Nocturnal//Backwards

Note


Below is a set of similar poems written for a university project in 2015. Every once in a while I will come across stories I’d written in the past, and will be publishing them here so I can have them all in one place. This collection of poems has not been edited from its original form.


Night
The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just woken up
and my day is just beginning.

I recognize that it is the end for most,
but is this why it is appealing?
Is it
the quiet softness of the night
that never ceases to comfort?

I’m not sure it matters.

It is in those dull evenings
when I wake myself
after they have all gone to sleep
that I find that there is still pleasure in
living alone.

After sunset
I can stop
and think
without the burning noise
of the everlasting summer.

Nocturnal

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just woken up
and my day is beginning

It’s the end of the day,
is that why I like it?
Is it
the quiet softness
that constantly comforts?

In those dull evenings
when I wake myself
while others sleep
I find pleasure in
living alone

After sunset
I can stop
and think
without the burning
noise of
summer everlasting.

Backwards

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just awoken
and my day is starting

It’s the end of sunlight,
is that why I like it?
Is it
the quiet comfort
or continuous ease?

In those dull evenings,
when I rise from the dusk
as others dream
I am glad to have
lived alone.

After sunset
I cease
and surmise
that the burning
noise of summer
lasts forever.

Tired

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just awoken
and the day’s hate is over.

It’s the end of sunlight,
and that’s why I like it.

In those dead evenings,
when I rise from the dusk
as others dream
I’m glad to have
lived by myself.

After sunset
I stop
and wonder
if the burning
noise of summer
will last
forever?

Living in Winter

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
at the dawn of my own day
the absence of light is born.

Sunlight is dead,
that’s why I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rise from my coffin
as others rejuvenate
living by myself
peels me away.

After sunset
time stops
and I contemplate
if the stinging heat
of summer
will ever end.

Nocturnal

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
at the dawn of my own day
when the light’s hate
is over.

It’s the end of sun,
that’s why I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rise from my ashes
as others
rejuvenate
living by myself
peels me away.

After sunset
time stops
and I wonder
if the stinging heat
of summer
ever ends.

Backwards

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
when my day starts
and the light’s hate
has ended.

It’s the end of sun,
and that’s why I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rose from my ashes
as others rejuvenated,
living by myself
peeled me away.
After sunset
time stops
and I wonder
if summer
ever ends.

Backwards

The best time is sunset,
when things start to happen.
After my own day starts
and the light’s hate
has ended.

It’s the end of sun,
and that’s why
I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rise from my ashes
as others rejuvenate,
living alone
peels me away.

After sunset,
time stops
and I wonder
if the stinging heat
of summer
will ever end.

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Ars Poetica

To lay in the dark,

without purpose or

prospect,

is to seal one’s own will

and to welcome decay.

The burning sensation

of boredom, which

squirms and burrows

in one’s skull is the precursor

to madness.

Yet, if one stops for a moment,

he can see his

slim and pasty fingers

flick and jitter and

ache and crave

the passage of thought.

All Of Us

To Crave Is…

To flail beneath the surface for air
inches from where blue meets white and
never reach the soft cool wind

To lie in a damp black room with
one window outside of which
a tiny stained bulb cracks and
snaps at you; your only thoughts
of how you haven’t eaten
all day

To breathe softly on a friend’s
back porch and stare
into the trees, listening to
the swarming insects,
finding mates and loving
their nectar, and grinding your teeth
because your nectar is
gone again.

Afterwards

             After the last song, we started down a dark street. There was a sound like the shock of a dropped eight-string, and it clouded our territory with distressed and anxious gnats, burrowing into our ears with a visceral scratching, the kind of scratching that may prompt one to beat himself for no reason other than to clear its echoes. A quick, sharp wail and an interrupted gasp followed the shock. Silk woven bags of sand spun and met their surroundings with the force of riot pellets against hard metal. But this was around the corner in an alley that always smelled of blood and burning heroin. That wasn’t our alley, ours was a block north. I felt the tingle in the back of my head again. The spiders were stepping ever so slowly up and down the inside of my skull, their sharp weaving feet tapping back and forth. I would soon breathe it again. Smell it, taste it, know it. The drip like old vitamins mother fed me twenty years ago. My primal instincts would best me soon, forcing me to crawl into my shadow beneath the grid once again.

-untitled- (poem)

Layers of skin are peeling away…
but the new skin just looks all the same.

In the dark, I watch him tie…
the sheet from which my body will die.

Tangled in black strands of thick cloth…
I try to imagine what’s gained and what’s lost.

This demon of mine, what he wants, I don’t know…
he thinks I can only be happy alone.

Repeating again, that new skin is the same…
I question if happiness is truly in vein.

A constant struggle for attention, I cry…
protected by dark, so cleverly disguised.

My heart, still beating, the only thing I despise.

The Forest (poem)

No matter when or where, I’m always alone

when I pull my car up to the side of the road.

I step out, clasping cold metal and broken glass

my black boots crunching the frozen black grass.

I take a look to my left, in the black and white woods

exposing the world, without all the good.

I take a walk down the path crafted from shattered dreams

each step polluting the air with a thousand screams.

The trees let go of their bright white frond

reducing to black, as they sink in the pond.

The water’s cold and lifeless, emotions are grim

if I had something to lose, then I’d go for a swim.

Just to stay dry, I keep on the trail

and wait for every chance I get to exhale.

It’s the only point of relief in this desolate place…

holding a hood over my head, and hands over my face.

I ensue for some time, feet moving with technique

Until I notice her familiar dark physique.

I stare at her pale face, as she’s shaking her head

flooding my brain with inexhaustible dread.

I don’t say a thing, and neither does she

With unspoken feelings, we silently agree.

The solution will never be found

the only problem is me.

King (poem)

I am the God of this world
I am the son of the morn
I am bound in mortal vein
Through deception I am born

I am remover of innocence
I am the knife in virgin flesh
I am the pain in suffocation
Through the pure I begin fresh

I am the breathing hate in your shadow
I am the thirst you so desperately crave
I am dynamic in the hand of thieves
Through lust men remain enslaved

I am the slices in your arm
I am torturer of masses
I am the dark heart in mankind
Embodied in man, whip, and lashes

I will remain forever
The father and son of your actions

Feeding on hate most pure