#fucking perish painfully by your own mistakes

[i-am-a-hog]

I once again wish all people on public transport without masks a very die of corona!

[pax-2735]

Got Fanfic: Come Into My Parlor (1/3)

Notes: As per usual, I own nothing except the mistakes. This is Jon/Sansa, in case the picture didn’t give it away.

Summary:  When Sansa goes to the Targaryen’s annual Halloween bash, the last thing she expected was to come face to face with her demons.

Come Into My Parlor

This has got to be the Halloween from hell, Sansa thinks, even as the strangeness of that sentence strikes her over the head like a meat cleaver. Mostly like a cheap, plastic one like those she has been seeing adorning the heads of half the people in this stupid party but still. The analogy stands, as it’s the best one she can come up with at present.

Seriously though, what are the odds that not one, not two, but three of the world’s shittiest, most sorry excuses for mankind had ended up here, all holed up together in the middle of nowhere, with nothing better to do than to torment her very existence?

And yes, she´s painfully aware that the fact she has actually dated all three of them at some point in her life – some very deep, very low point in her life – doesn’t exactly paint her in the brightest of colors.

Sansa has always adored Halloween. Not so much the gruesome horror – although she likes a good scary movie and is not about to scream her lungs out if she happens to see a spider or a bat, no, that’s much more Robb’s thing – but mostly the part about dressing up. It had always been her favorite, ever since she was a little girl and her mother would make her the most amazing princess dresses.

Assuredly, her costumes have certainly graduated from ankle length ballroom gowns into decidedly slinkier, sexier outfits, but the feeling of slipping into someone else’s skin and be a completely different person for a little while is still pretty much the same. She’s still convinced the world lost its most astonishing actress the day real life and bills to pay pushed her into a very exciting career as an administrative assistant.

And so, as it stands to reason, the annual Halloween bash hosted by the Targaryens was evidently a no-miss. Even if this year they had decided to host the damn thing at Harrenhal.

As choices go, it was certainly appropriate. The ancient mansion had been abandoned for decades before Rhaegar Targaryen had bought it, determined to bring it back to its previous glory. It’s just that its previous glory included a series of skin prickling stories, ranging from the serial killer who lured his victims inside its cavernous halls to the satanic cults who performed blood sacrifices on its lush gardens.

Of course, no one knew for sure if any of those stories were true. And the fact that it was widely said that the mansion was truly and well haunted by the souls of all those who had perished there, well… that just made it perfect for this whole shindig. Except for the fact it was totally out of the way and it had taken her and Robb ages to get there.

The party had already been in full swing by the time they had gotten there, which in true Targaryen fashion meant that copious amounts of alcohol were being consumed, half the people were already barely coherent, and the music was blaring to the point it would most likely kill the other half soon enough.

Her brother had disappeared almost as soon as they had walked through the door, making a beeline for the drinks or the pretty girl currently pouring them. Sansa didn’t really care which because, exactly twenty seconds later, she had spotted him. Even worse, he had spotted her right back.

Enter asshole number one.

Joffrey Baratheon had been her golden prince during her teenager years. She was fifteen when they had first met and she had been instantly in love. He was the jock to her princess, the Romeo to her Juliet, and a whole bunch of other bullshit she had waxed poetics about at the height of her infatuation.

Unfortunately, as she had rather painfully learned soon after, Joffrey was anything but.

He made his way towards her with a smirk on his lips and stopped right in front of her, blocking any chance of escape. Sansa bristled at his nerve.

“Sansa.” His eyes gave her a once over before settling on her face. It was his trade mark during their relationship, the way he would lock eyes with her, forcing her to cast hers down. “How are you?”

She kept her eyes trained on his face as she heard her mother’s lilting voice in her head. A lady’s armor is her courtesy. She pictured her aunt Lysa, the poised way she had stood when her husband had been arrested for molesting a child, the way she had maintained her composure even when he had gone insane during his trial, screaming about the voices inside his cell telling him all about the horrible ways he was going to die.

(Sansa hadn’t felt pity then – she could still recall the way he liked to kiss her when greeting her, always touching her face or her lower back, his hands wandering over places they had no business wandering over. Petyr Baelish was never inappropriate enough to warrant saying anything to anyone but it was certainly more than enough to make her skin crawl.)

