Vivid

Ignorance is not bliss;
It never will be.
It never can be.
How can the blind man
Enjoy what he cannot see?
Knowledge is power.
Apparent ignorance
With hidden knowledge;
That is bliss.

Another Migraine

Tasting the sweet intrusion

of thoughtless bleeding fusion

digging deeper into the mind

digging lower and lower

brushed by the grind

Invisible spiders entangling the spine

like suffocation of a strangling vine

Talons pierce the mind
shatter thoughts into spiraling shards

of black and gold and ember

in fire and ice and mismatched strains

Music echoes in the shadow

broken lights swallow shallow dreams

that wilt and wane while hope lies frozen

in hollow moments and fragmented scenes

Lights dance in mocking grace

flowing on an angry tide

doused in cold, frustrated rage

hope lies barren on desert sands

in twisted agony

We're almost touching the grind.

11:12

Parched throats and pens.
Dishevelled desks and hairs.
Crumbled pages and thoughts.
Blackened erasers and eyes.

Wincing the Night Away whispers
some stifled headphone
connected to some dying iPod
buried somewhere in my
denim mountain on the floor.

"Eviscerate your fragile frame
and spill it out on the ragged floor."
The words kidnap my mind
away from my work
to a much needed sleeping lesson.

My head jerks backwards.
I am thrown back into reality.
My blackened eyes wander across my dishevelled desk
resting on my cellular connection to the world.

I hope desperately for some excuse for procrastination
But the screen remains unforgivingly black
Staring unforgivingly back
At my unforgivingly black eyes.

Still and silent.

My eyes stumble to the clock
"11:12" it scoffs.
Those 4 unholy digits
laugh at me behind their rigid black lines.

Still and silent.

Eleven-twelve.
I only want to
Wish the night away.
But I've just missed my chance.
One minute too late always comes too soon.

My eyes can't see what I'm sensing
So I'll have to settle with wincing.

Six Feet Over

A dead man, to me,

Lies not below the sea;

Not a body in the ground,

But a voice without sound.

A dead man, I say,

Is not the soil's prey,

But an expressionless toy

Of unwarrented joy.

A dead man can be

Something difficult to see.

His thoughts go unknown;

Another faceless clone.

Only can we thrive,

Breathing and alive,

When our mind is free

Not to think

But to see.

Drip

Mind-numbing exasperation

Infuriating irritation

The drip...drip...drip of the day

Drip-drip-dripping away

Leads my conscience astray

Thoughts turn to bitter dismay

Tearing at my aching head

As I sink further into my bed

With all my thoughts left unsaid

Consciousness is such a dread

I'd rather sleep it away instead