helios

what you say, what you know, and what you wont let go
all ring differently in ears that have been promised the world.
babe, grasp my veins like the kite strings that taught you how to fly.
because one by one, they've been cut away by the inured lifestyle we hopelessly call existence.
because one by one, the chords snap and they bleed.
and they bleed.
and they bleed.


too often do I enshroud myself with the words of disdain.
because I am just an attitude, and characterization ceases to feel,  instead shredding the fallowed mind.
and solitude only comes when the strings wrap themselves to the broken pieces littering the pavement.
because one by one, the words provide dissonance.
because one by one, the kite falls.


because two years ago,
when the bells rang, the words couldn't fight the cold.
because thirteen months ago,
when the phone rang, the words were too far gone.
because eighteen weeks ago,
when my ears rang, the words were replaced by silence.
because ninety days ago,
when the door was left ajar, the words caught the kite.


helios is incarcerated by thousands of well wished prayers,
for no escape befalls the God of man.
for in his image he created discontent.
and with discontent came the words that bite even the surest patrons.
because one by one, fear builds the sepulcher at His feet.


so take me away from this.
fly me to the furthest reaches of your cognition.
atmospheric rock only does so much in creating the sensation of flight.
and somewhere the well wished prayers crash-land.
and somewhere the sky closes, leaving only grey behind.

but I am just an attitude, and kites were never meant to fly on days without wind.

the other side

whether it be one day,
or two days,
or three,
or four, i have an egregiously difficult time moving forward.

the candescent radiance with which your body exhibited has permanently left an impression on my consciousness.
only war torn bricks encompass the remains that i once called memories.
shattered are the stain glass images depicting the best moments.
shackled are my feet to the own grave i have dug.

too often do i find myself in the company of strangers,
too afraid to bleed the emotion that allows me to purge a cathartic heart.

just like each line lacks coherence,
the foreseen path before me also lacks.

too often do i find myself in no company at all,
too afraid to take a step that would tear down the reality I've come to realize,
too afraid to speak into the silence,

in case anyone was truly there.

-

i wish to believe that i am just merely passing through

-

my hands are weary.
stained by weeks of anxiety,
lifeless and cold,
they work only upon brass strings and dirty keys.

upon occasion my hands find seclusion in the grasp of another set of weary shells,
once proclaimed to be strong.

for a moment the radiance returns,
and characters wander back to vivid recantation.
each limping with the weight of exacerbated existence.

just as quickly the warmth fades,
and the characters are again succumb to the numbness occupying the white noise.

-

i wish to believe that you are just merely passing through

-

too often do i find myself in no company at all,
too afraid to reach into the darkness oppressing my judgement,
too afraid to speak into the silence.

concerning pain

I think I might know what it takes to be strong.
but with every brick I build around my ramshackle consciousness,
my shelter becomes a prison.
the fiery wounds in my side remind me of the nights spent alone.

I think I might know what it takes to be rough.
my edges burn even me.
and my sides turn me inside out.

there's no need to pretend, no need for innocence.
a culture consumed by vanity forgets the wayward sons lost in the darkness of their own fear.
calls for change go noticed only by those that know they didn't do enough.

and change never comes.

I fear being alone.
I fear biting a bullet.
I fear women.
I fear confinement.
I fear deceit.
I fear disappointment.
I fear pain.

concerning pain, I fear I know to little.
but I do know that I believe in a god that welcomes those in pain with open arms.
I do know that the bite of death wounds only the tainted body.
I do know that all good lasts longer than this excuse for a lifetime.
I do know that pain will never cease in society.
I do know that it ceased in one heart tonight.

concerning pain, I know I've caused too much.

longing for change.

Caroline no.5

Parched is often used to describe the thirst of the human body, and moisture alleviates pain.
But parched is my mind, as it hasn't received proper sustenance for months,
Wracked  with the weight of a reality plagued with cognitive awareness gone awry.
So leave me for the wretch, and watch as I fall.

