Brick Road

Walk down a street carrying a bag of tricks like a magician

Hoping not to break a step among the many millions.

It’s old and it’s beautiful and it can’t take the stain

of parlor tricks performed in dingy theaters without refrain.

A short walk and all the while hoping to turn the red and grey

to blinding green and golden;

Do you have a wish or is it all the while broken?

Do you perform a job you hate every day,

swindling sweet purses from those for your ill-gotten gains?

Do you get called ‘liar’ every show in few by some broken-hearted teen

or cynical, miserable ewe?

Does your show get fewer listeners every time you play,

or is it slowly turning belly up with every single say?

A fortune doing what you love seems a dream come true,

but only if you’re earning which you never seem to do.

And you walk a road that’s rough on your feet to every single tragedy

just to make ends meet.

Do you just go out with a whisper in the poverty,

nameless or moneyless for all without exception?

Is there no avenue left to greet

when all the taxes go to well-maintained roads

and all dreams die in the street?

Hear the street performers play happy melodies for dimes.

Hear the green grocers sell their wares with a melancholy shine.

Hear businesses crowd streets in the mix with wares not meant to share.

Hear souls goodbye that can’t take the costs they bare.

See a bloody brick road from generations past never change at all

while the buildings and the people leave against the call.

End a thriving market with many people all around.

Change it to a cul de sac with the only store: Chevron.

ISA

This is original format. 

I hate

I hate the world.
I hate people.
I hate everything…but not you.
I despise you.
You sit in a closet with a tourniquet around your throat to stop words from coming out.
You, who sits in a corner and cries in self-pity.
You ugly, deplorable, rancid filth of a person, I wish you would die.
 
Just die.
Suck up the lies and let the truth come out, you deceitful serpent.
Cut into your bones to spill the marrow, like you don't spill filth over the ground already.
Bash your head into a wall until you don't think and just listen when people talk to you.
You traitorous scorpion, you don't deserve the love of family or the peace of quiet and solitude.
 
I wish for your every breath  to be torturous, you bandage-covered mummy.
Carve your own organs into place, you selfish twat.
Let the world see who you really are;
reject the pity, the recognition, anything that would actually help.
 
Laugh yourself unto madness, while listening to your soul cry.
Spill every drop of your blood unto the carpet, in the hopes of imprinting your misery into color.
You artist, you thick-headed slob.
You dandy-coated,  self-righteous, narcissistic, arrogant pile of horse ass-vomit.
 
Go die, filthy person.
Go and hate in hell.
The world doesn't need you.
The world doesn't want you.
You're a waste of space.
 I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you…me.


ISA

Can't Sleep

I can't sleep because I think too much;
Robbed of life with a bitter touch.
Even in my own home, my decisions
Are met with skepticism, dismissal and derision.

 

By friends so colorful, who don't know my name,

By family so loveable, who think me as tamed…
I feel like a stone tablet left on a table:
Ignored and forgotten, till it's moving is enabled.

 

I'm so angry it hurts; this pain in my chest

It's left behind, like me and my rest.
Can't I decide, (in my own home no less),
what games to play, when stuck with doctor or dress?

 

It hurts like a dream, filled only with pain.

I can't sleep when nobody knows the frame.
I'm stuck in a loophole, a cycle straight down,
Where I can't even sleep in my own home town.

 

Why the same thing; endless repetition?

Why not sit back, even if you need to pay the tuition.
It doesn't cost much… to change your own ways
When it opens up new doors, and I can sleep away the day.

 

 

Who am I even talking to?

 

 

 

Echo Echo Freely

Echoes echo echo freely.
Over water, through the air
Echoes echo echo freely.

 

Inside a storm, inside your mind

An echo resounds
Creating afterimages of effects and times;
Memories lost to ether rebound.

 

Echoes echo echo freely…

If you count freedom as an extra large cage.
And over time an echo goes quiet.
And we say echoes echo echo freely.

 

Stuck in a hole that they can't rise out of

dying slowly unless they hit the absent bell
getting quieter and quieter till there's no sound left;
would you say that echoes echo echo freely?

 

 

ISA

Snake Bite

I was  born inside a snake cage.
Only ever pythons or vipers
Cut to pieces or choked and swallowed whole.
So, so venomous.

