Skip to main content

Nightmare







Nightmare



The evening's falling/
These things caught me/
From defeating drawling/
Whispers in my head, evil thoughts we/
All have, believe me, sorry/
Treason haunts me/
The reaper calls me/
Dreams are balmy/
Cause when I awake my sheets are on me/
Stuck with sweat like adhesives, promptly/
Clinging calmly/
Until I swing the party/
Towards evil carnies/
And beaches crawling/
With leeches, larger/
Weevils, common/
Beetles, varmints/
And stinking larvae/
And I'm shrinking smaller/
They're all seeming taller/
I think I'm on the/
Same level as them, underneath the awning/
Of grass, its green and starting/
To overreach, its blocking/
The sun, the leaves and mosses/
Keep me startled/
Heaping fauna/
Over me in equal toppings/
Please, I'm washing/
Away, unclean like laundry/
I'm beat and rocking/
On the edge of sanity and pondering/
The leap, I'm stalking/
It, before I jump, deceased, forgotten/
I'm beastial, heartless/
Then I blink and all of/
A sudden I'm obese and trawling/
Through a freezing market/
And I'm being sought with/
Eager nauseous/
Need by convicts/
A priest is on his/
Deathbed and he's speaking constant/
In tongues with meager promise/
Is this real or nonsense/
I'm feeling toppled/
A shrill and awful/
Cry is ripping all the/
Air out of my lungs, riddled, crawling/
With mirth, drilling, boxing/
Me in a corner, diseased and cautious/
My knees are knocking/
And the Earth suddenly is rocking/
In every impossi-/
Ble position, it increases, jostling/
West to East, I'm caught in/
The nth degree, impostor/
In these distraught symph-/
Onies, unpolished/
Worlds open up, and I'm asleep and talking/
To myself, mysteries and bondage/
I'm here under sheets and lodged in/
My room, I lean and pop in/
My slide mirror/
It was a nightmare/
But I'm right here/
And my fears/
Are with me, ill logic/

Popular posts from this blog

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature. I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life. Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters. I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically min

Outrunning The Reaper

Outrunning The Reaper The concept of aging intimidates me.  I wont say it scares me, because I feel that I've done the very best I can at retarding, delaying, and combatting it.  My training, which in the past prioritized hypertrophy and strength, misapplied in a hilariously misinformed fashion, has altered severely.  When I first got to Hawaii in 2017, I experimented with the idea of adopting EMOM (Every Minute On the Minute) training, a methodology I'd learned from studying Crossfit.  At that point I was doing 5 sets of Freestanding Handstand Pushups a day, with each set's repetitions decreasing incrimentally, following the Recon Ron Pullup Program.  It's available for free online, and a simple Google Image search will allow one to locate the entire workout.  I would sometimes do it twice a day, and before I stopped it, I was doing around 77 Handstand Pushups a session.  Back then I fancied myself a badass for completing such a "large" amount of volume in 1

Candlelight

Candlelight I've often been asked why I haven't written a novel yet, or even a short story on its own, let alone a collection of them.  While I've written enough poetry to fill several reams of factory fresh printer paper, and my prose on this very site could be collected, condensed, and categorized into an efficient little e-book, I simply cant find the motivation to write something that lengthy.  Stephen King once said in an interview that the secret to his prolific literary output was to, simply, write.  He sits at his desk every morning, puts his hands on his keyboard, and let's his fingers dance and twirl until 2000 words are peering back at him from the soft glow of his monitor.  I certainly admire such ardent consistency, and do actually apply it in my private writing, namely my journaling. But when books to be sold for mass consumption and profit are called into question, I suffer the inevitable bout of writer's block that eventually plagues us all so stubbo