Looking down upon the world gives a wary mind a strange sense of power.
People fade to the minuscule existence given to them by God almighty.

-
Memories fade to.
-

From time to time the rapture of the guitar strings upon the maple frets allows the mind to wander.
Melodies elongate the strains of hope emitted from exhausted finger tips.
And a tired mind lulls himself to sleep amongst the music.

-

Heavy is my heart.
Frankly life isn't what it used to be.

-

I dream of escaping into the woods,
Far from the grasp of a society choked by an ever growing tide of filth
In the earth, dreams tend to float easier into the heavens, and thoughts aren't so grounded.
In the earth, breathe is sweeter and the crispness of the air lights afire tattered lungs.
In the earth, warmth leaves the body quickly,
Reviving nerves previously forced to sleep.

Pages fold and tears burn.
Feet tire and hearts stop.
But I want mine to stop in the earth.

The Unfortunate Truth of Reality no.9

Giver of my name, don't be disappointed.
Please hearken to the depths of your heart to outstretch the palm of forgiveness.
Apologies to the shell of a forefather, wrack with the weight of age
I fear I'm not all you thought I was

-

Blood pulses through the same veins that bleed envy for the life unblemished
The same veins weave themselves into the brush that paints the daunting tail of existence

Tell me, is this real?
I fear that day passes without adherence to law,
And night falls with anguish.

Life isn't what it used to be.

Far beyond tomorrow lies a ramshackle heart beaten upon the walls
And there one hopes the mind hasn't reached the same fate

-

"If the world had a million of you, it would be a better place"

       Take me away into the night. 

no.4

I wish to fly up amongst the clouds.
The air is crisp there,
but it is worth the trip.
Amongst the clouds, the earth beats like the throbbing heart between my lungs.
At this distance, freedom is exemplified by the triumphant eagle with it's outstretched wings.
Pristine are the sounds as they travel into space.
Physics cannot calculate the trajectory of the broken dreams fluttering up into the heavens.
If only one could fly with them.

An emblem of purity, the white within the blue perpetuate the cleansing of the world.
Amongst the clouds, clarity is pristine, and wayward thoughts seem to claw their way back into cognition.
As one transcends the clouds, they eclipse the portal of mortality.
With arms like blades carving the sky, past travelers glide into the nothingness of beyond.

Amongst the clouds, one is safe.
One is sound.
Amongst the clouds, one is safe.

no. 3: egs

-

Eloquence is not simply measured by the fluidity of your movements,
or the perfection of your mascara,
or the lace in your newly purchased dress,
but in the curvature of your heart as it resembles your desire,
and your hope.

furthermore, Grace is unmatched by the smoothness of the water, and the fine grass that lines the side.
and Grace is found in the pine, and in decaying bark surrounding the core.
but i think i found Grace in the workings of her cognition.

and once, i think i found perfection in Simplicity.
i'm not sure if this is a love letter, or simply a upheaval of emotions,
but either way i think she would appreciate it.

frankly i don't even know what love is so how could this even be a love letter?
is it a statement of affection?
or a proclamation of genuine appreciation?

i wrote a song or two about said Eloquence,
but i choked on the words as they slipped through my teeth,
and scratched my gums so that every word dripped with the blood of emotion.
and Grace.

i miss the Simplicity of warm nights and the strength in numbers,
and the fatigue accompanying desire and excursion.

i miss the Eloquence of small words,
and the Grace in no words,
and the Simplicity in thought.

-

i miss coherence.

-

no. 2: Almighty

Sometimes the fluidity of my emotions is alarmingly solid.
and like clay they seem to clump together into an unidentifiable mass.

Sometimes they drift through the leafless branches of the trees that remind me of security.
occasionally they rustle through the dying bark, and through the brown needles littering the ground.
occasionally they stop.

