From Pen to Keyboard

Battered Virgin of Malice (age 13)

2008-04-09T05:34:00.000-07:00

Battered Virgin of Malice
I found you cold with fright
Cursing at God
And your ambitious Saints.
Carcasses of murdered angels
lay at your feet
Mouths still bloody from their feast.
Half stuffed kitten curled in your arms.

She knows your hold
on our lies
comforting spite,
in her eyes.

Battered Virgin of Malice
Dancing in silent circles
Reciting nurser rhymes
from a childhood forgotten
Screaming at life
praying for death
wrists torn red
in an effortless fit.

She knows her hold
on our lies
comforting spite in her eyes

Battered Virgin of Malice
How can you be so bold?
Baring your soul,
stealing the show.
The puppet is in your hands,
playing out your goal.

Confusing Doubt (age 16)

2008-04-08T07:44:00.000-07:00

I am but a nameless child
Striving for your living
Cloaked in womanly garb
with a gies you bound to me
Hand weaving blood shed
sympathy falls not
upon my bed of nails.
Unheard voice of pain
Blind by default, for you
are already free.
We are but a nameless face
huddled by the darkness,
vengeful cold drown our pleas
we sit here alone
masses trash with exiled needs.

Let This Time Go By ( age 12)

2008-03-31T05:27:00.000-07:00

There was no date on this, but I got the age from the reference to Trent, yep that Trent.

She watching my steps
outlining imaginary friends
with red crayons
watching her invisible mate
cry in desperation and hate
His soul seems caged
not knowing it's too late
to say if she can ever change.
Posters of Trent hang from her ceiling
worshiping the crayon idols
she screams at her hands to bleed
red stains fall from the bed
creating visible lines
of saints of gods.
She falls to her knees to pray.
Some find of wonderful
doesn't appear for her today.

Waiting for tomorrow
waiting for the sun to die
waiting for my love to hide
Maybe I'm just too cautious
maybe I'm just to blind
Maybe I'm just too foolish
to let this time go by

I am too ashamed to lift up my face
too see the evil appearing before me
tumbling in the stable pit
I feel unworthy of her caress
drowning in this new conscious state
bleeding from her hand to create a safe place
I discover a life within her voice
Scared of what use to be
I also fall to my knees, begging for forgiveness
seems to fade from my lips
causing both of us to drown
to waste in this vicious pit.

Answering Machine Comentary (age 14)

2008-03-27T05:53:00.000-07:00

Spelling errors original to script

In my one room bed
chewing on perfect puzzle pieces
I cry my cat to sleep
Forgetfulness of attitude attributes
find their cosmic way
around my eyes
wall paper under my nails
Falling through the floor boards
with a miscellaneous fit
There is nothing left
in my one room bed
no friends, no enemies
and my cat is dead.

untitled (age 12)

2008-03-14T06:35:00.001-07:00

sigh

Filling my needs with her acting ablities
I'm falling into a pit of hyprocrasy
Telling fake hoods
of a childhood imagined
Blantant lies she tells through tears
crucifing my soul in spite
she sits below a new born moon
screaming about a goddly saint
Will she ever be
The person I use to be
Sacres runes formed by an existing whore
I'm becoming a bore
with petty fears
and harmonious flaws
she sacraficing me to her gods
far below the rocky waterfalls.

I don't Understand (age 14)

2008-03-11T04:44:00.000-07:00

You're alone in your world
watching the people
leave you behind
hiding in your voice
destroyed by you
for my fears.
How can you be so unkind,
the person failing here is me.

SpaceSuit Dreams (age 14)

2008-03-10T04:40:00.000-07:00

Please don't ask me to explain, I don't think I can.

