Victim of a Mastermind

Eating in the circles in the dusted silence of another polished lie. Whatever does become of the beasts of burden that haunt your daylight and your comfort? In this cyclone parade of everyday, the weeks pave into months of forgotten resolve. You write a new song and manage to sing along to the ones you bled bare. And then you cull and evolve and push away and embrace. Terrible; that what the state of mind has become. And the years to become are still a pale shadow of the years gone by. And the longing lingering in the reveries painted on the shut eyelids from the inside out threaten to become the demonic truth. You look at the person you were entwined within a world away the night before and wonder… do they know you’ve been dreaming of them? Do they sense that you look at them differently even if it be so passively? You are the mastermind of this victim. And a victim of this mastermind.

The many days gone by have been my pet hurricanes. The very naked therapeutic song that you churned out has helped you move forward. And you are still addressing yourself, almost prepping your own self. So you talk and whisper and sing and scream to yourself. You must educate yourself to eradicate your self. And then build a new perception of your self. And break that down. And then erect another façade. Build to break more. Bleed to believe, and believe to ridicule. Ignorance remains a bliss less visited. Belief beyond belief is the prozac that will lull you to sleep. Sleep to dream so that you may look again at someone so differently yet act the same. A reverie I say is then the 38293085th of the improbable roads you are less likely to drink in travel. And the journey is endless, yet so fucking short.

So think about the year gone by. Such beautiful mistakes, such ugly success. Such a sight for sore eyes you remain to be, such a sight for sore eyes.

Glory-hole in the soul ....

This is going to be pretty smooth sailing from now on … the blissful retreat of the residual hours can be spent sinking into the often tiring and rarely enterprising scavenger hunts through my echoing mind. The weight of responsibilities to self, circumstance and futures ill-conceived falls on the folds of synaptic pit stops. The heart beats as one… alone in vision and warmth, not fused in unison of feelings. The hands ache in earnest yearning to etch vengeful escapades onto the corridors of celestial residue. And the eyes… few may have seen or have imagined what the lid paints upon the fabric of processing vision as it slithers repeatedly over the white and the lens. The looking glass; the proverbial crystal ball which reveals more as it is peered into rather than what it gazes upon. Such is the state of affairs… this is the new diary of soul. Scribbled and scathed on by many but suffered, felt and enjoyed by only me as it runs through the cavalcade of undoing inside. This is the new diary of my soul.