The Inspiration Is Free

Salacious Indifference

The WordSmith — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 06:50:32 +0000

I would love to shake the hands of my fans.

But I have none.

Because I write in a land where words are killed by handguns.

I scribed in a land where a sagacious man was King.

I writhe in a land where a salacious eye meets sanctum without the inhibitions of the flittering flickering means.
I would love to shake the hands of my fans. But they don’t exist.
I strove to stand alone;

to stand apart from the commonly seen but the more uncommon’s seen,

the more you become subject of obloquial scenes.

I don’t write in a time where congealed words pressed to reams conjure up the same musings they once did.

It seems.

I wrote in a time where four stanzas could move Everest.

I write in a time where four lines mean less to thine eyes

with each passing moment that my fingers punch keys to type.
I would love to shake the hands of my fans.

But I have none.Cylindrical reading in attempts to atone,

followed by a pat on the back and head nod to-go.

Meager attempts to delve in the soul that strove to bring you closer to the King and the four.

It seems I’m meant for the shore of my subconscious.

The only place where cheers arose after I paid homage to the sea

that washes over me before each turned ream.

Outside of it, I’m just wandering aimlessly.

Seen as a superfluous being indulging in his heinousness where only he unravels the verbal cords of his brainlessness.

It seems.
I would love to shake the hands of my fans. But they don’t exist.
The dreams I once had of reverence are far gone and I’m confined to a prison with lines as dissent.

So, Lines, I repent.

For dreaming outside of home.

For writing in a time where said prison is not shown a hint of nepotism from the gazes of its seers

who, instead, use said salacious eyes to break you down to tears.

You lived in a time where your confinements were unheralded

and buried beneath the mound of indifference They inherited.

I would love to shake the hands of my fans. But they’re unseen.

Because I writhe in a time of flame engrossed dreams.

Cath-art-sis

The WordSmith — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 07:06:56 +0000

I’ve been called heartless.

But that would make me artless and somehow my paintbrush still depicts where my heart is.

So I fault his or her notions of the departed…or are they correct and your eyes are merely grazing my catharsis?

I yearn for the truth and truth be told, you can’t show me because while towing the burden of my youth, I never knew my own key.

So how could you?

Just wander through and don’t touch a thing.

In the end, it fell on me, so my face may be brandished from those who disagree and see the ending as outlandish. Things perceived as fantastical often yield disastrous nodes of fallibility in what once seemed non-malleable.

So prying open layers uncovers the tune of misfortune

sung by those who parade an impenetrable fortress.

Foundations crack.

Entire structures collapse.

Fears turn into tears and then tears reflect backs.

As one reflects back, refrain from lack of tact because the whole was gleeful minus major setbacks.

But to step back and retract does not erase the sentiments. It merely creates denizens of said fantastical.
Patterns grow.

Occupants show.

Truth be told to those not engrossed.

So here I stand, looking at my face after hands tore it down.

Chastised it with claims of selfishness when all it did was practice thoughtful reticence.

Hard to get, I guess.

Not knowing intricacies can lead someone to disbelief and ill conceived notions in search of a reprieve.

Thus the consternation with perceived infallibility – only triggers a dropped curtain of deceit.

In the end, it fell on me.

A burden that I bore, and one I shall still.

Feel free to tear me down for choosing the red pill.

I’m sure you will…

Beneath the Dead Lights

The WordSmith — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 01:10:20 +0000

It’s always evident as the webs lay prevalent

as evidence of arrogance intertwined with irreverence.

Dead lights line the scene as dead fingers careen

inside of themes as the souls to whom they belong lay downstream.

Downwind like the lights but upwind of the dreams

that covertly find their way into ocular esteem.

Woven intricately like the fabric built between

as it’s shredded in the shadow of the dead lights in the scene.

So long as the glow never dims on the seams,

they shall burst like effervescence,

though incandescent from the beads.

Beneath the dead, lay the souls.

Beneath the souls lie the fabric fabricated so immaculate that after it, they prey.

Pray for pen’s forgiveness for causing soul-centered torment

centered wholly around a not so dormant moment.

Numbness’ incumbent overthrown and overwrought

though deeply woven into the fibers that are thrived in.

Despise them, but not until afterward

since back and forth causes cataclysms of residual lack of worth…

…for lack of better words.

Morality is immersed and discarded in the beads.
Shattered foundations form the wake of two fallen regimes.
A mirror seeing no true beings,

just reflected beads compatible with the steam

accumulated by the sharers of shattered dreams.

Illuminated by the dead lights and desecrated threads

shines the resounding compunction of the now shared dread.

“Drug Habit”

The WordSmith — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 21:28:04 +0000

I know not how it came to be but it has surely helped form me. It one day dawned on me…

“This is how you must vent. Let the pain and anger go that you always keep in.”