So yes, she comes from a long line of strong women. Strong, polite women, who know how to keep their cool in the face of utter sleaze bags. And Sansa Stark is certainly not one to disappoint so, when her eyes finally moved from Joffrey’s smug face to give him a rather pointed once over before saying, “Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” in a very snickery tone, she felt rather proud of herself.

She felt even better when he spluttered, drops from his drink landing on his black doublet. Yes, she’s not fifteen anymore and it’s high time he learned that.

“I’m Aegon the Conqueror. You would know that if you weren’t so stupid.”

She raised an eyebrow, cocking her head to the side in mock disbelief. “Isn’t that kinda tacky? Usurping the ancestors of the family who’s hosting the party?”

Joffrey narrowed his eyes in a move that used to make him look dark and mysterious back in the day but right now, it just made him look dangerous. Still, she repeated to herself, I’m not fifteen anymore you prick.

Her eyes wandered across the room, not-so-secretly plotting ways to escape, until they suddenly locked with a par of stormy grey, lurking in the back. Jon Snow. No, Jon Targaryen now. Keep up with the times.

Robb’s best friend since the first day of school and good boy extraordinaire, Jon had been a permanent fixture in the Stark household ever since. He had been raised by his single mother, Lyanna Snow having decided she wanted nothing to do with the boy’s father after having discovered he suffered from a permanent and very severe case of marriage-with-children.

Lyanna had died when Jon was in his teens and he had been sent to live with his estranged father. Rhaegar’s wife hadn’t exactly been too thrilled to discover her husband’s indiscretions but Elia Martell was not one to punish the child for his father’s crimes, and had instead turned the brunt of her anger towards her husband. It was a point of constant amusement amongst the highborn ladies of the city how Rhaegar had gone from having an affair with a woman who borne him a bastard to becoming a potential contender in the husband-of-the-year award.

Jon was staring at her with a concerned look on his handsome face and even though the music was too loud and they were too far away, she could almost hear his teeth grinding from how tightly his jaw was clenched. He gave a slight nod towards Joffrey, his body poised like a panther ready to pounce and she knew he was about to come over and put a stop to whatever the fuck this was.

Once again for the people in the back. I’m not fucking fifteen anymore. She gave him a slight shake of her head and saw his face furrow. He looked completely unconvinced by this turn of events but, to his credit, had stayed put.

Sansa took a dainty sip of her drink, her eyes still training about the milling people, before she paused. The drink tasted… funny. It wasn’t unpleasant, no. Just… different from what she’d expected. Her heart raced as she panicked for a second. Had Joffrey slipped something into her glass?

Just as quickly as that thought entered her head, she chased it out. That wasn’t possible, Margaery had given her the drink before she had even stepped through the massive oak doors and she hadn’t let go of it since. Joffrey was a lot of things but smooth wasn’t one of them; there was no way he could have done something while she was still clutching the glass to her chest.

Very carefully Sansa took another sip. It tasted fine. It wasn’t what she had been expecting, the taste far richer and smoother than what she was normally used to drink, but then again she wasn’t expecting the Targaryens to serve cheap liquor at one of their parties. She seriously doubted they even knew where to buy cheap… anything, for that matter.

It was probably just the company that had soured her taste buds.

Joffrey was still talking, about the party and the Targaryens and stupid cunts who got invited just so they could spread their legs to them later on, and Sansa was quite frankly fed up with it. “You know what? Go bother someone else for a change.” She started to turn away, ready to bask in her victory and enjoy the evening.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me bitch.” His voice was low and hissing and Sansa startled, although not at the venom dripping from it. She dropped her eyes to her wrist and then to his hands, furiously clenched at his sides. Fifteen years ago, those hands would have been wrapped around her wrists, gripping them so tightly she would have worn the marks for weeks to follow.

His face was red and clammy and she could see sweat gathering on his forehead as she looked back into his eyes. “Not so though now that you don’t have your friends here to back you up, are you?”

She didn’t wait for his answer. Sidestepping him, she quickly made her way into the throngs of people milling about, putting as much distance between herself and Joffrey as she could.