Real horror show romantics
find their way homes
once again.
Rotting flesh poetics
in a mid of car windows
and bloody gloves.
Sadist happiness
in spacesuit dreams
Fevered children dance
miserably happy.
While faking orgasms
on a warm summers day
Ballistic waterfalls
of foam rubber blood
descend upon you delusions
My angelic white room
made from rotting diapers
and fallopian tubes
become blackened with light.
Space suit dream
from past life acid trips
structured death and memories
Befalls us many times
shelled life existence
falls from the grass
Swallowing my quilt
with sand.
Space suit dreams
and fakeful motions
seem to mock a demon's virtue
Space suit dreams and hypocrisy.

Maybe (age 22)

2008-03-09T07:53:00.000-07:00

Maybe if I showed myself without all the shadows
you would understand me better
see that I am not consumed in my own death
but to me it seems that all you see me as
is that darkness...
that angelic death that hovers over new borns
and the ever so old...
but the dark holds me closer then light would ever do
this life shows itself ever so slowly
reviling only few parts
It's as though it finds great pleasure
in taunting me...
maybe if I stood in the light awhile
it would be happy to embrace me
Yet I am grateful, happy, and content
to dwell in the darkest of alleys...
to laugh and dance
to play as a child
to have my true feelings
by the light of only a full and majestic moon.

Ri (age 29)

2008-03-07T05:27:00.000-08:00

I decided to share a story or two. I have many short stories. The theme that is consistent in all of them is that the gorier the better. Be warned

