Monthly Archives: January 2011

Taken From

Taken From

No one cares

Contentment fades
The soul decides what blood it takes
From these conflicts and problems of everyday

From my living for the grave

Confused, aren’t you? When I appear
The one with a voice always too low to hear
She knows there is no more to say

You’d die before you’d ever change

And they want all from me; stripped worthless at their word
I take enough from the hurt but I beg for the worst
Smothered within this fog

I’ve watched unmoved for far too long


I wanted to paint another flower. I had a hard time working out what I’m trying to say with it here, but it’s close to representing how surroundings can strip or drain the best out of something that used to thrive. Or the reverse as in the surrounding world being toxic, draining the life. The darker green and pattern on the inside going against the jagged bright shapes all around…trying to keep a sense of control when it’s already too late for that, but I’m just thinking too far into it. Never mind.

The poem is now also a song. I gave it the same title as this painting just out of the similarities I see exist in the message of both. The beginning lines are old scraps from years ago that I wrote but couldn’t find a place for. Just recently did I finish tying up those loose ends and make sense of them in some way. For whatever reason, I couldn’t just throw them all out like they probably should be.


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The Whisperer

Ever Reaching

The dead heart a common no one flings across the room
Full of a crowd it was, so what else would they do?…

Its nasty splatter of runny blood and tale of the journey
I wonder why I’m here for this, but I am poorly fed
How they waste me
Like picky eaters and their crust-less bread

This time I will be thorough
Any possible uproar will first have its locked door
Take that hint; I won’t have a note to slip
It’s far too real once congealed blood breaks the fast
And sunlight’s ever reaching tongues can taste at last

It would not think to refuse, there is no going back
With no one coming after me and nothing more to add
You will never witness the scenes between yes, no and might
But it’s time you take heed.
Stop believing I won’t try.


The painting is a random idea I had to draw a whispering voice. The background section represents an ear and the way the voices seem to always be there saying what they say. And the poem below it says nothing new except in a slightly different way I guess. I worked on it for a while, let it sit for a few weeks then finished it finally.

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Shadow of the Sun

The Friend

Spilled blood defines you
My friend, my only constant
You are with me and all they never were

The outcome I dream
At every inch I feel
And all I will ever dream
Until I make you real

There when I’m in need
Your intentions, your compassion again sees me through
You will be more than the edge I fall away from

There is no heart,
And there is no soul I hate more than my own

I am taken far outside I ever thought I’d go
And cold in my hands, looking to an opened window
Something’s out there, and of what
Neither of us knows,

But I’m too weak to let it hurt you
I will be dead when this all ends


The painting is a random drawing I just felt I should finish. I’ve been lower than usual lately and the lines above I thought might reflect somewhere in between some things I can’t put many more words to at the moment.


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At the Bridge


Full for the child who is not
Healthy for those who’ve seen their bodies rot
Safer than the wife who is beaten every night
Being grateful for what you’ve got

Physically whole with all ten fingers and toes
Without pity—you invisible illness
And your family has not died off yet
Feel shameful, if not so blessed

True disposition no one would guess
Deny it’s ever mattered; take the numb-the emptiness
Still able to smile big, all cannot be so bad
All cannot be eclipsed by a few dark thoughts we’ve all had

You are with a routine for the ones always uprooted
And you grieve for every lie someone graciously accepts
Be at peace for those who only know unrest
And on your way in silence,
From those frantic about death


I almost threw the drawing of this painting away. It may not be the best but it turned out better than the disaster I thought it was going to turn into…The poem was written in a way to show how easy it is for me to minimize my depression and to align myself with the idea I should have nothing wrong with me no matter how bad it feels or how life threatening it may be to ignore. It’s basically about denial and trying to explain away things that really shouldn’t be. And maybe it makes no sense, but it’s here anyway.


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A Reading


Day of distraction fails
Cold and bleeding, spill the hell
Trusted memory of pain
And its reliance you have gained
The knocks that will unlock and open you a door

This world of too many goodbyes
Love those needles in the eye…
Their death was easy
They were told what to think
And you thought I would not find out

My bones are bone, my skin is just skin
I feel the break, I hear decay
We’ve found our selves again, as strangers
And the rules say pretend for one another
So that what is hidden will stay hidden away

Melt open and re-infect the spirit chained
The whip is taken every day
So forget better—it is always worse
Lay my head down and wait for
What little life returns


The painting was just a sketch I wanted to see what I could do with. It’s supposed to be someone trying to do a palm reading, trying to ready herself for the next fight or obstacle she’ll have to face, but-by the expression in the eyes- it’s driving her mad. Just my guess as to what it means, if a meaning is needed at all. I just didn’t want to waste paper, so I finished it.


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