So I simply picked up a pen…it came with me everywhere that I’d been.

When my heart would snap, I could always shed tears on my pen.

Those tears would then leak and seep out through the ink.

Then come alive with the energy my contoured mind would paint.

So as long as my mind harbored my heart’s pain, that pain would then be disbursed like the mist from the rain.

I can’t live without writing so you could say it’s my cane.

To be frank…bottles emotions will always come free.

The break loose.

They need a proper release.

Some use fists, some drink…I do drugs…

Lines of ink.

Neatly lined up on each sheet. I do not snort, I just jot down what you see.

So what you read is my high.

I snort verbs, smoke syntax and inhale time. But I’m only one mind, zoned out. Sometimes, I close my lids and zone out. Once, I was soaring and became engulfed by a metaphor cloud.

I then…

….floated….

……..down……

Fell meaninglessly down…and then drowned. I was swallowed by an ocean of nouns.

Then emerged listlessly, consumed by Pound.

I can’t right the past,

but can write my tomorrows.

And as the leaves change hues,

I shall pen dreams and sorrows.

Not content with the nightmares while running from the dreams,

suppressing headquakes because dreams overlapped reams.

That place in between.

That’s my home.

That strange place trapped in that feigned space

where I can meander amidst the Vacancy and let my mind roam.

This world, where we live,

is no more than lead and ink.

I’m no more than a user,

tucked inside of a sheathe.

Harnessing Moonlight

The WordSmith — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 01:18:12 +0000

This place.

This ever evolving thing. Expanding.

Always demanding that I erupt with resounding acceptability despite my affinity for futility.

It’s deceitful.

I surrender to sleepless nights while laying my sword down refusing to even fight.

These cyclical musings find me and amidst the starry nights, I succumb to the alchemy of the apothecary in my mind. What spool must I unwind to explain what depths I see

when I’m diving into the keys thus plummeting into me?

I can’t yet but see the outcome of said apothecary

so I bury myself in the darkness, hoping to be carried away by Sleep-filled nights

instead of Dream-filled spite that my mind seems to carry when I try to bury sight.

There’s no point in struggling.

I gave in moons ago.

And still these midnights taunt me by dangling those around me who lay peacefully surrounded by harmonious subconscious flight.
So I tap keys.
Releasing the swelling serpents cascading my mental vortex in order to be with night.

Be rid of this life.

Harnessing moonlight in attempts to quell the vortex in my cortex, despite.
…..my affinity for the verbiage and a spry raconteur’s life, I devise ways to tame the chaos of my sinuous mind.

Once my tales are told,

my fables have been passed,

I can rest assure all necromancy has escaped my grasp.
The clutches of my recesses regress to calmer states and its former state of haste has thankfully been replaced.

I brace myself, not being familiar with Sleep’s embrace…until the time comes again to lay…

…..and wait.

“Vacancy”

The WordSmith — Thu, 02 Jun 2011 15:23:33 +0000

Sometimes it’s hard to take. It must be fallacy that the words spilling out of me have come from such a place.

There must be a curtain thus masking lacking embrace that is pulled closed, followed by curtain calls for this space. They applaud but as I pause, I realize what resonates is a veiled condescension and compiling distaste.

But you don’t see it…all that’s apparent is the velvet. After all, an eye will believe only what you tell it.

Per my absent relic, it sends its greatest sympathies for taking to the nomad and sending the desert in to me.

Hostility embellished.

Glazed omniscience lacquered with irritants, set in a frame, less denizens.

Far be it to mimic him.

Until then, let’s begin by waving the curtain aside and taking a bow while failing to expose what’s inside.

How contrived.

Falsified quietude embellishing its hollow solitude while, unknowingly, you all approve and spur on my demise. Surmise it to say I attempt to tie the curtain and leave it in said place so exposure is no option except curtain calls fall in favor requesting it be lifted and I’m forced to show its true face.

Revealing air in its place.

I pace hastelessly in my clouded space of vacancy, thus graciously denying pleas to life my velvet coverings. Apologies, were I hovering over nothingness, but my sights are clear as is my sprouting fear of being put in the clear.

So behind here, I will pace….my curtain of secrecy leaving emotion leaving me, impeding my embrace.

Irritant surplus.

Relic excavation and it’s here….behind velvet….doth lie my true face.

Sensanity 3/21/11

The WordSmith — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 23:24:19 +0000

Bifurcated at times, my mind is.

Overwrought, at times, is my sense by nonsense masquerading as consciousness behind a cloak of the common.

I often refrain from comment because my problem is I pawn Sense in arguments with Ignorance so it then loses value among its constituents.

In silence, I’m most articulate.

Formulating complexities heavily dosed with logical lunacy that you would see as hokum. Were I to evoke them, Pandora’s open box would seem minuscule merely to be engulfed by the complexities drifiting into you.