-
Clay.
-

Turns out the ridicule begins to wear one down a bit.
it starts at the shoulders, and the joints become tattered and disjointed.
then in your wrists, you forget how to use the empowering pen in your journal.
once it hits your feet, walking is no longer an escape but the shackles that bind you to your hell.

I raise the white flag Almighty God.

I surrender.

I dug my way through the clay that claimed my emotions, and as they bled out of my shattered world, they mixed with the very obstacle I had to climb through.

The trees don't blow in the wind anymore, Almighty God.
i don't hear the leaves lift off the ground, only to brush across my shaken skin.
i don't even hear my own music anymore, as it slips of my fingers, and out into breath.

I raise the white flag Almighty God.

Everyone has fallen from my side, and you have me alone.
i stand here, war torn, distraught, medicated, afraid, hopeless, exhausted, breathless, but strong.

Digging through the clay left me vulnerable.
Digging through the clay left me vulnerable.
Vulnerable.

So take the shot.

I raise the white flag.

no. 1

I firmly believe that as it rains

it pours.

Too often do I find myself routinely inadequate in the things that I need to be 

superhuman.

The damp sleeve pressed against my face is a reminder

that existence is to closely correlated to life. 

Cognition tends to not serve it's purpose

and my heart hurts for the 11 year old girl who lays alone. 

She doesn't yet know the value of catharsis

just the value of the potent quality of pills that are supposed to help.

Why

can't I be superhuman. 

-

I'm back

but I don't necessarily want to be. 

I'm going through withdrawals

I'm Jern.

Hello, I am Wisconsin.
Not only that, but I am the dirt poor kid on the blue striped couch throwing rocks down the drain.
The rocks hit the sides, and the piercing noise is one of the last things I remember of my first home.
Nostalgia's often resurrecting qualities only work as far as I let them, but I forget.

12 years later, I am sitting on another striped blue couch, and the camera in the corner is pointed directly at my face, and the fabric itches my back, and the carpet is unbelievably ugly.
12 years later, and the kid that woke up every morning to name his 47 dinosaurs is gone.
12 years later, a stricken heart resides in his place.
12 years later, Wisconsin is merely a dream, and Wisconsin evaporated and was lost like 46 of the dinosaurs I kept on the shelf.

Nostalgia doesn't come now, and 12 years from this very moment, nostalgia will only remember 2 things. Kinley, and Paris.
12 years won't remember the therapy.
12 years won't remember when I fell so many times only getting up to slam the pavement again.
12 years won't remember the cold.

12 years wont remember, unless I let it.
But by then, I won't be Wisconsin anymore.

-

I never learned how to paint with watercolor or how to use pastels.
Maybe it's because the colors have gradually faded from view and the shades change from gray to gray to gray to gray to black to forget.

So catharsis doesn't quite feel real.
But dreams did, and falling asleep was merely waking up.
Alarmingly my reality became disturbed, and the dreams were becoming hope.
And even when I didn't dream, I was becoming hope.
And sometimes I could remember Wisconsin when I woke up.
Finally a cathartic heart found its release, and wary eyes were able to open again, and see the gray.

And if 12 years saw me today, I think 12 years would start to remember.
And I think 12 years would cry, just a little bit.

-

My load feels lighter. 
My eyes feel brighter. 
I think Wisconsin has gone though, and Wisconsin has been replaced by Jern. 
And for a split second, I am going to miss the times that I cried.
Wisconsin embodies 16 years of a fractured and forgotten life. 
It aches with the pains of a wayward mind. 
It sobs to the harmonies that protrude from my guitar ever still. 
And sometimes, I think it loves it all. 
But Wisconsin is ready to go. 

I never learned how to paint with the watercolors. 
Instead, I wove my veins into the bristles of a brush that purged my being onto the screen. 
I grafted the broken mind onto my tattered lungs, and they seemed to breath again. 
And the ravaged guitar in the corner has never made more beautiful melodies than now, even without a string.

-

Show me the secrets within your consciousness.

Confide in me the workings of your heart.

I think I've learned how to walk.