I was born with the inherent knowledge of who I was. I never question this knowledge, I wouldn’t until I was much older. I was born into a family with only a mother and father. I would never have any brothers or sisters that I could call blood. Aye, there were many people that came in and out of my life that would call them selves my kith, but they were never truly my blood. One could assume that because I was my parents only child that I was spoiled, loved beyond being able to breathe. I have seen those children, and I was never one. My parents wanted me to learn what real life, life outside of my thatched roof was truly like. The day I was birthed, my mother never touched me. Instead she had the midwife hand me over to my father, who verified that I was a male heir, then abruptly passed me onto what I would know from that day on as Myrtle, my wet nurse then nanny.
Myrtle tried to care for me. She was a young mother whose child had been ripped from her hands shortly after birth and thrown off of the Giant’s Causeway. I heard her sob the story to me over many years. The clan had done this under the orders of my father because the child had white hair. Yet with age I see that my father had no fear of the Sidhe, and this child was sacrificed so that I could be nursed. Myrtle was forced to continue to produce milk after she witnessed her child’s body smashed upon rocks. She was forced in a way that I could never had allowed if I had a choice. Myrtle was and will always be the only woman I loved. She was the first voice I heard upon waking, and the last voice I heard before I slept. Her face haunts my dreams ever more, her soft young body holding me close when my infant clamor began. I remember feeling her own warm tears falling on my face before she placed me on the floor, in a dark damp corner. This was my father’s doing, I had to learn not to cry over anything. I was the heir, I was to be a man.
My mother, she seemed to always be sick. She would hide behind her hair that should have been plaited, yet my father allowed her some freedom. She never spoke to me, and I only know the sound of her voice from over hearing her speak with Myrtle about my well being. Maybe she did care, I will never know. I fear she was forced into my father’s home, just as my wife would be forced into mine.
My father is Ri, just as I am now. He cared more for the clan then he did for me. I was only his guarantee to rule ever more. I was his immortality. I find that ironic since it was I that ended his life. I grew to be a stout child, and I would become Ri before it had been expected.
I spent some of my time with young Druids, and learned about reading the intestines of our cattle. I found this to be fascinating, and soon my small hands wield the knife that disemboweled the living heifer. I was alone and squealed in my childish glee as the guts tumbled out onto the ground. I laughed in delight as the small heifer fell heavily to the ground, and I smiled ruefully as my small hands petted and grouped the slippery bowls. I never did attempt to read the future. The future was part of my inherent knowledge, and disemboweling the cow was just another step into my destiny.
The heifer did not quench my deep painful thirst for life ending with my hands. I increased the time between sacrifices. But after a time, no more joy was help in the heifers. Nine summers after my birth, I found myself sitting next to a fire with a girl of five. A dark hair beauty that would be my wife, her large victims eyes sparkled the reflection of the fire light. I find it unfortunate that her mother, knowing who I was, felt it fit to leave us be. She masqueraded as doing chores, and I found myself alone. As I reflect on the emotions that reeled through me I realize that they are similar to those of intercourse. My hands felt clammy, small beads of sweat form on my brow, my heart tried its best to escape from behind its prison of my chest. Without mush thought, my knife came out from its hiding place in my leather scabbard that was always belted to my waist. The girl moaned with unanticipated un-comfort, as the blade smoothly crossed over her flawlessly fleshed neck. He eyes no longer looked at me as a victim, but more with a surprised hatred. They were hard and cold, it was that look that caused me to think that I could have eventually wedded this child. Yet alas, now it was too late, for the blood oozed from the thin wound and she slumped, still sitting, before me. I yearned to do more to her, instead I walked out to where the mother stood, waiting for the perfect moment to walk in and find us embracing. I walked somberly by her, and only glanced at her once to inform her that I found her daughter unacceptable to be my bride. The screams that followed me down the worn dirt path troubled me not.
That evening I had a stern lecture from my father. About when murder was appropriate, though I could see it in his eyes, and the way he carried himself, that he was proud that his son was able to kill without thought, without remorse, for that was a sign of a great warrior Ri. I could be the one to lead the clan into war, and to conquer surrounding clans. I never cared if I reigned over a largely populated land, that was for my father to dream. I had another destiny to fulfill.
I being kith to the Ri, was allowed to walk into any of the homes under my father’s care. They were unable to stop my wanderings. Every other day, mother’s could be heard screaming and wailing over the loss of yet another beloved child. Their ages nor their sex determined weather or not I would sacrifice them, it was convince that they happened to be inside when I entered the home. Their were a few lucky ones that I allowed to live. This was only because they happened not to be inside when I walked into their homes, and I had made it a point to only enter a home once.
With all the homes visited and all the child I found, dead, I discovered it was necessary to find new sport. Woman were just as easy as the children. They would fall to their knees in front of me, bearing their necks, or exposing their bellies. There was no entertainment in this simplicity. I needed more of a challenge. It was my twelfth year that I decided to stalk my prey. My father and his brother’s had taught me that art of hunting. There was a subtle thrill in being quiet and waiting patiently for the meat to come to me. I began to follow small hunting parties out into the woods. Allowing them to get some distance between us. Here is where I began to lay in wait, not on any known path, but off it a distance so that if a man was spotted I would be able to stealthily track them. For some time I was unable to capture anyone in this manner. After many attempts I made my first wood kill. He was a man that had been honored by my father for some long ago deed. To old to be much of a match for my youthful strength. He did but up a fight, flopping about as though he was a fish in need of water. It was a sloppy death, I was unable to execute any elegance, and his blood ended up high in the trees as well as on my face.
Another lecture from my father ensued, yet it did not deterred me and I continued the hunt becoming proficient in stalking and then I moved into trapping. The sounds of a man screaming as he falls into a hole and then is impaled on sharped sticks is akin to the sounds of the Druids hymns. Never had a heard a sound so enchanting. It was the discovery of this man that lead to my becoming the new Ri.
My father was bloody faced angry at who had fallen into my grasp. Apparently my warring had become too much with the loss of this important advisor. This was the first time my father had ever struck me. His fist broke open my nose, and the sight of my own blood falling onto the dirt floor erupted an anger deep inside my throat that I had never fell victim to before. It took only a moment for me to leap up onto my towering father. My teeth clamped down tightly around the front of his throat. he was unable to call out for help as his breath was quickly taken from him. Thus began my reign. My clan will tell you that I was good for their prosperity. We warred against our neighbors, and I learned to stop pillaging life from my own people. But that is a story for another time. I am Shéamais, the Ri tuaithe of Faolán.

