Like Wisps

Autumn was punctuated
by a sudden shower of icy, crystal clarity.

So we drew into
the sharp void of an honest winter.

The problem with lies is
they become so brittle when frozen.

A tendency to fall apart.
Not worth the effort, not keeping us warm.

We needed something that sizzled.
Something to warm our hands about,
some kind of fire or friction.

We found it in warfare,
but lost it in victory.
Too many stacks of headstones.

The tall shadow and crisp air
caused desperate reflection;
Why were we here?

So, we gave into stillness
and then we saw it;
The Truth.

The flames were our prison.
The fields of blood, our keepers.
Our loss, our light.

We vanished.
Chased by winter winds,
Like wisps into the night.

The Face

It calls, but never answers.
It takes, but never receives.
This hollow, enchanting dancer
only comforts and deceives.

It glows for the sake of shadows.
It bends the will and mind.
This siren’s song, upon the gallows,
kisses hearts and swallows time.

It dwells deep, in tasted tears.
It leads men to wasted years.
This hollow scream as judgment nears
is the face of faceless fears.

Pulp Dream

I wish I could break myself down
into simple blocks.
I could see which pieces were deformed.
I could finally understand what was broken.

I wish all the people walking around would shatter
into piles of parts.
I could sift through them and see
if we were made of the same things.
I could finally know if I was as alone as I feel.

I wish this uniform world would compress
into neat, little cubes.
I could pick them up, study all six sides, and find where I end
and the rest begins.
I could finally paint a picture of my place in the world.

These clean divisions are never born.
All the thin lines I’ve drawn have been torn,
twisted, cut, decayed, burnt, returned, and reformed.
Vines grow through the mortar.
Every attempt finds disorder.
Flesh stripped
raw, it slips,
as I try to climb a border
that doesn’t even exist.

Mania

I can feel a tension building; a familiar tension.

The tingle on the back of my skull.

The anxiety.

The anger.

The frustration with how much of this process of living I don’t understand.

The confusion of why I’m here, what I’m searching for, and why I can never be happy.

It’s a powder keg and embers are floating everywhere.

I get like this sometimes.

Sometimes I can’t push down the questions, the doubts, and the fears.

Every time this happens, I know. I know there’s potential.

Potential for a lightning strike.

A thunderous explosion.

A lapse of reason.

I have to weather the storm.

I just have to wait for it to pass.

Play dead, don’t move, don’t think.

Lest my presence be known to the dark thoughts prowling past.

The monstrous realities that exist in this plane.

Don’t even breathe.

Fear of Roses

Why do you frighten me so?

You are but a delicate rose.

Your thorns have withered and fell,

and yet still,

I dare not risk your touch.

Your scent is a subtle, distinguished beauty;

a stimulating sensation.

Your fragile elegance begs of me

quiet admiration.

I could run my fingers across your leaves,

and watch you for hours, swaying in the breeze,

but plucking you, and keeping you, It seems obscene.

I fall to my knees, and shrink.

In the shadow of your form, I fear disappointing you

more than ever before.

One day I will pluck you, and place you in a vase.

I’ll sit at a table, and watch you whither with age,

but I know today is not the day.

I sit at my desk, the air thick with regret

That you’re swaying in the breeze and not asleep in my bed.

On Writing Essays

I find myself drained of the specific motivation required to write academic essays. It’s a rigorous, hammer and nail-pounding sort of motivation. Just get the work done, continue grinding.

We don’t always get to choose the topics we write about in academia. Sometimes this is a good thing; fresh perspectives and topics are always welcome. But, every now and then, we’re faced with something truly daunting: a boring topic.

Typically, when this happens to me, I find myself putting it off. I like to light a fire under my ass by making it a last minute job, but this tactic is beginning to exhaust me. I may only be 26, but I feel old already.

I wonder, for those that read these blog posts, if you do write academic essays, how do you approach the aforementioned problems?