A Story Untold, Pt. 1

Once upon a time has been used, perhaps, in this setting, just once, too many times. No, this will not be a happily ever-after fantasy. I’ll save for those poor souls who need it more that journey. Quite instead, I think we’ll begin ours a bit, differently this time ’round. You see, I’ve never been one to be able to sit and write quite so easily; finishing a story in its entirety, but rather, offer extreme glimpses over the whole of a lifetime. Mayhaps this time shall be different, I hope.

Oh, I don’t recall so easily how, or even why I ended up sitting down at that moment, but it was crucial that I did. More so, that I begin writing down my thoughts as they quickly, almost quietly slipped past my conscious. These words needed to be writ before it was too late to capture them. See here now, that once the thought has occurred in such a manner, nay shall it be allowed to do so the same again. And shouldn’t that be the point of it all? To have the stroke of genius strike but only once to a man? No, I didn’t think so either, least before sitting down that night.

Sadness is a human affliction, or so we’ve been lead to believe. Rather differently I believe, it is an affliction of life. One that spans all creatures, regardless if they have higher functions or not. Though there are different levels of sadness, to be felt by each, at different times, and with different intensities, there are some to whom, rather unfortunately, must deal with great shades of pain and sadness, all within a single lifetime of living. Then there are those poor souls, who must deal with it all in extremely short spans of time. Some turn to dull the pains brought, others are driven made by it. While some, much like myself, abuse it in order to bring new life from it. We don’t control it, but we also don’t let it control ourselves. We simply respect it, learn from it, and every now and then, ride the waves as they come crashing.

See here, this writer’s heart, mind, and soul have all been through levels of hell unfathomable to others. But yet here it wrote this, still kicking, fighting, dying. It’s oft been writ before, and to be so again, of the pain and suffering that we’ve journeyed through together. It’s been broken, abused, and used more times than care to recall. It’s also known immense joys within incredible sorrows. Yet all three continue to press forwards. There are times, oh there are many times, when it all comes swelling once more within. A few stray tears will fall, and the room heavy, will grow. But the journey still continues to carry forth from depths once unknown.

Desolations

The silence that hasn’t spilled from fingers pricked
Hesitant over lettered buttons
Waiting…

Words squished between the nothings
Forced into hiding
Yearning…

A trickle of a drop within a hint
Bashed with the skull
Smoldering…

Raging ash flaring unending upwards
Fluttering amongst the openings
Flowing…

Quiet falls all around the bareness witnessed
Flames frozen in dances of a trance
Stillness…

And then it hits you head on
The entrapping bittersweet
Echoing…

Accepting the emptiness of a barren sky
The nothingness from within
Pondering…

Words most useless now come forth to be used
Not long to be hidden
Begging…

The world has changed it’s views to see
Forced upon the differences
Resolutions…

The mind once full of lively amazement
Enormous fields of thoughts
Desolate…

o2201436

Writer’s Lament

Crank the tunes, two in the morning, headphones leaving that familiar burning about the ears. Fingers busted wide across the keyboard stinging from pencils furious repetitions across blackened pages. WRITE! Just write anything that comes flowing into the unconscious consciousness that comes. Delirious sleeping of letters flying around. Pictures from within, worlds emerge, stories write themselves. Beats. Scribbles. Blood. Technicolor lines. Write to the heartbeat, the drumbeat, the guitar strum, every third word heard or object noticed. Play the story. Be the story. Let it sink into that bottomless pit hidden deep within the soulless hells that get tucked away from the light of day. Go fishing for it and yank its sorry ass back to the surface, squeezing it for every last drop the pencil can muster up. Worry not about repercussions. Don’t read it back. Just write. The butcher can make it the beautiful steak once all the blood is drained later. Don’t hold back!

Death’s Hammer

The clicking and clacking at odd hours
Enough to drive anyone mad
But he didn’t have walls in between
All he had was a few feet

The clacking and clicking all night long
Is enough to drive any sane man around
Able to drive them away from normalness
Into the darkness that awaits their souls

Clicking of keys and clacking of hammers
It digs deep with each strike
Eating away at every last straw remaining
Slowly devouring everything that was

Clacks of smacks with quick clicks
How these fingers drive me away
Slowly slip into the places beyond
Away from normal thinking and feeling

I sit there smashing fingers to keys
As the hammer rips through the ribbon

Last In Line

Well it’s been too damn long
And now I’m too damn old
Got lost between here and that old road
Too many miles have I walked alone

His hands now gone to guide my path
Her memories are all that’s left
As each day is further from
When they both left

Years flown by with months they cry
As the past travels back in time
To days when they were still alive
Where memories were being made to live

Though they’re gone from their lives
Memories have survived the graves
As the little child trapped inside
Breaks down and hides

While the realization quickly sinks
He’s now the last in line
With no more living behind
He’s left lost out in the crowd

But all his life, he’s been raised
To live a life properly
Treat a wife how she deserves
And raise his kids same he was

Though the past now gone
Not to be replaced
The lessons once learned
Can’t be erased
But passed on down the line