No one is free I thought the wings of truth split into papers cogs in the engine shredding that to which we bear witness turning what we knew into something shiny and new to fill this emptiness Sunday morning lie-ins our only day in which we don’t have to strive and I thought this, this is the price people think they have to pay for freedom and so I ask What is freedom anyway? But some elusive dream we’re free to chase?
From a distance, it looked like a forest but upon closer inspection, you came to rows and rows of houses that became known as the tree houses not because they were the old traditional treehouses of old, but for their mimicry with their green pointed roofs.
Some people claimed the place is beautiful but I have to politely disagree. Though politeness may get me nowhere when the truth was so ugly.
Perhaps I should have pushed harder, derailed them from their illusions of utopia.
The roofs were plastic green and not a bird was in sight, the water that surrounded these damnable houses did not contain fish. There was no wildlife to be seen, and the doors of the house opened up like the mouths of monsters consuming all tenants who moved into them.
Many a house was haunted, not with the imagined ghosts but with the debris of collected psyches. The human form of the tenants may have left the houses but they were never the same, the houses had consumed them from within. The houses were tyrants and no one left them upon their own whim, they could only leave when the houses spat them out.
In one such house, an empty chair rocked, animated by a previous tenants anxieties.
Pictures hung in jaunty angles on the walls and the eyes of previous paranoid tenants peered through from behind the frame, though those men had left, their eyes never would.
The stairs creaked as you stumbled up them, or so it seemed. But that creaking sound was not the faux wooden floorboards, it was the sound of a madman. His essence, his humanity had been absorbed into the walls and his many cries and voices spoke for the house.
That drowsy space between clarity and blur a clear blue sky inside the spacious open plains inside the mind every breath a wave in the ocean that is the collection of cells that is you room enough in heart to ride the tidal waves with grace learning to surf remembering the simple truth that we all die in the end so the meaning we seek is the thing that holds us back
I’m not typical
certainly not biblical
though my name suggests miracles
I like to think my faults are forgivable
But that only seems to make my rage more formidable
I am hardly statistical
I can find myself in numbers
Maybe I am mythical
The pinnacle of invisible
My evidence not admissible
I was born cynical
Sometimes my thoughts are unthinkable
I’m always at the periphery of transitional
Lost in the middle…
I almost hesitate
Now that I’m in this place
All the sick faces
Looking at me
I just want to run away
“Why are you putting yourself through this?”
I know I’ve been waiting for years
And I don’t want to go back
But I don’t really want to be here
I just want to leap straight
To the aftermath
With out all of these medicated plans
I’m tired from barely sleeping
Thinking about it
Wondering if I can make it through this
Feel like I’ve walked under another dark tunnel
And I can’t yet see the end
There are lights on the ceiling
But that all seems meaningless
They’re dully lit anyway
And the faces around me look like ghosts
Reminding me this is a place where souls come to go
This is inspired by a story I started writing but never finished, sadly I lost much of what I had written and I don’t have the energy to try and write it all up again. It wouldn’t have been the same anyway. But I decided I’d at least give the characters a bit of a stage, as I kind of just love this imagined horse!
Dust swirled just above the ground
As a man named Calloway
Galloped through the dusty, arid town
And as he did, all was silent
Doors did creek and eyes surely peeked
And trails of blood spoke of violence
And anyone who saw Jesse’s devils eyes
Were sure to be forever modified
For there were no horses like him
All black with mane of white
Looking through his crystal blues
As he dashed on by
Spraying dust under his hooves
No one forgets that unicorn among horses
Tracing slurs between my lips
she takes me through hours of redemption
Dirty music for the deed
quivering, thrusting hips
ensuring each of our vessels
are justly pleased
from this divine intervention
Lipstick stains covered in sin
Silent, subtle secrets
Shared between sweat and skin
worming our way past cruelty
Forgetting the shadows that defy clarity
And here with sorrows kiss
Pearl necklaces are made for this