Written-Madness

By the wailing pool of black, sat a table, a table marble white. As white as the fountain pool, as sinister as liquid black. Upon this table white rested a checkered square, a checkered square of red and black to match the roses there. Many a game and many a night were lost atop these checkered squares, found on table marble white next to a pool of liquid black. And as the pool of liquid black sat on fountain of marble white, so did these checkered squares rest dolefully on blood spilled there. Many a man would wager there upon the checkered squares against the man of petal black. And many a many would lose more than he dared on games of checkered squares. What drove sane men to seek him there, he never knew. What stirred the men to wager more than dare and lose a flower there. A flower just discarded upon a checkered dare. Woe to the poor girls, for this isn’t fair, for they dared to not be there, now they shall lay bare. But a clever man, the petal’d man is, for

A Rose; From the Black Petal Man’s Garden Ho, now, thru and true, I stop thee, fair maid, on whateverthoust may descend upon thee that would have you rushing at this late hour; and thru my fields no less. Pray not thee warrant a fear, for what else could fields be made for if not for trampling about. … Pardon me, your Grace, but it would seem upon fair look of thee I recant my previous abrasion and see now to give you the proper respect you deserve. So fine a Lass could only flee in such tumultuous haste and fury if she were being pursued by foul wickedness of Ideals or the corruption that spawns in all our Kind. Pray that we not see corruptions sludge on one of the Kindred, for we may have to slay both an ideology and a friend. Nevertheless, my dear lady these moments are but common concern to our kind, as I recognize thee as a thing of beauty, regardless your haste. Pray, let me offer you refuge in my hidden home, it would be of most taking to a Lady of your stature, I assure

Shackled to a song Not even a Symphony Watching my mind soak in the notes Which I drown in fermented beverage For how else can I choke this verse Of all the plagues it has unleashed It is not done so that I can sing But to show that another song can be sung Yet if I must Sing I shall rise to the pulpit and conduct A hymn of pure silence Until I am inspired by my audience Waiting for this inspiration I shall hold my nations flag And let the cold winds of a Country bear down And grant mute audience to my Harmony Had us a laudable purpose I would have already been singing But as majesty would prevail I find myself enjoying the Darkness And watching all the trash Crumble away Like Kidney stones none of us need.

So there upon the precipice A forlorn shadow Bereft of natural warmth Yet kindled with a fire unnatural To them that the story knoweth Can but piece the fragments of an epoch. Yet they who dare to grasp within their palm sure knowledge Find themselves strangling thorns. The wayward flock that has been led by malice Can do naught but flail about the truly present madness. Made only so by the Dead architect, Who neither knowing Design or Purpose, Cast the entirety of our species into Darkness, For no better reason than to possess coin and rod. Truly, a man can fault not the desires of our forefathers. To instill order, so that hope blooms. To propose purpose, so that civilizations may prosper. To invoke the yolk, so that progress can be relished. These are worthy goals. Yet how flawed in their execution. For none have, until now, risen to steer the reins to newly fashioned demise; None have dared to cry out: “Look out ahead!” We took our favor in giving thanks to our guiding

A Marriage of Convenience There walking down the street, I alone and beholden to none save myself, I spied, within my mind, a blue-haired rose; her voice and presence sweet. She greeted me with silence, looked upon me with closed eyes and hit me atop the head; thus were we married. That was 15 years ago. I can still hear her laughing at nothing and everything and her voice still makes me smile. I bring her gifts from my adventures and she chews on them with a ravenous hunger reserved for scholars, researchers, and scientists. My horde of books has been visited upon by slender fingers caked in potato chips, yet never have I seen a book displaced or a page stained. My devices, both electric and of purpose meant for drink and smoke have been shared with a young girl whose notion of ‘share’ is to simply grab it, use it, and give it back. Her smiling face is quite possibly the greatest blessing I have ever received; along with the gift of knowing I can illicit such a joy from such a

