I found something!

It really isn't all that exciting; just an old poem that I wrote when I was younger and more 'angsty' and knew everything. However, I like how it was constructed so I'm going to let you all see it.
It has no official title.

My health is degenerating at a fairly rapid rate;
Could an early death at age 16 truly be my fate?
I hope it ain't but if it is I'd like to take the time
To say a couple things to you before I go in a simple rhyme.
I've loved and lost and must admit I'd've rather never loved at all
Because the pain that came from losing made my heart a car that won't not stall.
And longing for the touch of one who turned out to be a whore
Makes me sick enough to want to shut on love every goddamn door.
I try to keep them open but the bitterness that was spawned
Calls to me to burn the world, turn the human sea into a pond.
And I've realized something about myself: there's a crack way deep inside.
It seems I should refer to "we" instead of saying "I".
Because a new perspective has awakened and it lives next to the old
And it snarls as it watches and when it speaks this I am told:
"Look out at all these weakling sheep dressed up in the furs of wolves.
They think their costumes put them on the top but next to us they're only fools."
At first I was put off by this new misanthropic voice
But more and more I find these thoughts enter by my own choice.
Then at night arrives the questions, is this evolution or am I insane?
I hope for the former but I feel the latter when I look into our brain.
Though I outward may seem stable, inward I am torn
For when the original almost died, a new recipe was then born.
But when the veteran felt recovery the rookie hid but did not leave


So now within a single shell there are two different kinds
And for listening in I bid you thanks from a truly darkled mind.


I didn't leave a date on it, so I don't know when exactly it was written except for some amount of years ago. I admit it isn't very subtle but it got the job done for what I was going for at the time - looking for a way to call myself crazy without actually saying so. I've learned since then that I am not, in fact, crazy - though many may try to persuade you otherwise - but that rebound is total bitch.


Oh, right, I know it's late but: happy new year, merry Kwanza, have a jolly Christmas or whatever it is you did over the holiday season. Wait, I got it!


(belated) Happy/Merry ______!


-Michenab

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Silver lining a dining table
Reclining patrons lost in fable
Never wanting
But ever able.


Is it odd that God should be as thus?
I mean, why shouldn't He make a fuss?
Well, p'raps he is,
But we're on the Inquisitor's bus...


Or maybe this is just the universe
Where nothing is true
Except the weight of a purse
And the urchin-boy just needs a toy to ease his ride in the hearse.


Another Karamazov reference. I haven't slept since the 20th. I tried to sleep, but it just wouldn't come. So I spent an hour outside staring up at the moon, until the orange went away. Then I went back in, rubbed warmth back into my face and stared at the darkness until it became morning.
If this keeps up I'm going to the store and getting something to help me sleep. Thank whatever god or gods for the end of semester. I think I was hallucinating for a little while in the dark.


-Michenab

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So That Post I've Been Talking About

This is it.


Woo!


So this next piece of writing began as a dream.

                The sky above was dark, starless, and the moon was hiding behind thick clouds. At midnight, now, the only lumination came from a dim and flickering street lamp a hundred feet away. And so the front door remained in shadows. But that was no matter for William. He was used to these conditions – this scene was normal, mundane, routine. Tonight was just the same as a thousand others, coming home late from work to his empty, dark townhome on this empty, poorly-lit street.

                Pudgy hands fumbled with a keychain, making a faint jingle that could be heard even at the streetlamp that hundred feet away, over the dull hum of the electric generators that lined the sidewalks and the soft whoosh of rank wind carrying the stink of God only knows what – some beggar’s coat or a dead cat or baby. None of which would have been a surprise to this street. William finally got his fingers around the key to his door. He moved toward the lock as a rustling caught his attention. He paused and listened, hearing nothing but his own breath, the streetlamp, and the rusty squeak of an old chain-link fence as the wind raked it back and forth.

                He shook his head and the stuck the key into its lock, having to force the metal inside so that he could jiggle and wriggle the key and hope the tumblers fell into place just one more time, please, for him. Under the embarrassment of his dysfunctional lock, he gave silent thanks for the deep night that shrouded him. The lock finally turned and he stepped inside as he pushed in the door in one fluid movement, the let it slide lazily back to its place. He turned the lock, easy from this side, as if it were a defeated enemy yielding to the greater force of a conquering foe. But both knew that come tomorrow the tumblers would incite revolution and the war would be on again. So much the better, William supposed, shrugging broad shoulders; at least a small battle could be won at home even after all the largest had been lost abroad.

