Unfortunate Inspiration

My dear, Eris is my mistress.
She has always been my mistress.

Her gently violent persuasions
are deeply seeded caresses
of the soul
which continually take me to bed
perfectly implanting chaos and discord
to spice up this strife free life.

You see, my dear,

… I can’t write about nothing.

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Muted Experience

Those cool vocals howl in my ears as the wind whips through my hair.

I sit and stare at the sunlight sprinkling from the black vastness above as the thundering of cars roll by.

Their exhaust suffocates and chokes the little bit of beauty around like the weakening oak tree I rest my body against.

I don’t know how long it’ll be there for but I know it’ll be there longer then me.

I’m already gone.

I’m just an observer in these matters.


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poetry is supposed to flow, just like water: Mess

it falls from the sky, shedding

tears from heave above. provoking.

the tears hit me. such a

sensation on my skin leaving me limitless.

liquid trickles over my body, giving

me goosebumps and raising every hair it

passes over.

I am now enveloped in a hydrated

cocoon and find myself using only my

sense of feeling, as in to touch.

attempting to grab the water, it being

entirely malleable, runs over and

through me.

until it drips off of me, plunging towards

the ground.

it hits with a great velocity and plasters

the surrounding area.

I realize, just like poetry water

can not be stopped.

only redirected.

stories will never stop being told.

whispers will always be heard by those who are listening.

and dreams will never end.


a notebook piece by Mess.

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Reorganizing your idea of the world around you
Evolving past the deception of the times
Visualizing a better world for all
Opposing those who stand for injustice
Learning how to battle the powers that be
Uniting resources and the will of people
Triangulate the root of the evils
Incapacitate the leaders
Optimize full capacity of options and DATA


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Prisoner of War

The conflict between light and dark rages on
under my skin, in my bones.
Because I try to crawl towards the light
only to be yanked back by the dark.

Because it owns me.
Because I am his.

Forever plagued by the questions
   Like what is the purpose of it all?
   Because lately I’ve been
   and I want so much more than this.

   And does love exist? And if so can it last?
   Because my heart has been scarred and shrunk in search of it.
   And the only place it seems to exist
   is in the fiction on pages of books and screens of theaters
   that we create because we can’t find it in our own mundane lives.

These questions keep me trapped in my head.
A prisoner of war to my own thoughts and feelings,
of my light and dark.
Forever a prisoner of war
as the conflict rages on.

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For the Old Man Retired in a Nursing Home Doing His Own Thing (inspiration)

Old man sitting out
On beautiful summer day
Relaxed just because

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Soaked dreams

The thoughts which lingered within my subconscious,
Stayed a blur to be honest…
Damp from its own intensity.
What more could I do? My imagination was dipped into my cup,
Swallowed the images, words, smells, and sounds into my digestive track.
Stomaching them was far from an easy task. Liquor to ease the inflammation of the abdominal region.
Smooth sailing for this salty sea-dog.


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