Mommy, why does she stare? (age 25)

2008-03-05T08:04:00.000-08:00

I wrote this when I found out about my grandmothers Alzheimer's

I can see her thru the glass.
Eyes clouded blue.
Crimson stains her lips.
A once full face,
now sags from wisdom.
her knowledge know’s little bounds.

She has my mother’s hands,
wrought from hard labor.
She touches the glass,
trying to speak to me.
Finger’s now calloused,
years of mending other’s shirts.

Her aged finger tips
outline my face,
as I return the favor,
trying to smooth the lines of time.

Mommy, can you see the women in the glass?
Why doe she stare as if she knows me?

Her breast sag
from the babes she has nursed.
Her womb stretched
from over use.

Legs hairy from lack of worth.
They use to carry her,
thru alfalfa and brome.
Now hobbled from work,
broken with time,
struggle to keep upright.
Blond pigtails
the boys always pulled,
thinned and greyed from horrors seen.
A long slender neck, now brittle.
and her pointed up turned nose
are all that remains, from her youth.

Mommy, can you see the lady in the glass?
Why does she stare as if she know’s me?

Clearing eyes,
a sanity remembered.
Gnarled hands grasp for what’s real,
wrest only splinters from a oak framed mirror.
I remember,
maunder words and death ridden breath.

She speaks to me,
no hint of defeat.
her posture is of defiance,
a trait from her father.
I remember,
heard is her confusing present.

Unambiguous voice,
ordering me look,
slowly my eyes focus
as though I just awoke

Mommy, do you see the woman in the mirror?
Why does she stare?

Sanguinary (age 22)

2008-03-04T06:01:00.000-08:00

As requested

Bravely I walk the dark tree lined alley.
A ritualistic fear would be restrained.
One foot before the next, to avoid rats scurry,
an interesting dance, of macabre resemblance.
A full moon to brighten my progress,
the shadows should hold only my fears.
A shock of distress tingled my spine,
as an acheronian figure appeared from obscurity,
or had the trees conspired to conceal?
A hand of moon reflected white,
gripped tightly my rigid wrist.
Foreboding, resistance, a calling forth of Gods.
Be not mine death, a whispered heard by none.
A Cheshire grin faded from the flagitious figure,
as a secondary location was chosen at whim.
A heart that slowed, a mind that resisted,
a soul that screamed, and a body limp,
none found purchase within my chthonic man.

felo-de-se (age 22)

2008-03-03T05:27:00.000-08:00

felo-de-se

I scrawl the words,
in cerise,
on avocado tile.

Much prettier here,
then when it pealed
from your devilish tongue.

Moon tinted chrome,
reflects in a dirty mirror.
Sighs of resignation
delightfully play with the acoustics.

Your dehydrated stench
fills my nostrils,
as my eyes, unfocused,
stare at soiled grout.

Felo-de-se

neglected porcelain,
cool upon my tense neck.
Funny,
the things you find love in.

Melodramatic musing
from a tired faucet.
I found comfort
from it’s anguished moans.

My attention falls back to the floor.
To the name calling,
truth.
A zephyr caresses my face.

Tiles burn with coolness
upon my tear drenched
flushed cheeks.
An elbow knocks on wood.

Felo-de-se

A rusted tank
gurgles at me.
Affixation by sleep,
seems less cruel.

Snails crawl along,
eating the rain rotted sill.
Fingers twitch
seeking company.

The room blackened by light,
moldy shower curtain
rustles.
And fire licks my flesh.

Black velvet bruises
sulk down my arm.
I’ll close my eyes for a moment,
and listen to the water fall.

Kitchen Sink Analists (age 15)

2008-02-26T05:44:00.000-08:00

I call this my Dylan phase, Bob Dylan that is. This might seem similar to another poem I wrote, maybe because it is. As always spelling errors are original to the script.

