Thursday, August 6, 2009


Stumbling upon a consciousness
With the mind numb
And thoughts darting, forking fast
Inside the flaccid congitarium

Finding, seeking, hunting a rhythm
to escape a truth now out of scope
So that the new reality burns out
any possibility of hope

Pain brings sensation not sorrow
Hence it's purpose is void
Thus it is nulled, humbled, mastered
It's reason for existence destroyed

We seek eternally, the meaning of time
Searching, gathering to the limit of ability
And as its scope expands limitless, we become
Prisoners of our own infinity...

Wednesday, August 5, 2009


The grey clouds part
Comes out no hopeful ray of light
But a piercing blast of hated heat
And with it our hopes depart
Oh cursed land!
Barren of hope and freedom
Why must we dwell
In thy cruel unyielding bosom
While our dreams lie dead, cold and fell.

As the traveller of the dusty roads
reaches the end of his journey
and for the last run his mind goads
Him, for truth is near, he is weary
And the righteous victim finds
that the author of this most gruesome of deeds
the defiling hands that perperated these crimes
are his own

For when along the dagger-path you walk
when you teeter beside the razors edge
Both sides are one
Both sides emerge
equally dark in the abscence
of opportunity
And that last instrument of denial
fades through the blood-stains of time
A futility called hope...


"...I hate the sun on principle: it gives little choice and permeates noxiously into every aspect of existence. Driven by our NEED for light we are forced to accept unwanted unneccessaries alongside the satisfaction of our ravaging, primal need..."

"...reading is like masturbation, rarely does one orgasm but one keeps repeating in quest for that first earth-shattering experience..."

"...thought is the sole posioner of deed. An excess: leading to hesitancy and over-calculated error; little, to risk..."