 

Shadows on the wall without waiting

Serpents on the ceiling, baiting, baiting
Can't figure without being stabbed by odes
Drowning in the mood. Yet not so blue.

 

Dug the teeth in without regard for the victim.

Murdered murderers… if you can erase the meaning in the bitten.
Burdened by weight without legs to move forward.
Without arms to grab, you don't create. Not ordered.

 

Shadows on the wall without waiting

Serpents on the ceiling, baiting, baiting
Can't figure without being stabbed by odes
Drowning in the mood. Yet not so blue.

 

What  joke can hide behind a mask behind a mask

Hiding a symphony without the capability to ask?
A dead band without the potion to bring it back to life.
Would you ever want to when it's filled with so much strife?

 

Shadows on the wall without waiting

Serpents on the ceiling, baiting, baiting
Can't figure without being stabbed by odes
Drowning in the mood. Yet not so blue.
Not so blue.
Green and yellow and red and you,
Not so blue.
Not so blue.

ISA

Oh Sakura

When did I forget to lie again?
With dreams left seething
It seems to dissipate
Into the rainstorm.
 
Oh Sakura,
you left me breathless.
I'm so restless,
Cannot fall asleep again.
Oh Sakura,
You left me all alone.
 
Need to go away
Way back far in bus-less retrograde.
Walk a thousand steps
into the never-ending fall.
 
Oh Sakura,
you left me breathless.
I'm so restless,
Cannot fall asleep again.
Oh Sakura,
You left me all alone.
 
Timeless wastrels
Lyrical assholes.
Talking like lovers lost
dead in the long run.
 
Oh Sakura
Without you I'll be gone.
Oh Sakura
Dead like a raindoll.
Oh Sakura
You left me all alone.
Oh Sakura.
Oh Sakura.

 

ISA

 

 

Like a Knife

Like a knife,
I'm full of edges;
Rough edges, sharp edges,
cutting a strait through to inner meanings.
 
It's telling when your gaze leaves lines of fear,
and your words take them aback.
Of course a single cut can kill.
Every child is taught this when they're young...
 
***
 
It makes a child sensitive if they're treated like a knife.
Dangling from the hilt down,
Lacking affection.
Treated like a tool.
 
It makes an adult angry,
To be so carefully handled so segregated from their peers.
How would any knife feel to be left outside the box of forks and spoon?
No consideration, does a knife get.
Cowards.
 
It makes the old and wise sad
To see the same treatment given to others.
The same mistakes made,
The same days and the same situations.
They always want better for those that wouldn't be forced otherwise.
 
I'm none of these things.
I'm a weapon I myself use.
My eyes dig deep and leave scars,
My words leave gashes and furrows.
My hands destroy that which I touch.
But I control me.

I don't have to be a knife.
I don't have to hurt or kill.
I'm only like a knife.
To transform otherwise…would be unlike me.


ISA

P.S. from Mike: (Sorry people. It seems like this month is going to be used for Inspirationals with 'Metals' as the theme. Oh, and it seems like it may be a question to this, so... I don't write these. My friend, ISA, is the one who does. I only maintain this blog for him. I'm his editor. I don't normally leave these, but I've gotten more than one question as of late from friends offline, so I thought I'd answer the question here.

We're planning an AMA/AUA soon though. Please send your questions in. THANKS!)

The Needle

Pin, pin, push it in
-to little holes beneath the skin
(that are) left to bleed beneath their touch
till the pain becomes much too much.
They just dig deeper, further down
till the pin begins to drown
and the seas inside, they rise and fall
to keep the secret over all.
 
 Not the heart, not the brain;
You're much too focused on the pain
of a truth-ful needle poking in
And busting lies beneath the skin.
 
Boils, blemishes;
they're both diminishes
that the needle seeks to find;
little, tiny, self-told lies.
 
It's not enough that the needle may be right;
so were leeches in their time.
It may be just that you're feeling the burn
(of truth) before you're in the urn. The final turn.
 
Hello Death, I loved your poison prick.


ISA

Center of the World (Your Room)

The center of the world
is just a thumb on the palm of your hand.
It's plain and dry
without any complex meaning or color
and is as familiar to you as the sky is to a bird.
Yet there is a complexity about its growth, and the presences within.
 