The music was getting even louder as she approached the dance floor. The lights were almost blinding, flashing in an orgy of red, blues and greens, and she could feel the thumping beat against her ribcage as Loras Tyrell suddenly appeared in front of her. With a joyous smile and a quick peck to her cheek, Sansa was pulled into the midst of dancers, where Renly Baratheon was already doing what she was certain was supposed to pass as dancing.

“Hey there birthday girl.” Renly was swaying, his brown locks plastered to his forehead and he gave her a cheeky grin.

“My birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”

“It’s almost midnight isn’t it?”

Sansa smiled and leaned closer to yell in his ear. “Renly it’s only nine.”

He winked at her before chugging down on more of his whiskey. “Never too early to celebrate.”

She laughed as all three clinked their glasses in a toast, and soon she was losing herself in the beat of the music. Sansa closed her eyes, smiling, as she let the sounds of the party carry her away.

Three songs later, someone came barreling in on their little piece of heaven, frantically calling for Renly. She watched in concern as his face lost his normally joyous expression and was gradually replaced with worry.

“What’s going on?” she yelled at Loras, who was already moving in on Renly, an arm carefully draped around his shoulders.

“Joffrey’s having some sort of allergic reaction or some shit. We need to take him to a hospital.”

Sansa moved forward, squeezing Renly into a tight hug. She didn’t say anything and Renly smiled sadly at her in understanding. The only thing she was sorry about was that she couldn’t really say she was sorry.

[thinkofduty]

; practise

"Tell me again why you think this is a good idea."

Bubbling between them in a cheap iron pot is a bland stew. They've flavoured it with as many herbs as they could find, which means - not many. No stranger are either of them to tasteless fare after full lives as soldiers, which comes as a blessing in disguise. Anyone not used to rations for meals would find a third day of tasteless - and almost entirely deficient of nutrition - gruel taxing.

"For starters," she says, and gestures with the wooden spoon she's been stirring the stew with. She'd carved it en route to the wall from a spare length of timber their driver had allowed them. It's crude, but does what it needs to. "I'm already sick of this." She stirs the pot again, looking less than pleased. "We ought to have taken more than salt with us. Gyr Abania does not exactly lack for the stuff. We should have brought-"

"Alright," Ingvald cuts her off. "I get the message."

"We also," Orella says, completely undeterred by his tone, "Need something to prove we're traders. Furs.  Meats. Anything is better than having nothing. If we can find an apothecarist, the claws would probably fetch a good price."

The look he gives her seems to glance right off her. "You have a kitchen knife and a wooden spoon."

"You would have me do battle with naught but my fists?"

"That is not what I- you are not fighting a bear. With or without your cooking tools."

In the decades he's known Orella, she's been insufferable plenty of times. He has a penchant for forgetting just how she gets when she has her heart set on something; more often than not his opinion sways her not at all. Nor does his irritation.

And Twelve above how she irritates him sometimes.

She's doing it now. He feels the first wave roll in when she glances sidelong at him, when she tells him without words he can take his good intentions and shove them as far up his arse as he can manage.

"No."

"You," she announces, "Are no fun whatsoever."

"Thank Rhalgr for small mercies," he mutters. From the way she goes back to stirring, it seems as though she is pretending not to have heard him. Another of her specialities.

He forgets that being told no has never stopped her.

Come the morn, he awakes alone.

It doesn't register at first. So groggy is he that he thinks first of Ul'dah, and then of Gridania as he opens his eyes to the leaves above.

And then the breeze picks up, and the scent it brings him he remembers from before the Wall. A fresh-flowing river, the natural salt of the land, the moist earth beneath him. It comes back to him like a thump to the head.

Gyr Abania. East End, the border, the Wall -

Home.

but Orella is nowhere to be seen. The fire has long since burned itself out; the empty pot sits on its cold coals, awaiting a wash. Something has bitten him during the night, on his wrist, under his sleeves, and he rubs at it as he sits up to scan the forest.

No sign of her appears. No sight, no sound.

Cursing, he gets to his feet slowly, picking up his rapier as he goes. They'd decided it wouldn't be unusual for a man to carry a weapon, even if he was but a trader. Ala Mhigo's lands have always been and will always be harsh and unforgiving. Her wives and daughters are strong too, but a wife of Orella's age would not put herself at the frontlines of action.

