The Pen and The Wind

Can I speak with stitched lips?
Needle of past pain, thread stitched of every heartache and failure,
Have sewn both lips and vocal cords together,
So every word and intention, it is muffled and distorted,
And attempts at even the most basic of things,
To see and find that love we all crave,
The love we all need, 
My thread-bound lips prevent me so,
And what I’d give to end the pain,
And acquire that love and passion that we all want,
But who wants to hear gargled words,
That slip through stitched lips? 

I gave up my masquerade,
To join in on the Mayday parade,
But when I found no humiliation,
I thought it was a strange situation.

And so I chose to disrobe,
Because of my brain’s errant lobe.
And in that embarrassing parading roam,
I found a small sense of home.  

There’s a comfort in the pain,
That’s fallen on us like the rain.
There’s a shyness and we don’t know what to do,
When our shackles are finally removed. 

We roll and roll into ourselves,
And look back fondly on our Hell,
Because we find fear in the new,
Despite loving, The Loving Life.  

Can hope survive with a mind that remembers all pain? 
Every wound suffered  reopened, 
And all hope mustered and feigned fades,
Like an all too fleeting dandelion it is cut down, 
By the gales of truth.

And when one cannot even muster a facade,
How can a decrepit corpse of a man,
One who has been slain time and again by life,
How can that dead man hope to live once more?
How can that kin of Cotard even bear to hope?
How can he even rise to a life that offers nothing,
No panacea or solace to his wounded being?

There is no answer to this,
Because the mind that remembers all pain bears no answer,
But waits for another to provide it.
And yet still,
There is only silence around.  

Damn the man who wrote the star charts, 
The one who divined my so called fate, 
The one I do not know, yet am supposed to follow,
Through silver moonlight I walk,
But the stars and their fates are so alien,
Their prophecies written in languages long dead,
Could I even cast them off?

And what of the man who defies his fate,
One who goes against the flawed designed,
Is he damned himself? 
Is he doomed to suffer either way,
Even if he cut’s the puppet strings of fate,
Has he really found freedom?  

Damn the man who wrote the star charts,
It is inhuman to spread the pain of the world so unevenly,
And let them suffer in the black tide of the cosmos.  

Throw me beyond that final of all boundaries,
Where I may be frozen in time,
And yet experience it in it’s entirety.
Throw me into the event horizon,
And watch me fade away into beyond.

Physical shell, in a physical hell,
It’s not enough that I cast that off,
For it is a only a portion of my being,
Soul so dense, sorrow and pain giving it mass,
More than one thousand suns burning in a black pit,
Mind tainted, unstable, it violently breaks down,
Any happiness decays into pure chaotic energy,
Built up until sooner or later, I reach critical mass,
A nova of myself may be released soon,
And cause immense destruction.

I can’t take living like this any more,
I can’t let any part of me survive.
Cast me out into the eternal expanse,
Tear all parts of me asunder and unmake me,
Burn my very being in starfire,
Throw me in a place as dark and impossible as I am,
Hopefully that will be enough to erase that pain,
And maybe in that impossible oblivion I’ll find something I never knew here,
A word I’ve heard called peace.  

I’m covered in scars and burns,
When they heal, new ones just take their place,
My life is a neverending void of pain,
And yet that is the only meaning I hold,
To  feel pain.

Poorly made and ramshackle form,
Like a shoddy voodoo doll,
The only comfort that I offer to others,
Is one of sadism,
For I let them take their needles and daggers,
And take their frustrations out on me,
Every pain and woe they feel,
They carve it into my flesh,
Into my soul,
And when all has been worked out,
Throw me into the trash.

But it won’t be long before I’m found again,
And the ceaseless agony will begin again,
An existence dedicated solely to pain,
To be a tool for others to wreak their wraith,
And to feel nothing more than torment,
But I have a purpose,
That’s enough to go on,
A plaything of voodoo and other’s pain,
Nothing more… 

I checked my phone,
No calls, No messages,
No surprises there,
It’s the same day in and out. 

I spent my day busying myself,
And time flew by with no contact,
As I slipped further into a silhouette,
It’s the same day in and day out. 

I lusted and loved with all my heart,
A heart so often broken and shattered,
It’s now just a fine red powder,
It’s the same day in and out.

Barb after barb of life’s woes stab,
But wounds do not bleed,
They just gape and flap in the breeze.
 It’s the same day in and out.

For too much pain desensitizes one,
And when one has experiences a lifetime of pain,
They only feel a death-like numbness,
It persists day in and day out. 

I sit in a center room, 
With miles of maze sprawled in front of me,
The ever shifting walls and paths,
Make it impossible to escape,
So I must sit,
And wait,
And wait,
And wait,
I’m going mad from the waiting,
Each hour takes a chunk out of my sanity,
Tarnishing myself in the stagnant air,
Driving another nail into my flesh,
And yet I still must wait,
I must wait for someone,
To come and find me,
I can’t escape from the labyrinth,
So I rely on others, 
Others who never come,
They either turn at first sight of the maze,
Or turn back when they grow tired,
And yet I still have to wait,
For one to cross the threshold into my cell,
Hoping I am not so disappointing a prize,
That they’d leave me there,
To rot and rust away,
And wait,
And wait,
And wait,
Until salvation,
Or death.  

I sometimes think I can’t exist, 
I’m far too improbable to live in this reality,
I think I’m held in purgatory,
The solitary, subtle hell,
Not direct pain and torture,
But the psychological torment,
Of solitary confinement,
Every day the walls close in more,
Every day the air turns thicker,
And I’m screaming in terror and protest,
But it falls on deaf ears,
What have I done to earn my sentence,
In this most silent of hells?
Why do I deserve this? 

Knowledge comes hand in hand with alone, 
For knowledge had so declared,
That in exchange, it must have a price.
For all knowledge there must be pain,
And no wisdom can be given for free,
If you try and share knowledge you have so paid for, 
With one who had not paid in agony, 
It wither’s and dies, into a crude facsimile,
 Much like a lepprechaun’s gold. 

Those who have paid so dear, 
Will find themselves standing on lonely peaks,
So few recognize the price,
While others revel in ignorance, free of hurt, 
The folly of knowledge is that for it’s price,
So few will pay for it,
While the educated few stare at cosmos in solitude.