Like your bedroom in your youth, a dresser or cabinet filled with clothes
or a bookshelf on an old desk
or even a computer (if you had one) filled with the comings and goings of your mind's quandaries.
Your necklaces and rings and jewelry in a close by box
next to another filled with your fondest memories
being just the tip of the iceberg of experience.
 
Really, going into such an old and fond place is nostalgic.
You remember intimately what went where and why it did and what caused this and that to happen.
The center of your world…so far away after growing up and leaving.
And you walk outside of that old room in that old house on that old street that needs to be repaved…
and look at where your family used to sleep.

They're all gone,
long since passed is the time you first decided to play the fool by pretending to smile through the pain
you carry always.
A sister, maybe a brother, more…
Your father, your mother, maybe even your grandmother and grandfather that lived in an old room with flowery wallpaper…
they're all gone.
Their children have grown up and have had children.
Your friends have all left and grown their own families.
Time really seems to change quickly.
In who knows how many years, you'll go too.
 
Yet this world is still pristine in where you left it.
You'll be fondly remembered by those you've loved more than life itself.
You'll die and your world will die with you.
It's fine to cry…
One last time.

 

ISA

Rainy Sunday (Happy New Years)

Sunny rainday;
Two syllables swapped make as much sense as they should.
Clear air, cloudy with the chill as water falls on your back
Lives with an unapproachable feeling.
"Butterflies are moths"
I used to tell myself over a cup of frigid tea
Looking over the white porch, across a damp lawn, towards a slick road.
 
It used to be warm
On the hot days.
Now it's just stifling and I can't breathe without the ice
that's been around long enough to deaden my sense of the cold.
 
It's dark too.
There aren't many colors out of the grey.
Maybe the orange glow of streetlamps bright at two a.m.
Shrouding any glimpse of the stars
Can get my color back.
 <->
"Feeling feels good,
That I know.
Beyond the horizon that's coming in 'just five seconds',
the hunger that's never satisfied,
and the dreams that dare to dream when I fall asleep. "
 ---
"I've always been a glutton.
I eat too much, I sleep too much…
Yet I'm never full.
"Too few colors, Too little description."
A painting worked on for twenty years doesn't so much as skim the topsoil of the art I've eaten.
Yet.
It's just as beautiful.
It's just as gold and crystal, rich as gems and silver, as any one thing I've had."
 ---
"A meal is complete in one dish.
It means that everything you need can be contained in one recipe.
A story must be complete;
A piece of art must be considerate of its details;
Your words must be finite, restrained and hold all the meaning you mean it to."
 <->
I think too much for such a meaningless picture.
At the end of the day it's just a street, a cup of tea, the rain, and some grass.
I'm just on the porch watching.
And I don't plan to do anything.


ISA

The Scary Red Man

The scent of Mellissa raises graceful in the air,
minty white nectar lemony-effervescent hangs among the rows of candy and sweetmeat.
The hall is quite and chill
and the fire in the furnace boils away the remainders of the hearty boars-hind.
The stars, ever-pining away the child looks towards them in hope.
Sleep comes and dreams wake to celebrate the sheer.
 
Cold and echoing, bold and joyful;
is the silence in the early morn whet he comes to play.
Decked in red, dyed fur and shadowy figment black.
He shines glory in white.
No need to use what isn't there;
Climb down the chimney with care.
 
No sound is made: no thump or brush.
No laugh is sounded…it only gets quieter.
A gift is laid down with care in front of the dying fire.
A final toy stuffed in a stocking with glee.
Blessed quiet…
And the house is empty.
 
It's eerie how the sound echoed,
and the Cheshire grin on his horrifying face.
He who resides in the silence of that morn
A spirit with fire in his eyes.
I looked into his face and saw my death and that terrible smile…
And he all but disappeared... faded into memory like the air…

 

ISA

Merry Christmas.

4th Hour (The Writer)

Yesterday daydreams bleed away
Writers' blocks
And nascent birds fleeting at the brain.
An author throws his lasts work in the bin
Preparing himself to begin again.
 