How can we admire a clipped Rose? It is not that she is removed from the earth of her birth, Or from her sisters and mothers that cultivated her. But rather that, in an abrasive gesture, we admire her without her thorns. What are we teaching our Daughters? That we live in a world where submission is held in the regard of womanhood? And that as natural creatures, they should be culled of their natural design? And be kept in manners that would illicit their silence? Just as ours has been evoked by absence of testimony to this regard. I would not have our Roses clipped. I would have them bear their thorns. For I believe they have them, So that each Rose can grow separate and apart among the bush. And so that each Rose, in this fashion, grows unique and pleasing. And in consequence the entire bush is reaped of singular sights. With each stem growing so as not to harm its sisters. And each stem being insured in this regard that it will receive its full batch of luminous Sun. And be

And there upon the bow of a battered ship, A crest of ancient man, silent, immutable. Bearing all who gaze into its eyes to a shore of a forgotten world. A Land reap with treasure for scholar and warrior alike. The first who made landfall, an ascended shadow of themselves. Wracked with horror at the simplicity of Natures course, They now find Her as terrifying as the stoic Universe, Who could now only be said to be crafted by an Artisan. A device of resplendent precision, that echoes from itself the speech of but a mirror. Placed in the blackest of Abyss, Yet in that darkness, born a light, That reverberates a Hymn that is only heard once the choir is assembled. And here, today, breeching the Hallowed Halls of the internal Mind, Was loosed upon the world a discovery so foul. Yet only made so by the sheer blindness of our race. That should our tension be our only condemnation, we are fortunate. For here before this verdant void, we afford us an opportunity. To meet the challenge of

“So whats at the center of a Black Hole?” *looks at picture* “There’s nothing there.” “Yes, that is why its called a ‘black’ hole.” “Well, holes are usually empty and *looks at picture again* theres nothing there.” “umm, yes, but the question is ‘why’ there’s nothing there?” “Is this a joke or a science class? ‘why’ would there be anything there.” “Well, something has to be generating the gravity at the center of that cluster.” “Do we know enough about Gravity to make that assumption?” “Well, technically.” *looks at picture* “kay~ I’ll bite. That light we can see, those are stars, nebulae, gas clouds, but mainly stars and stuff right?” “Sure.” “What little we know of Gravity could also allow us to assume that that cluster of ‘space stuff’ they themselves generate the gravity that causes all of them to stay together like that. And that it is ‘this’ actual, visible, with ‘evidence’ cluster of ‘massive space stuff’ probably either spinning, rotating, burping on each other

The Arthaag -excerpt taken from the Deep, who claimed it from a survivor of these accounts. “The legends were true…but they weren’t at the same time. Of all the mighty terrors that roam this land, it is a cruel irony that the most horrid of these nightmares is a construction of Man. Not content with planting his black seed upon the solid earth, the ilk of the gaze of us humble creatures expands to the ravenous and bountiful seas beyond the sands that mark the end of fertility and the beginning of the Tempest that many call home. I was one such soul, a sailor drawn to the lure of riches, woman, the natural things. But like many of those upon the seas, the real reason I was here was adventure, discovery, and the obscene desire to wade in uncertainty, chaos, and possibility. No one, landlocked or unbound, was immune to the stories of others. Yet a wretched, painful truth is known by all that the most venerated tales come from the Sea, and involve both Prestigious wicked

Prepare to Broadside; “We’ve been surrounded;” “There is no time to waste, we must join our brethren in battle!” Of all the sins to have been born on Man without his intent, desire, or impulse, the atrocity of a stagnant Mental Health is the most oblivious to Mans, and Womans’, reasoning. How can any, such person, even begin, in earnest, to understand, contemplate, manipulate, heal, or even attempt to show compassion to a segment of the populace that, through literally no fault of their own, have been Cursed to simply suffer the plain regard of Existence in the blatant presence of those same Peers who enjoy Hot Dogs and pleasurable company in ample regard and in, in honest commentary, Observably relative ease. What is a Sin for one is happenstance for another. No-one has the Right to compare the Joys or the Suffering of another in regard to the Self in a vain attempt to safeguard their own Mental proclivities or their own Familiar safe, sound, stable structure; be that structure of