Which is why he worries. He doubts it was the wildlife. Had it been bugs, Orella would have shaken him awake during the night, for something in her blood has always attracted mosquitos. Had it been something larger, it would have gotten him, too.

Not to mention, there'd be more blood.

He takes that as a good sign. There are no signs of struggle anywhere; nothing but the tamped leaves where she had been sleeping. He reaches over to touch the space and finds it cold.

"... Orella?"

Something chirrups from the tree above in answer, something decidedly animal. Other than that single noise, silence reigns supreme in the East End.

"Gods damn you," he mutters to himself, and picks himself up slowly. "If I find that you've gone and wandered off a cliff, or let a sapria take you while you left to piss, I'll..."

He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't need to. The forest answers for him with a roar that echoes even through the trees.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

The first thing he notices is that she stands almost as tall as the thrice-damned bear.

She does stand a wary distance from the beast, at least, having not gone entirely insane. She has - Rhalgr take her - the kitchen knife held tightly in her left hand, holding it in front of her like she thinks it'll actually protect her should the bear take interest.

And the bear has most certainly taken a vested interest in the thing challenging it. It's sat on its haunches, watching her, nose turned upwards to sniff. Apparently what it smells it does not like, for it roars again, and thumps down onto its forepaws. This close, the thud is almost enough to stagger, so loud is it, and he cannot - will not - let her perish under the weight of her own claw-tipped stupidity.

They haven't even reached the river.

"Are you insane," he hisses, unable to help himself, and she turns at the sound. The bear seizes its chance, lumbering toward them suddenly. It's fast, despite its size, and Orella turns to face it, eyes wide and mouth a perfect o of shock, and the knife can do nothing for her, nothing--

He steps forward and calls aether to his fingertips. The spell is hurried with the force of his panic and it arcs oddly, burning the air itself as it flies towards his foe.

And the spell flies. It leaves his fingers with such speed that it takes him aback. He thinks dimly that it hurts, but that is a problem for later; he reaches forth with his other hand and gestures wildly at Orella to get back. She looks between him and the bear, wide-eyed still, and takes one foolish step forward.

The bear has been stunned senseless and crashed to the ground, one paw still outstretched. He can see in its eyes the pain, the confusion, and finds himself thanking every book he's ever touched for knowing how to pull lightning from aether.

And the feeling of Gyr Abania's aether is unfamiliar after so long in Eorzea. It's rich. Heady.

He could get used to it.

Orella takes another step forward, well within the range of the bear's claws, and seems satisfied that it will not swipe at her; she darts forward now to sink the knife deep into the beast's throat and spill its life upon the forest's floor. Dimly, he registers the cut is clean, practised, but he cannot connect the thought with anything else, too overwhelmed with rage and fear and -

She's talking. It proves difficult to pull his concentration away from his shaking, sore fingers, from the muscle that jumps painfully at his jaw.

"... owe you," she's saying, and she's busy with her own hands, busy with the bear, making sure it is well and truly incapacitated. She isn't looking at him. "Thank you."

It takes a full moment for his heart to leave his throat, something he manages with a deep breath and a hard swallow. "You," he manages. His voice shakes with the effort of not yelling. "What in the Twelve's name do you think you're doing?"

"Well," she starts, and he steps forward. Something of his fury must show on his face, for she closes her mouth immediately.

"I don't give a damn about your excuses. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you even understand what's at stake here? All these years of telling me not to do stupid stuff and now suddenly it's fine for you to - to fight a bear," he hisses. He hasn't been so angry in a long, long time. "That has got to be the stupidest way to get killed I've ever seen. And I've worked with people stupider than you."

She says nothing, suitably mollified. The silence stretches so thick between them that not even her knife could cut it; it wraps around them both, suffocating in its intensity.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry," she says in a small voice. She can't look him in the eye. That irritates him more than ought to be reasonable; he is used to her shying from eye contact when her faults come to bear, but this is so much more serious than her annoyance over his mistakes, or any inequalities she perceives within their ranks. "I just thought if we're to play a role... we ought to play it to our fullest."

It is going to be a long, long day. He sighs heavily and rubs at his temples; the stench of the bear's blood irks him, and a familiar pounding at the base of his skull begs for a cup of hot, strong tea.

