Hit the reeds

Pull your car over. I need to get out and scream. I need to let it all out. Cause I can't pretend like it never happened. I can't pretend that suffering isnt going to occur. And I cant pretend that it wont return after its done with me now.
I need to run out into the field and feel the reeds hit my hands. I need to walk this out, pace till I can find a definitive place for all the wrong turns. You may never need to catalog evil, but I need to sort this sickness. When you lose the luxury of pain being temporary, you need to know where your prayers go.You want to know where your blood flows when you pour it out for others. You want to be honest and seek truth, you just gotta keep praying as your pushing your sweaty hands into the dirt. You can't hyperventilate. You have no time for defeat. You have to move on.
Hit the road. Play me that song that burns my lungs. Let me pound my fists upon your dashboard, just enough where your airbags might come forth. I can hyperventilate here, in between the beats. You wont ask me about cause I'm looking kinda manic now. Just know buddy, I'm not ludicrous, I dont think I'm even ridiculous. I'm struggling. I'm wrestling. I'm burning for answers. I'm burning for some retribution, for justice and victory. I can't slow down right now. Not now, when my brothers backs against the wall. When my sisters mind is a playground for animals. How can I keep mute?

But if I speak, how could I defy the mold. How could I reach further than these governing ghosts?

 How can I trample the only notions known?

I will look for you. I will wrestle with you. I may come out bloody and torn and fractured

But I will know you. And I will have my soul.

It is not theirs to take.

Questions about Time Travel

White Grizzly has returned from his hiatus.I wonder what I will tell him. I wonder if my secrets will flee from my lips, or whether my second nature will seal me up proper.

I want to seal it up from everybody. I know this age is green, but bricks keep dropping like rain. Its not proper for this to continue. I was supposed to have made my escape long ago. I live in between mountains, in the valleys and the crevices. Its where I was born and its where I made my home. Every year I ascent those mountains, but I never stay, its so cold up there. Its warmer in this lonely town.

Sometimes, I wonder if all the grandeur I dream of will be looked at by historians as an irrelevant footnote. I'm always dreaming, always left in that dark wondrous neverland. Where history doesn't mean a thing, and I am not stuck here. I am in a hopeful future. Its hard to resist acting towards that future as soon as I awake.

I think the Man I am in my dreams is a different person. He's in love with everything. He really is a torchbearer. He has a light about him and his story compels.

Right now I hate everything. Mostly because the cancer reaches everything. The smoke arises from my foolish mouth and stains everything I speak into. Its like a cigarette addiction. Sin is like cigarrettes. Thing is, no one finds my smoke appealing. It stains homes, and churches.

I dream of a day where my breath is purified. But there no cure for sin. Just death.
Even when gazing upon the king, its in the back of my mind, gnawing away. I will look away, divert my gaze.

There is no cure. Sainthood is allusive. Must I always question your grace? Are the transmissions turned off? Why do I feel like I am the brides disease? Why do I always feel this way?

Blackbird, you would dream it all away. Sometimes I feel that way too. I just want them to be true. Not dreams. I hate these dreams.

Heartless Ghosts

Your just a ghost trailing me. You're always waiting for me to slip so you can steal my bones and feel the remnant purity crumble in your hands.

So now, I watch for you. I keep a notebook full of my paranoia. But I will bring it to court on the day I see you. And someday I will hunt you down, and I will bash in your teeth and I will set your lungs on fire.

You heartless ghost. You drive such fear into me. You heartless ghost.

Staying on this planet, suffering is standard. Where am I to go, how am I to leave? These bloody hands are my memories. When I get stuck here, when I am waiting, where are your promises stored? What canvern must I search, from what fountain can I draw hope?

I have been decieved my King. I am waiting for the breeze to touch me again. I am waiting my Lord, for the rage to quit its game. I wonder if this is what you intended for me? This old and hollow forest isn't my home.

My home has no witch overseeing my heritage, in my home, witches don't curse my family name. Its hard to believe that home exists. That it is somewhere. The idea that somewhere I dont have to hear the bloody cries of my family.

Though I fear, that my family may cry eternally. I don't know. I do fear.

I fear that witch may have her day, that she may have her way. That my torch wasn't built to destroy. And that blackbirds gaze wont hold her back.

King, if I were blessed, if I could ever ask for blessing, for favor. I would ask that THAT WHORE OF BABYLON, not lay her hands on blackbird.
I shutter when I remember my vision of her hands on blackbird. But I understand your message.

Dark cannot stand within the light.

At times, even that is abstract to me. But you would always wrap your arms around me, protecting me. I can feel your warmth, your security. Even in these hollow woods. Haunted with these God-forsaken memories.

Though whenever, I search for you I find you.

And I wonder, how God-forsaken are they?

Quiet sweet submission

My outlandish preaching has been reduced to floating prayers, silent and often unspoken. My love will be quiet now. I will be very quiet. I will pray in my room with my door closed, the lights off and my head on the floor.

Romance is dead in me,

and she will sleep now, 

and one day

she might wake.

But sitting in the quiet with my king, it's there when he speaks. In the long fields with an old book in my hand while my sensationalism is dead and apart from my flesh. Thats when my king tells me his tales, thats when I understand honor, and I get obedience. And, man, I battle for those times, cause I got a fever that wont break.

But they come. They always do.

And his songs and melody doesn't seem to far away when I quiet down. His direction is not too hard, when you got the flame of his hand piercing your heart. When the kids ruffle your hair and put a little fire under your feet, you already got somethin burning you to a truer blue; the rough sun doesnt kill you the same. The beatings all come with bandages and you know her sorrow songs are not the end of her.

Somehow, love is born from your rough heart.

Somehow you are capable of that.

You thought you were always gonna be sick and perverted.

You thought your love would always be laced with lies.

But not in this kingdom.

Not in his kingdom.

Submission to a Pure King. To a righteous authority, its flying, not falling.

Fly girl.

Here is my prayer.

I need to strength from my body. Strength lost from a lack of authority in my life. I NEED mentors and strong men to battle with me. Reign over me lord. Reign over me.

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.