Kitchen sink analists
kept prisoner
in their 3 stories ideals.
The warden?
There own minds
spirityally deprived
bathroom tile mersonaries
sitting in ther self sufficent
presidebtal litter box
dumped on the highway
of emotional paydays
Majority spankings
consumed in their
mass holocastic pools
Hybriding the under mass
with souveniers poetry
and geniside ideals.

Only to Show Me Hell (age 14)

2008-02-25T06:14:00.001-08:00

Some of my papers come without a date. This can make it hard to say what age I was when it was written. When this occurs there are several things I have to look at. First is, can I find the influence? Teenagers experiment with words by, um, let's not call it stealing, but borrowing a line from a poem or song or even a short or long novel, to play with. By finding that one phrase I can figure out what age this one line was influencing. If the line is absent, I then need to look at the words. Through each stage new words are added, my more complex wording appears around the age of 13. Doesn't mean that it is any good or the words are used correctly. During the teen years using the "big" words helped me develop into using more simplistic wording. Though this would take some time. Once it is decided that something has been written as a teenager, I have to look at the topic to narrow it down to a specific time period in my life. The following is one such undated pieces. I was 14 when it was written. How do I know this? The topic is about love. Once again, spelling errors are true to script.

Colaberating minds
controlling my soul
Devilish feinds
Taking over the show.
Why persist?
Why play the fool?
Other's make up my mind,
taunt me with heaven,
only to show me hell.

Holes in my hand
the path I must take
Fighting the devil,
demons and lies
pointing out my weaknesses.
Black and blue
words of hate tatooed
on my undead corpse
burning my flesh.
Why persist?
Why play the fool?
Other's make up my mind
taunting me with heaven,
only to show me hell.

Framing Selfish Pictures (age 18)

2008-02-23T19:21:00.000-08:00

This is a difficult one to rewrite. For that matter it is one that I have forgotten about. I left the strikes in as they appear on the paper, because somethines what a writer takes away can show you more of that writer. Framing Selfish Pictures was written a few months after my first son died, his father no longer wanted me because the doctors feared that all my children would share the same fate. You will see many more on this topic.

Timid Ghosts hiding,
behind curtains of my
many misconceptions
~~unwept dreams~~
Caution seeps from my fingertips.

Timid emotions hiding
behind curtains of my
many misconceptions

~~Though~~ Caution may seep from my fingertips.
~~My unforgiving palms, leave an unloving sting~~
yet it neglects to spill from my mouth.
You only see this one thing
though timid emotions
hide behind curtains of my
many misconceptions.
~~a child that fell from my~~
A Child that I named a month before
in skins tones of green
open eyes ~~for some love~~ to say farewell.
Then ceases to breathe.
I'll hide in my guilt, a body diseased.
~~my body diseased~~
As you walk from my heart,
in contempt and disgrace,
for fault you have rested upon my chest.
A burden I deserve to asphyxiate in.
Yet I can not sit in the corner
bloodying my lips with anger from my teeth
I wish not to touch you with my hands
my tongue shall lash your skin.

No longer will I find imperfections
in my portrait
Nor will I allow you
to rape me with false fault.
my willful mouth
no longer seeks yours.
Viciously searching for heart.
Something that you have allowed to rot
from deep inside.
I have nothing left to love,
and you nothing left to gain.
an exit you must find
before caution
ceases to seep,
from my fingertips.

I only Watch (age 15)

2008-02-18T09:30:00.000-08:00

Spelling errors original to script

Consuming feelings of dread
engolf my passive death
they prepare
I watched them
Hurrily antisapating this gentic demise
though I know it's a part of them
But I only watch
watch as they build a life
for the future birth
They know what the season brings
we only sulk in it
they see far better than we
I only watch

Home (age 16)

2008-02-16T14:10:00.000-08:00

(spelling errors original to script)