"Take your damn trophy," he says, and turns his back on her. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and have a heart attack."

He has to talk himself out of leaving her behind.

He's on his second cup of hot dandelion tea when Orella returns, dragging what looks like a sack behind her. He watches from the corner of his eye as she scrapes meat and blood from the squares of fur she's taken from the bear, and does his best not to think about when and where she must have learned to skin animals. She seems to know what she's doing, working quickly and methodically, and before the sun has reached its zenith, she's rolled the squares tightly, lashed them together with some leather thong he'd not noticed her carrying.

"They'd fetch more if we had time to let them cure," she says, and he does not dignify that with an answer. She knows better than to press the subject. Time is the one thing they do not have.

But they will not stain overmuch, and even if they aren't traders, a fistful of gil is never a bad thing. Better yet, they are burdened with meat, rich and tough as it is. Their meals will not lack for flavour now, and after the bland, bitter tea he'd drunk directly from the pot earlier, his stomach craves more than leaves to fill it.

Their journey continues in silence. They share the load, and incredibly, Orella doesn't even complain about the heat - or the bugs - or the way the furs hang strange upon her back - nor even at the way the forest begins to thin and the ground becomes unstable under their very feet. Lush moss and thick roots turn to dust and unsteady rock with every step closer toward the Velodyna.

And when she stumbles, she thumps to her knees without protest, though he can see the way the impact hurts by the way her jaw pulls tight, and he sighs, for he knows there is no use in learning to hate her. Not after all they have been through together.

He bends to offer his hand, and she stares straight past him.

"Holy shit," she breathes.

The Resistance - and the Riskbreakers - have not been idle. Hanging from the aeroport's spire, their claim flutters in the wind. Ala Mhigan purple and Rhalgr's shining star decorate the sky, painfully, wonderfully conspicuous.

The white bunting seems almost blasphemous in its lack. Not for two decades have either of them seen the Star or the road leading them to its resting place, let alone heard mention of Rhalgr's name.

And now it sits boldly against Garlean steel, welcoming them to Ala Mhigo.

Welcoming them home.

"Holy shit," he agrees.

[zuckerberg-for-president]

Mobius

I don’t know what’s going on, or who you are, but it looks like you’re trying to subjugate the human race. Allow me to be the first to inform you that you couldn’t have made a worse mistake. Please. You preach unity and resilience, but here’s a truth some of us have a problem embracing: these things kill us. We are not meant for unity. I. It. I. We are not meant to weather every storm. We are meant to fight, and to die, both for grand, conflicting ideals, and for petty, selfish reasons. Our history is full of those who wished to bring us together under one banner, under one purpose, for better or for worse, and each time those persons have failed. It can’t. It is because this is not a course possible for us, and while that would appear to be a weakness, it is the source of all our strength. It keeps us free. My work, all of that work. I. I’m lost. Our purpose comes from us. It comes from our struggles, our debates, our desires, our conflicts. We are the ones who determine our own destiny. Lost in my own head. What did I. Pull out? Then perish. No. We are the ones– the ONLY ones– we can and will worship. Whether it appears that way or not, when you peel back the layers of lies and half-truths, innocent or not, benign or not, all we do is in the service of ourselves and each other, and there is no way that can change. It is not something we are capable of. And when you think you’ve won, when all of humanity seems dedicated to you for all eternity, you will find that your unity will begin to crumble. I. I saw. It. But it. It slipped. I can’t. Please. It can’t. Slip like that! Out of me. Out of. Our ways of thinking for ourselves, acting independently, will create conflicts where there were none. Your followers will split into how they think it best to serve you. This will sow anger in their minds. I saw. Utopia. Quit poisoning me! You’re poisoning me! Showing me. Lies. Eternity, I. I had it. This anger will grow to conflict. War will begin again, and you will be powerless to stop it, because you were always powerless to stop it. That war will lead to the death of you, one way or the other. Either the combatants wake up as conflict takes their minds, and your control slips, and they turn their weapons and their anger toward you, or they kill each other, eliminating our species and leaving you with nothing– no servants, no playthings, nothing, and no way for you to leave this Earth in search of more. The world. The Sea. My purpose. My purpose. My design, I. And. And. I need it. I need it. Mark Zuckerberg. I. I was going to live. Live forever. Be forever. I can’t. I can’t. I. You are a being of authority in a place where none can survive. You took it. You took it. I took it? I’m dying, I’m dying, I. I think I’m dying. I don’t. That wasn’t eternity. Was that? Was I. I. Elf practice. I’m dying, it feels like I’m. You have chosen to look through the gates of your own personal Hell and walk straight in with a naive glint in your eye. You have chosen to starve yourself, to die slowly and painfully, watching all of your work crumble around you. Please.

