside.

Black and dark like the inside of my mind,

Silent and in solitude, like the confines of my mind.

A barren blackness, a counterpart to life.

This black pearl I’ve found.

The silence I live.

Mine to hold,

Before the black sky.

This black pearl I’ve found.

Left forgotten.

This black pearl I’ve found.

The black pearl of my life.

Broken Echoes

Broken echoes,

Of my past,

The mistakes made and continued.

Trusting those who leave me down.

Those I once thought to trust,

Who continue to forget me,

As people do.

Left, as a broken echo to the world.

Drowning out reality.

Drowning out the song of life, as a broken echo.

A ghost of the now,

Cut off off from the world.

Cut out of existence.

Left with this reminder. The broken echo that follows.

The empty words given,

And retracted from me with a sharp pain.

The deceiving smile, of a friend held dear.

Left with this broken echo.

A dear reminder,

Of the pain following trust,

The hurt following friendship.

The lies given without care,

Left in this broken echo.

The repeating sound,

Through the repeated lies.

The broken echo as my reminder.

The times enthusiastically waiting for,

Not given a simple truth. To solidify the pain,

Yet left with the repeating echo.

To grasp me,

Encapsulate me.

Bring me peace.

Not wanting to bring pain or inconvenience.

But being left waiting.

In this broken echo.

My fault for trusting in a friend,

Caring, yet wondering.

Through this broken echo.

Me, a broken echo.

A path once taken,

Me. The ongoing problem.

Me. The broken echo.

Better left forgotten.

Salvation

Salvation,

Through the pain and darkness,

Pulling off the shroud of darkness,

The dark influence fading away.

Filled with rage and determination. You banish the demon.

Away from you, exiled into darkness.

Running along the path,

Strength flowing through you,

Through this salvation.

The rush, the feeling.

Stretching your arms and grabbing the world.

Stretching your arms and taking control.

Making your mind your own,

Throwing off the dark figure, the doubt.

Running into the light.

Towards salvation.

Walking Alone

Walking alone,

The lonely path outstretched.

The path a sunny day fails to make warm,

A day living reality,

Watching with wonder the sights,

But without someone to share,

It feels boring, feels forced.

Watching and waiting here,

For time to pass.

Enjoying time, reality, but feeling an emptiness,

Solitude, without friend or family to share,

The memories absorbed into my mind,

Kept,

But otherwise, useless.

Life In The Greyscale

Life in the greyscale,

Passing by the sights,

Unable to feel the warmth, smell the scents, see the sights.

Living in the greyscale,
Devoid of colour,
All in grey.

I’ve realised life,
For what it is,
A lie or greyscale.

What many have tried to show me,
To get me to see the meaning,
To be content.

They misunderstand me,
Not to be content with a lie,
Even a beneficial one,
Now I’m left in the greyscale.

Thrown to the sharks of life,
By my friends,
Left to starve,
Left in torture,
Left without meaning, feeling, or acceptance.

By those who I’d give everything to.

Left in disappointment.

Looking for an answer,
But always confronted by the greyscale.

Left in the rain,
Unfeeling,
Watching,
Seeing, but unfeeling.

As I walk through the greyscale.

The life that unfurls before me.

All grey, watched as it passes, but unfelt.

Intriguing but incomprehensible.

Empty and grey.

Thrown away from possible lies,
Acknowledging the greyscale,
Others wanted me to acknowledge:

Life rather than kindness,
Reality rather than care
Limitations rather than desires.

They threw me under,
Thrust the knife so deep.
Left me with nothing.

Less than nothing.

Left with nothingness in face of everything.

The fault of those who threw me to the greyscale.

Who ridiculed me. Who belittled me.

Trying to hold on. Determined to launch out, to break forth.

But for now,
I live,
In this life of greyscale.

Petrified Sights

Those petrified sights,
Within my mind’s eye,

An image, causing great pain and hate.
Reminding, projecting, thinking and pondering.
Giving me such emotion,

Rage, anger, sadness, disappointment and uselessness.
All coming from fictiousness,

Swirling and controlling my mind.
Ripping through my skin,
Grasping my heart in fist.
Wrenched from its place.

The inevitable outcome of these petrified sights.

Shock, wreck and hate.
Gained from pure fictitious nightmares,
Torture of the mind’s eye:
Of what could, what would, what might.

Coming to your bedside, your mind’s side,
Whispering
Illiciting a response,
Hatred, despair, sorrow.

The sights that populate my mind.

Leaving me petrified.