Thoughts, thinking words phrases
make them stop
they overwhelm me
bringing me to my knees
SCREAMING
Torture, shock, blackness death
when can I be allowed to breathe
They show me the stone
my precious life
words carved upon it
SCREAMING
emotions, feelings, sancturary, life
I've become blind to this life
burning my flesh with sarcasim
eliminating all my dreams
still they persist
SCREAMING
Nature, envie, jealousy,rage
still crying
anxisly await peace
stillness
SCREAMING

Dear (age 16)

2008-02-16T14:06:00.000-08:00

Do you understand the bliss
of this impending doom?
The body that washes ashore
reminds me of you.
Blue and bloating
yearing to breathe
no more time to grow.
with all this hope
faded in her blue eyes.
Once she walked and talked, dreamed and loved
Now she sleeps in her tiny black lagoon
Remember her dancing under a demons full moon?
Pale skin shinning in flattering twilight
Now she sits and stares.
DO you see how this reminds me of you?

Untitled (age 15)

2008-02-15T06:09:00.000-08:00

This is the age I discover existentialism, which in turn lead to a bout of angst. You will not get the background to some of these at this age, so angst will be the appropriate term, even though there is some nefarious explanations to many of them. The acute reader will sure discover what they are. This is the age of subtlety, were I thought that all poetry had a hidden meaning.

I am not what you percive
My Nature is nonexistent
The prayer that you say
shall fall upon the deaf
the games you play
shall be shown to the blind
and your freedoms
are locked away in my cage
Sadist happiness
in your town gone mad
Rightous semi-reality
betroth your shattered sons
Melencoly Raping mersonaries
kiss the foreheads of your daughters
your children die
and you still won't see
the envie, navity
you thrust upon me.

Untitled (age 14)

2008-02-14T05:50:00.000-08:00

This is the time I started experimenting with words. They made sense to me then, but now as I read back through them, I wonder what drugs I was using, then I remember which ones. It is hard to copy these old poems without correcting the spelling. But leaving it in its original form is an important part to following the developments of a writer. You will also find a line included in the following script that shows who was influencing me at this age.

A naive society of masses
convirte us to the overwhelming
conformity
Majority spankings creating self
dulisionary froum of patrism
Sufficiant presidental litterbox
on the side highway of emotional payday
Student body of cencored
thoughts and subsided individuality
Caninibols, they who come and go, laughing without smiles
Arousing dirge in my hallow closet witch
that is called my life.

Untitled (age 14)

2008-02-13T09:33:00.000-08:00

I might have been grounded when I wrote this. Misspellings are original to the script

Chaotic bouts of pleasure
in my structured dicplined mind
a new passive freedom engulfs
my daily blend
timid ghosts hiding behind curtains
of many misconceptions
framing me for selfish deed
smiling sarcasims scar
my tapered back
------------------
Herotic demise for my unwept dreams
keeping my needs from bleeding through
caution seeps from my fingertips
as quoted mature manipulation
kills our innocent freedom
--------------------------

Structured Death befalls us many times in are shelled and frivalous existences!
------------------------------------

Salotary confinment of
extenct individuals
in my sublimanly formed
holocaustic prison

Where Does The Sky End? (age 8)

2008-02-10T05:24:00.000-08:00

(This was a PTA contest, the title was the subject)

Some say it ends in space

Others say it will end when the world comes to an end

I think the end of the sky is in ones mind

The hearts and minds of children hold the end of the sky
they and others use their imagination to find it

There is no end

only the mind can say that

if you use it right, it can show you the end of the sky

The Earth has no end

so why then should the sky?

The Illusory World (age 19)

2008-02-09T07:33:00.000-08:00

This world is but a winery,
Its host and master Father Time
Who caters only to those seeped
in dreams discordant, without rhyme

For People drink and race as thought
They were the steads of mad desire,
Thus some are blatant when they pray
and others frenzied to acquire.

Few on this Earth who Savor Life
And are not bored by its free gifts,
Or divert not its streams to cups,
In which their fancy floats and drifts.

Should you then find a sober soul,
amid this state of revelry
Marvel how a moon did find,
in this rain cloud, a canopy