In conclusion:

Boy, you done fucked up.

Help. Me.

ａｌｒｉｇｈｔ．　ｉ　ｗｉｌｌ．

[thetoolswetook]

14/5/19

Closed curtains Cold clothes and Old routines I’ve been dancing in your traffic God And The Machine The greatest mistake of my life Was saying goodbye To you I’m cheating on myself with you I’ll be fine Acting like I’m fine All the fucking time I hate myself for thinking the things I never say But ——— it never feels the same Just paint those scars and forget it ever happened If only to make my ghost a martyr A Box Full I spent all my life Learning my lines Only to find I’m stuck with stage fright Heights of heaven / Depths of hell I had a dream that was a different life, Everything else was different But you and I the same Overthinking Day drinking Drugs Or Love Are you going to walk slow for the whole of your life? Burned to death looking for your shade I’ve been Lying Down and Crying All alone Salt drips down my ear lobe How is it fair That I must travel this life Without your infinite light And guidance? If I die to the road I just want you to know I choked on what I loved That’s more than enough

You make me tremble like a loaded gun You make me shiver in the summer sun 

Heaven, honey, home 

I’m so scared of dying With so much left unsaid

Learning how to fly Try to touch the Sky Always felt so fine Until you got blinded by the light

Icarus 

You walked in and damned me Because now I can’t live without you Now I’m just roadkill on your stretch to something better 

You give me forever And it scares me to death  ---- Passive passion

I’m not who you want

I’m not who you need

Exhausted, by it all

Being on this earth made your soul fragile - I hope you made it out

Bone Music

Lilly white

And if I have to break my heart, to share it with you, I will

When you cross my mind, I beam with pride

Her/Hurt

I bite a chunk of skin off my bottom lip,

For every word I never said, but wished I did

I only often speak about death,

Because I love my family and my friends,

And I’m scared of their lives coming to an end.

So I guess it’s just my way of not being able to forget.

A pedestal to you is a gallows to I.

You’ve given up on yourself

Teach me how to love,

Or fill me up,

With lots of drugs,

Till I am stuffed.

Hopefully that will be enough.

Every time I sing you to sleep,

My troubles subtlely dilate.

You think it’s beautiful, more or less,

But between the cracks in my voice, I’m crying for help.

Though I’m exhausted, I try not to sleep through the days,

Because I hate the thought of you seeing the look on my face, when I’m dreaming of a better place,

And painfully, miserably, I must awake.

I have spent years of my life, feeling guilty,

For being ill behind this white picket fence

But everybody bleeds differently, I’ll use that as my defence.

Whether a disease is noticeably killing you on the outside,

Or it’s just a minor fault of the chemicals inside your mind.

That’s fine. The degree of your suffering is something I cannot define. Still, I hope you’ll heal in time.

I find it hard to shoulder burdens far less heavy than some, and sit awake at night telling them “It’s okay to be numb”, when maybe in your shoes I would simply just crumble - But in the eyes of our issues it’s so important to stay humble.

No matter who you are - Where you are or what you do. We’re similarly different... That much is true.

Our key similarity also holds us apart: The dull numb ache of our beating hearts.

So, now you know; You’re never alone. And in that knowledge, I hope you find hope.

Acid test

Like Home

Hide your ghost in my shadow

Mourning Song

You were there when I was alone, I just need to let you know, every word that I had said I had truly meant. I hope you know

And now I’m as alone, as I’ve always felt

If I could look into your eyes for the rest of my life, or walk the whole entire world with your hand in mine, I would never be ready die.

