Trepidation

Can you feel the potential in your shoulders and the weight of your mind on your neck?
Can you feel the protest rising up on your borders, can you feel the predetermined war without reason?
Do you know what you were born for?
Do you know what sort of conflict was intended to break you down,
just so you could reconstruct and reinvent yourself?

Or were you born on high ground, letting yourself roll into life,
cause you're looking at my blood like a foreigner.

Do you sometimes feel awkward when your looking at God, cause you've fought and fought and still find yourself irrelevant compared to your king?

Sometimes, Brother King,
The hardest thing is,
that in order to be on the field with you,
I have to forgive and allow grace to move in,
for all there horrors, I allowed to walk in.

Im terrified of losing control again, and my fear is funny
cause I am the thief of my own self control.

What a wretched man I am.

Blackbird Haunts

There is no goodbye, you'll haunt me now, I'll forget never.

She holds account for my blind love, and I know her curling passion. 

Our hands know where they fit, and I know her sense of humor,

and its not as funny as her goofiness.

She finds me hiding in the shadows, holding onto some old hope, 

she always tells me, "you dont belong there,"

even if I am destroying her mind.

I've known her in her warmth, and I can tell her tale so well you'll weep. I can chart out her motives on a map, and walk out her path for her. I could be her if I wanted to. Cause I know her in my bones.

But its not my place to speak there, its not my place to reveal what I know. I have no right.

I have no right in her life. After what I did, I could believe in a special place for sick men like me.

I have no right in her life, and I was never hers. I was not what I claimed I was. And I knew everyone could see through my facade. I am not made to lie. I'm a liar anyways. A bad one.

She asked me the other day, if I would ever change. And my responses, theyre not enough. You've seen me in my most wicked ways, and you know. My words are fickle; upon temptation and a dark circumstance, I am moved entirely. My words are not profound, I am weak and fragile. And if I am loving you, I am probably also hiding from something. Mostly God...

And when I'm hiding from God, my love gets real sick. 

My eyes are hollow, filled with empty anger and lust.

Death resides under my tongue. And flesh and pus flow from the hinges in my jaw. Its fucking disgusting.

For some reason, I cant help but return here, to this sick objectification of sweet blackbird. Rage burns when I sleep, and when I wake I want to tear at my skin.

Like I said, I could be you.

I could not drink enough gasoline to get you out of my head. I couldn't hold you long enough to keep you. 

I know, your sick of my rotten breath.

I'm sick of it too.

Where to go with this.

I am centered over this helpless life, or at least thats where I find myself.



To young to hold my hand, she doesn't think of the end of her life.I dont think, she even understands that she is separate from her mother. She doesn't know she will be the object of objectification, by men obsessed with their compulsions. Only in the near future.


You know, you think you are justified in your impulses. But what you find out, is you are stuck in a world that has limits and boundries and set definitions. And before you can declare your reality, even if you acknowledge it as fantasy, your head is spun around by gravity.

And some people just keep spinning and spinning. 

And some sit like silent silhouettes, not moving, not breathing. terrified of being.

They wait for their name to be called, for their stomachs to be certain.

But, I can tell you about the man I am, from the bloodshot eyes,

Not from drugs, but from sleepless nights. Hurling up whats left of the torrent in my stomach.

Too much time spent in that ocean...

Sure, I told you that man is not mortal, but my, how he can break. He crumbles and brings himself upon the steps of the institution he hates. He paints his own world black and gray, and all he knows is this current that his selfishness holds him in. And finally, as he develops his illusion, wraps it in power and holds it with love, it grows and feeds on him and his family. The illusion is a symbiote and the man will grow in attachment, he will wear it as a mask, and his identity is stolen.

But its name is not the name that i bear. But his name eludes my lips, cause I to busy putting forth my own definitions. But my heart is sealed for him. I am truly his. That is my foremost definition.

And I get very tired of living my way. Wish I could be rid of this...

I dont know how to get rid of this.

The champ and sentry will like this weeks musical selections. Maybe Blackbird too.