Poem: The Eternal Dream

the eternal dream

we plunged through the murky depths of the world

laughing our way through the hordes of blank faces

and empty seats on the subway.

flying through the milky way

in the hopes of reaching a different planet

fast in the pursuit of the eternal dream.

we let the demons run amok

indulging in their most horrible fantasies,

but we didn't care

their rage was absurd,

and empty

she led me through the dark corridors of my mind

the barest psych images slamming into me

stripping my soul naked.

desperately clutching on to my only salvation

i heard the preacher

his mouth was full of blood and fire

and he spoke words of terror.

for a moment i was frightened of this madman

but when i gazed into her infinite deep eyes, angelic,

i knew how pitiful he was

so i opened my third eye

and severed my chains

i am now truly free

and we journey on

through the valley of the kings,

we ride on the white-feathered wings of eternity.

climbing the spires of ten-thousand frantic suicides

i look below

and see the damned

clawing at my feet

screaming obscenities

i whispered no,

and they scurried back to their dark, forgotten halls,

shivering wretchedly in the cold.

there is no hope for these souls.

the soldier lays dying on the field of dust.

i saw him there, crying for his lost love.

but the black tears on his face,

they are from laughter.

for he has realized that the most precious thing about life

is that sometime, it must end.

although i'd like to stay for a bit,

and give honors to the dead

we must travel on...

Well, I think that this one turned out pretty well. I'm quite proud of it. It's not exactly finished yet, either. But leave a comment if you like it or dislike it, as long as you tell me why. I'd appreciate that.

-Johannes de Silentio

Welcome to the rabbit hole, may I take your order?

Thought-Nature

The great love lies twixt the great branches here for evermore. 
Of and for sadness, I cannot clear my mind,
for on these forsaken plains a scarecrow humbled, stands amongst the elements
moon in full, harvest moon above him
Sometimes,
for words are pebbles, for they serve the same purpose, but each is different and until held, turned over and inspected, are indistinguishable 
over the pebbles flows the stream of prose and poetry, reaching from the tributaries of thought to the great sea of knowledge. 
the tree, the great love embraces the shore and catches the word-pebbles, diverting the stream of thought, train of consciousness, until the raven flies
so the crow flies and the jester claims a court case against injustice. Injustice then rallies the people into a court tribunal. The proceeds go to charity. For thought is wise, he serves as the judge and presides over all, material and immaterial. 
the tree creates too, drawing from the word pebbles, their meaning, their essence is drawn though the truck to make the leaves of abstraction 
As poverty and the great masses of starving Africa against collective deception, eating instead the tomes of thought within the Balboa tree. 
Each leaf is part of a pattern, a combination of thought
For time is almost gone and when the cares break the fortress wall against self referendum, chaos results. 
-San

It's not for me to care what people think of this. It represented my state-of-mind at the time of writing, and that is all I could ever have hoped for. If you do, fine, I'm ecstatic. I'm feeling kinda wiped right now, schoolwork piling up. Don't expect any more entries today, I'm DRAINED. 

Bob Dylan was the master of this style. 

I have to write a Philosophy paper tonight, so wish me luck! 

Lets try allegory, shall we

the poet at the window

does not see

only writes
his words spun from dusty air
thick with the scent of literature
on shelves
a taste
of what he could have read
he coughs

and carries more meaning than a lifetime

of scratching

with his no.2 on archival paper
The newspaper in town publishes his work
out of pity
(and lack of truth)
manufacturing illusion
on the presses that publish
The Informer

the child
that took the paper from under-neath the coffee mug this morning
reads with quiet awe
underneath the covers
his child's mind

assigning worlds to empty words

-san

For a Muse....

Guilt can be motivational. In fact it can be a life changing, Oh-God-what-was-I-thinking-I'm-such-a-hack sort of thing. So for all of you, this is a prime example of a paradigm shift. Please consider the following.

I sincerely apologize for my absence from this blog, and for negligence to a good friend.

In my own right I was insanely busy, but I now have succeeded in securing a therapist. What this means to the therapist is of neither your nor my concern.

Where my friend has been experiencing a sudden, unexpected bout of happiness (really I think I've lost him for good), I have plenty of fresh (though stewing) depression for you all to feed on, readers.

Johannes was dead-on with the perfectionist issue. I have it bad. Comments (read: compliments) about my work will secure a steady flow of literary materials until I reach such said point of self satisfaction, and end up all happy-optimistic like my friend here.

Call me San, and I'll be your host this evening.

Computer Death...

Unfortunately for you and me both, my computer has decided to die on me. This means that my archive of poetry has been lost, maybe permanently. Now, you can see how this would have a negative impact on me, but how does this affect you? Well, I was planning on going on a posting spree, maybe with one post every other day, possibly every day. That plan has now been abandoned, so all of you out there who enjoy my poetry may not get your fix. And I do apologize for not updating in almost a month. I place most of the blame on my co-blogger, San, who, despite my best efforts, refuses to post anything less than what he believes is "perfect", which is a shame for all of you, because he produces quite good stuff. Still, some of the blame belongs to myself, as I have been lax in my duty, which is to bring you beautiful, mostly ludicrous, poetry. Recently, I've been afflicted with an incurable case of happiness, which is not favorable to poetry-making. But I think that I'm learning to work under the influence of happiness, so you may see more of me yet.
Signing off,
Johannes de Silentio

Poem: Fever Dream Vision

To my beloved, my light and hope:

fever dream vision

it was as she said. completely unexpected, almost appearing out the thin air. just hold on, she whispered, we're far from the end of the line. and i, i have never heard truer words. those simple words stay with me, and i see the monstrous eternal hourglass in front of me, looming there as it always has been. and it terrifies me. i feel that i have never been weaker in my life. it overwhelms me, like a fever dream vision. but in the midst of all my fear, anger, despair, i realize it. i see that this is where it is. it's not in their long but empty wanderings, nor in their silent meditations. it's right here. and i have it.

-Johannes de Silentio