FaustHabenicht

Somewhere along the way, life began to fade Leaving only automated functions in its place Efforts done out of need but never out of want What was once verdure is umber and gaunt Fragments of the past scattered as brittle leaves Concomitant with forgotten memories What was valued, now scarcely a thought What was hunted is forever beyond reach There was a time when the search weren’t for naught Those days are behind me

Sleep offered no dreams, none that could be recalled Their memories faded as the withered leaves of fall I required sedation to avoid restless nights They only robbed fantasies of the mind Trapped in the hyperborean sea Here on this severed phantasm of life It wasn’t marked on the charts it seemed For visitors were seldom, of any kind Across the waves of nightmares and dreams Perpetual daylight cursed the land There were no sunsets to grace the frozen sands The last dreamer to arrive at this waste Marveled at the isle’s beauty, to my dismay The eternal cold and countless years Had turned its marvels into mocking sneers Walk

Faint and worn by time Is the glint in my eyes You can’t try to warm yourself against me My body may as well be ice With a heart that no longer bleeds I don’t have success, I don’t have extra cash I’ve got degrees but they may as well be trash Never got hired on their merits My skills and the market have always been disparate The economy tanked, more family dead More friends lost, and calm is only found With a thousand milligrams plus of meds Or a single payment apartment underground I gave up on love long ago I have truthfully no interest in sex On occasion I get drunk or stoned So that for at least a few hours I c

she is a taciturn tornado waiting at the threshold to be invited in and you always let her in, you always let her in. she is a one-girl riot against everything you hold dear she is the crash of vases she is photographs being ripped in half she is a frame that doesn't fit your picture of how the world should be. she is at times fey a lakebed fairy, a fuschia bud pixie, at other times tornado, untouchable, you live in a wind tunnel with her, pressing your desperate heart into the pages of her sketchbook, she is painting you rip-red-ripple and you let her. this is how the summer ends. she tells you if love is a crime then you must atone, if

My atoms push into every direction, forcing the rain to pass, and denying me the pleasure of milling around. At first light of the coming year I will drown my regrets I fear becoming a part of the machinery and breaking my past, too.

Do most people not appreciate just a good story these days? I see all of these written works people are pumping out over the internet and every single one of them are just overly elaborate, complicated, metaphor assaulted, poem-ish things. Don't get me wrong, a lot of those things aren't bad. But it's just why does it feel like most writers these days don't write stories? Everyone just wants to write poem and poem-like things that literally every single line or sentence you have to spend time thinking about what the hell it is supposed to mean. "The father bird lost his mother bird." Simple enough line, yes? Well if someone modern were to wri

It lays still on my table, I observe it silently, the romance we had was dead before it was born Yet I cling to it's lifeless corpse, deny the facts and keep holding on to a rancid, rotten memory of what could have been, if we only surpassed fear

Rays of silver play among the ripples So gracefully they flow on surface Caressing the disturbance Another pebble hits the surface Another dance is born Ripples dissipating ripples all while the rays of silver dance among them Another pebble hits its target Filled with so much regret Attempting to wash away the image created by this mirror As the ripples fade Long lines of silver A unending stream of doubt flowing down the cheeks The next pebble hits the lake Stronger this time Washing away any sight there was A twig snaps as some one draws near Quickly the streams of silver is wiped from the cheeks As another figure is outlined nearby

"When our eyes met The skies united - Your black pupils, Of dark clouds scent, Have been rained on By tears Mechanically aligned - All these years. When our palms matched Distant lands collided - Prolific earthquakes Of feelings anew And valleys of senses Descended from you. The highest mountains Are poor and shattered - Meaningless, little stones At our feet... The days go darker As the two antithetic poles Magnetically align - A sole heartbeat."