Instead, my silence interludes my nonchalant omissions toward Ignorance as I wonder how long I’ll poison myself with Censorship.

I conclude that as long as denizens continue this masquerade, I’ll evade verbose battles and rely on pen and page.

But what of the day when Ignorance wears the mane and all of the defenders of Sense have been slain?

Then where will I lay?

In the cradle Censorship made or shall I refrain from such refrain and come to Sense’s aid?

Hiding behind the page.

A coward’s mere escape and appeasement of said division for the one side of me hides in ink, the other invites derision.

Welcome to this prison where Sanity guards Sensanity and Consciousness is warden of the walls that I’m in.

Enter at your own peril, for exposure to the hokum may show the guards who’s entered is not Ignorance’s virgin…

Reflection 3/18/11

The WordSmith — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 23:15:13 +0000

Look at you…
Complaining and griping of your struggles. Citing issues spawned when parents split as if they don’t still love you. As if one parent raised you and the other doused their love for you, maculating your soul to haunt the path they’d lay for you.
Posing Puritan but true Libertine, seeming to careen all that haunts you in your dreams. All of the torment that supposedly cut and scarred you as if your “struggles” would hold weight were someone to dissolve you.

Pathetic.

What have you “really” been through?

So you’ve seen things with your two eyes that others had to live through.

Pardon my condolences while they miss you.

You’ve never had bullets removed leaving only the tissue.
You’ve never had your father beat you, seeding deeper issues.
You’ve never had to be the grown-up at the age of Twelve.
You’ve never looked out the window thinking “this must be Hell.”

The conditions you were brought up in would gladly please plenty but you have the nerve to sit there and call your “struggles” many.

Festering in darkness voluntarily, it seems, since, to me, your head lays to bed at night minus the screams.

You could be anything, but instead, look at you.
They held such high hopes for you but look what you’ve come to.

Look what you’ve become.
Judging everyone, exempt from criticism since your cynicism is like your cloak…hiding in lines and rhythm.
What about when you parish?

Will they say you had it rough and that your “struggles” are what made you…or will they call your bluff?

Personally, I’m fed up…..I’ve had enough.

Leave.

The problem is….
I have to go with you, I’m just the image in the mirror….you’re me.

Public Service Announcement

The WordSmith — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 04:45:41 +0000

The problem is only half theirs…

A flashing “On Air” triggers our mass tendency of half-thinking and half-feasting. For most, the ratio suffers and half is being generous because most don’t know how to truly read into it. Instead, they’re fed images by pick-your-favorite channel, fact or fiction, they dismantle any notion of their own to slowly conform to the gospel of Channel Four.

Or Two…

Or Seven…

Any of them will do, whichever your milieu, since whichever you’re mainly glued constructs your point of view.

The problem is only half theirs.

The other lies in you and the inability to ask “why?” instead of “who?”

Images of war.

Images of poor.

Segments on policies.

Segmented ideologies.

Images of murder.

Images of violence.

Did you ever think to question the editing of the process?

I suppose not…since the “facts” you then consume and regurgitate with conviction, sounding abstruse.

How obtuse.

The brainwashed indeed need a cleansing…since the irony is evident and the practice is sadly prevalent. We are a people inflicted with Analytical Impediments dissolving the ability to dictate what’s truly relevant.

Can’t see past the veil that they present to us as “evidence” which instead is largely propaganda meant to sway you from your sense.

One way or the other…

To the Left or to the Right…

But did you form your own opinion or did you merely recite what that newscaster or analyst spoke to you that night?

The problem is only half theirs.

And half is being generous….

So please…prove me right and say truth lies not in these sentences…

Pamplona

The WordSmith — Sun, 13 Feb 2011 18:12:58 +0000

Turning the corner onto a dimly lit avenue, I gather proof of my reality, suppressing fallacies of my subconscious’ alchemy.

Realizing I’m trapped between the likeness of the two, I move seamlessly into the imagery of whom I suppose that I am at the moment….

so I hone in….

…on the side which holds my atonement for my disowning.

My eviction from said reality which I no longer grasp as my day dreams seem to fade into the abyss of my hands.

I command countless armies made of verbose line-hoarders that shall fight for my mind’s sense on a field once they’re chosen.

Unleash Pamplona.

Embattled are my faux men who yield all that I pen and their rage is thus released when I choose to script again. It’s between these worlds that I pen.

Not in one nor the other…

Commanding armies that turn to dust once they’re discovered by reality’s lingering eyes and scorning judgments. A dust that resonates and leaves remnants of lunacy blended by the loom in me to weave the dust’s eulogies.

My hand pulsates with the prurience of its love then drains with each word…strains to be heard. But reality is too brutal for these words to survive so on those unleashed fields is where I, and they, will lie…