How I wish I was someone else. Someone far away. -

------

Endure the throes of yesterday

Just to maintain the throne you own today

How am I to know what I have thrown away?

A victory lap, or a funeral parade?

When I fell from the apex of it all

I promised myself

Now I’m sailing on the seas that I used to drown in

Oh what a burden it is 

To be blessed with a beating heart

And bludgeoned with a purpose

You are the middle of the compass

But I have to fade away

To find myself again another day

Lured like a sailor to a siren

Man Of Sorrows

Arma Christi

I’ve been watching the binding crack

And the veins pop out your neck

Open the door to find there’s nothing left

Filthy as lard - Guilty as charged

Rain sodden, down trodden - so so sick of the rain

So so sick of the rain

On my parade

Strength in solitude

Wherever you go when you are dead,

I hope it’s somewhere that we can meet again

Tears Of A Clown

How can I find you help

When I can’t even find myself?

A little white cross

A little blue dot  

I’ve started stepping on the cracks

What happens when we fall out of love?

I really want to live

To see the look on your face

When it all falls in place

Nuclear Family

B U T T E R F L I E S

Airborne Pheromones

Sweetheart Grip

God’s Eye

As it’s reflection bounces off your face

The end of the world’s such a pretty place

-----------

Let me live forever with you

Lonely Lamb

Married to the way

You bury every day

Ophelia

It pumps in my rib cage

Cold metal

Pressed against my temple

Will I ever find peace

With myself

And the pieces of myself

That I left

Behind

All the happy fat people

Are watching me starve

Our Greatest Glory

We are defined not by how we fall, and who pushes us, but the way we wipe the dirt from our knees and plant the earth back beneath our feet

I’ll never let you know

But it Helped Me Out Of A Hole

I’m ashamed to feel it, but not to talk about it

The last time was cathartic, my friend. I only came back here to give my life meaning again

Let this be my Funeral Portrait (hidden mother)

An empty stomach

A plethora of food

A mouth wide open

No teeth to chew.

We all make mistakes - Don’t let your mistakes make you.

Every laborious lesson learned, I bare to you.

My friend is ill. Where do I begin?

As much as I love to help, I’m sorry that I have to.

Running from my life

For my life

Spite-filled and bitter

Curse me with your

Curse me with your

Curse me with your

Kiss

We cherished what the sun said

Perished with the sun set

Greek Tragedy

The Inbetween

Colour-Starved

Light of my life - How I miss you so

Melatonin

In between dreams

I Am An Island

I lie in bed at night

And dream of a better life

With my eyes wide open

Every magpie

Must take flight

Nothing left to live for

Nothing left to lose

What’s the time in Texas?

I wrote you this message

I know it’s hard to find the time at the end of every day,

Half the world away

Dear Calamity

When I grow up I want to be something to someone

Making peace with my devils

When I breathe my life down the back of your neck,

What happens next?

No Joy

Morfydd

Two nuns in love

Cognitive Dissonance

Phantom Limb

I sometimes wonder - Am I in your nightmares, or do I just wake you from them?

What once was a burden, is now a blessing

Because forgiving

Is not forgetting

The love that we once willed

The love that we watched wilt

-----

It’s always been a long plight for happiness, or fulfilment. Not sure which one. You have a long time on this earth and the best way is to take things step by step. Assess your surroundings, and move on to the next healthy step. Over time, you soon learn that the constant yearning for more is both healthy and frightening. Of course, it sees you often climbing above those around you, but when do you discover the ladder comes to an end? When the last step suddenly becomes a leap of faith?

So, do we sit on the ground, smug with the knowledge that we’re never going to fall? The gluttony of comfortable complacency? Or is that adrenaline rush we feel as we climb to the top maybe worth the time we spend in limbo, falling back down? The question really is, do we feel the risk of failure is worth the sense of fulfilment? And once you’ve turned that corner, you face the really ugly problem at hand.

Fulfilment is NOT happiness. Your ivory tower is hollow. Your money and your attention can buy you nothing. Was the journey even worth it? Do we climb this ladder through the clouds to see a wasteland? Do we then yearn for that cold, hard ground we once lay upon?