                William stretched and let his heavy, hot coat fall to the floor – he didn’t need it in the warmth of the house and he would be better served to have it ready and waiting there in the morning. He walked to the back door of his home – sliding glass – and checked that it was locked. It was. There was no reason it wouldn’t be, really, but William had learned there was no such thing as too careful. He ran his fingers over the lock to make sure and then unlocked and relocked it for good measure. He leaned a hand and forehead against the glass and looked out into the night, feeling the cool thick glass on his skin. Unending blackness presented itself before him. He felt himself falling into it as he closed his eyes; he could feel himself drawn into bleakness, losing himself and becoming one with the nothingness. His memory conjured up an image of the same backyard with sun shining over spindly trees and great clumps of dead and dying grass all surrounded by an ugly, coarse fence. The illusion broke and his eyes popped open. Sighing, he stepped away, sloughing off his shoes in the process. His briefcase found a not so gentle landing on the kitchen counter as he passed by on his way to the stairs leading to the bedrooms. Climbing them, his breath took on the labored sound of a man decades out of shape despite his only being a couple old himself. He was only halfway up when he remembered his phone, lying dead in his coat pocket by the front door.

                Agitated at his own forgetfulness, he turned back, allowing himself a flare of drama in the act, throwing his hands to the sky, and made his way back past the kitchen and his briefcase, through the living room and past the sliding glass back door. He almost stepped on his coat before he saw it. A moment of fumbling in the darkness later and he had a pocket in his hands. Wrong pocket. A quick flip of the jacket and he had the other pocket. Then the phone was in his hand and the coat back on the carpet; he figured the battery needed replacing – it had died quickly today.

He shivered and for a moment thought nothing of it – then he realized he had been sweating just a moment before. He turned and froze. Even in this grim absence of light, he could see his back door standing ajar, innocently letting the cold breeze in from the yard. His phone fell hard to the floor, making a muffled thump on the carpet, as he bolted toward the stairs, moving faster than he could remember ever having done. Heart racing, skin slick with sweat, he could feel the wrongness that permeated his house. He could smell the intruder in every breath that he took, taste him in every quick flick he made across his upper lip with his tongue. He kept focused on the heavy wooden baseball bat in his closet. His foot hit the first step as two heavy hands came down on his shoulders and yanked him down onto his back. He slammed into the floor, falling fast and sprawling across the tile of his kitchen, his back feeling cemented to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and tripped, succeeding only in introducing the floor to the skin of his face. He pushed himself up and to his knees with his hands, his eyes wide with a terror so complete that now he could think only of nothing.

A glove forced his chin up roughly, bruising the skin. A sharp bite flitted across his throat. He heard a wet gurgling sound. He realized it was coming from him. He prayed for God to wake him up, straining severed vocal chords to make any noise at all beyond the bubbling of air through a sluice of blood. A heavy boot shoved his back, forcing his face yet again to the hard linoleum of the kitchen. His eyes were glassy and his face contorted in a horror so pure, distilled as if from the river of fear itself. His sticky, red life pooled around him, free and chaotic as all sounds around him ceased. The back door was shut and locked again, with only the greasy marks of William’s hand and head to show any man had been there. The smell of loose bowels filled the house, mingling with the crimson copper, as the Tartarean darkness bled away into sunlight.

Birds chirped.

Certainly not the most cheerful thing I've ever written but with a title like "The Death of William" what can you expect.

-Michenab

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Ugh.

It's been a rough week. I've barely slept. And, I know it isn't his fault, but Kal's coughing all night long doesn't help. Maybe if I get sick though I can pass out or something. The good news is, the lack of sleep has given me tons of time to work on school and to write whatever I want. So I suppose I'll share some of that with you now. The recreational writing, that is.

Soft whispers into an eager ear, hoping for more than sweet nothings, bring a moment of overwhelming joy as a promise is confirmed that was once merely unspoken and uncertain. Nipping lips send ripples ecstasy down a trembling body. Sensing impending fulfillment, that body turns, expecting the embrace of a lover, but falls into the arms of ashes. The body of Love sits wasted in the ruins of what never was and frail hands cover the face of Fantasy, hoping to stop the sting of tears that are, ultimately, inevitable and inexorable. The ash turns to sooty mud as the tears stream ever more and more down the face of Mourning, washing away the memories of lies as the morning light falls into the empty twilight of broken promises. It was all sweet nothings after all.
The ash swept away, leaving only stained and hard and cold granite beneath, the body of Hope rises with the moon and looks beneath the stars. There is no longer room in the mind of Reality to consider the sky. Eyes follow the ground, a trail to mundanity. Disgusted, but broken, feet begin to walk.

Cheery, no? Inspired by a weird commercial that I can't even remember the details of anymore. All I know is there was a hill in the background. I know it wasn't very long, but when something ends, it ends, y'know? There's more I could share, but Kal is sleeping and I feel very much like a nap is coming on right now. I have to take advantage of these when I can.


-Michenab

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