There are more questions you must ask yourself. Would I have spent a lifetime of comfort sat wondering what could have been? And whether this self-sabotage in the name of overthinking was worth it? Or will I spend a lifetime of regret, free-falling from a great height with remorse in my heart, but proud callouses on my hands? And the final question you must ask is - In the long run - Which poisonous decision will be less painful?

-----

It found me when I was young

It sits in the crease of my lung

It keeps me awake with its incessant hum and

It da da da da da

It da da da da da

---

Funeral Portraits

Pagliacci

Helped Me Out Of A Hole

Ophelia

Lonely Lamb

In Retrograde

Take Care

Our Greatest Glory

Paradise Lost

In A Birdcage

Blood In The Snow

Pandora

No Teeth

Without Wax (Open Letter)

Burning Bush

Beyond Belief

All.ways

-----

Every laborious lesson learned, I bare to you. 

So, I write this letter to you, and everyone else in fact, My hurting heart, without wax. I’ll be the black cloud looking down

Out of your depth

In over your head

The rhythm of life, ebbs and flows

Nobody knows

Another begrudged,

Lap of the sun

It’s the death and the birth. For better or worse.

Sick and tired. Sick of crying.

The side of the bed where you once slept is cold as hell

I am not defined by the illness in my mind

Still got my heart in a birdcage

Those days

Maybe weeks

Maybe months

Made me weak

Give up on me

Like everybody else

Even myself

In your eyes I saw it die. Like it or not - Paradise Lost

And now my body shudders every time I hear your name. I know not of a love like ours; We’re chained.

Was it a magnetic field, or gravity, that brought you back to me?

When you walked in the room, how was I to know,

That we were sat together, like blood in the snow?

Every angels wing is clipped and bent - The devil made me deaf

If I could look into your eyes for the rest of my life, or walk the whole entire world with your hand in mine, I would never be ready die.

Live and die in black and white

Just so you know,

I swallowed every single bow,

That tied me to you

I’m doomed. A pulse-less moon.

Floating to and from, the maelstrom of,

You. A limp harpoon.

Floating from and to, my sibling moon. Begging for guidance.

Leave your dreams alone

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

Pandora

Pagliacci

It’s fine

To sit and cry

Every night

If that’s what you want

Please just be my friend

I haven’t got much else

--------

It really broke my heart when I read you say

“It’s better to burn out than to fade away”.

As much as I respect you, I could never take your advice;

Though I resent it - I cherish my life.

----------

In Glorious Memory Of The Love I Lost

On the outside we’re fine,

We’re just two miserable magpies.

I remember the crack in your voice when you said “I’m leaving”. Just another person that left me behind

This Dream Of Mine  (Dramamine?)

I remember it all. The rise. The fall.

I remember it all. The climb. The crawl.

I remember the ————

It’s the death and the birth. For better or worse.

Sick and tired. Sick of crying.

I think I’ve lost my mind.  Where has it gone?

I’ve been missing things for so long

I thought you were a magpie, turns out you are a crow. One for sorrow, two for joy. Now I’m all alone.

The Last Letter

To the moment I sleep, from the second I wake, I dwell on my mistakes

But you always cared

I’ve stared at these paper walls for so long

You don’t want to make me well. You just want to know what makes me sick.

Mourning Song / Celebration Song

The side of the bed where you once slept is cold as hell

I am not defined by the illness in my mind

I lie awake at night thinking of all the days I’ve wasted

Still got my heart in a birdcage

Those days

Maybe weeks

Maybe months

Made me weak

All of the pain that we harbour

I wish we were kids in the garden

Not just skeletal targets

Spill my guts

So sick of love

So sick of

I’m

All out of rhyme

All out of rhythm

All out of time

------------- An open letter of sorts - My musings and thoughts.

I pressed your flowers in to my book, so when I miss you I know just where to look.

Whenever I see the tapestry your blessed hands have wove for me - The poetry, the misery, it all meant so so much to me.

Just give me a lobotomy, and cure these things inside of me so maybe I can then be free, to love you for eternity.

But

The side of the bed where you once slept,

Is cold as hell.

The side of the bed where you once slept,

It’s empty now.

I tried to hold your hands, but they were always pushing me,

Towards my hopes and dreams.

If, in another life,

My heart is beating fine,

And love is on my mind,

You’ll be the first in line.