Does he get up to glance at that old oak in the distance
And it's older ghosts smiling on in melancholy at the newest addition
Of a menagerie building timeless in the sunset
Of ancient souls whispering?
He thinks so, going back to work
 
Mauling maudlin ideas, nay,
He rests destined for the rocks,
A fan and the pain
of peeling skin,
typing on a laptop on a needle pin.
 
A comfortable bed and a sleepy stance
Weary with one of the many false smiles and broken thesaurus diction
Groaning and moaning in that unpleasant ache, a bet
To sleep in peace staring, turning
He looks toward that food and knife and fork.
 
Waking in torrential rain
Who could move for the cold and pain?
Grimy, grungy, that book stays in use…
Paper trails surround the author
Of fortune.
 
'Dreams again…
How long since he's had them?
Years that ripped and tore
Hardly ever dared or bore
Any sign of times good and past.'
 
Moving from a stopped point in the ache
Never seems to stop the quake
In his limbs, fuge
Of ideas spew onto the thick mud,
Torrential and opportune.  
 
'Does it do good to lend
Aid to one who's been naught but thin
For all that's worth
The mirth,
Drowning in a casks?'
 
Wantless needfuls ' restless in the din of passing crowds
A gambler in time, sitting in a back alley
That no-body notices.
A slight awning does nothing to keep him dry,
And the ink's about to run out.
 
By and by, a useless shroud
Covers little and protects less than the abbey
That no-body notices.
There's no material that can light the fire
And the walls are crumbling in.
 
~Little useless perygryn
Old and young, and so divine
Sits in a corner all by themselves
While all that surrounds them;
Poisons and motives~
 
An old coin plops in front
From an old lady who's already gone
and sits in his hat,
His writing askew
As he lays his head to rest.
 
 
ISA

3rd Hour

Cold and wet  in the mourning rain
Desiring freedom though restricted;
Old sailors that used to be,
Long since have died.
Work, work,
Break the stones of
Monotony of building a new world.
 
Crack the gravel,
Shift the dirt,
Cart the steel,
Place the bricks.
There's nothing more,
Just endlessly pacing, bodily placing,
Adding to a changing world.
 
New forms for old delivers.
A man and a woman
Old and with children
Add to the oak from the gran-fathers' day.
Sitting, waiting,
Drinking old wine and watching the clouds
Whilst waiting for a greater world.
 
Freedom is here yet not what they want;
Everybody wants more.
Committed to the old,
None can reach out and sacrifice,
Embittered, enchained by the group,
Cynics and fighters are grounded
By vain society's world.
 
Going home at the end of the day,
Still raining, still in pain,
Head to the barn
Where home is born.
There's naught like a cold drink
In an old room
To feel the breaking of the world.
 
Do  you need a distraction from the emptiness within?
Emptiness waking on a fruitful morning repeating dreary rain…
It's not as if a comfortable bed
Exists to take the work away
In the warm company of memory
On a bench in a park
In the world of what hasn't been.
 
Repetition of labor
Sinking stones in a mountain of gravel.
Glassy beach of steel memory
Recalling
Red lines.
Should have worn a hard hat today
In light of the world that is.
 
Dreary. Closer.
Stormy. Closer.
Boring. Closer.
Old. Closer.
Changing. Closer.
Light. Closer.
Pain. CLOSER.
OH GOD, I DON'T WANT TO DIE.
Dark.
Still alive?
Opening eyes to a sparkling new world…


ISA

2nd Hour

Tomorrow brings
A Dried up,
washed up
Has-been
Of dreams unseen.

The old fool under the tree
Lazily drinking his whisky -rum -wine -drink
Could not recover from the brink
That life sent him.
He goes there the second the first light rises with memories of yesterday.

Today is grey.
It's not odd: the existence
Of gray stormy Saturdays.
Though the dawn rises
Still comes the rain.

Stone is eventually received from meager earnings
It's shaped,
It breaks,
It falls apart.
And the young boy sent off, goes out to seek more.

It's a long journey.
Through slums,
Through sewers,
Through wide streets paved with gold.
It's a long journey for boys with less than more.

Dangerous rocks fall from high above,
Steep cliffs with hidden dangers,
Paths not fit for those of
naive dispositions
Litter steely landscapes.

Words have little meaning for a third of the journey.
Actions mean less.
It's not what can give,
But what can be taken
That brings the boy falling down the Cliffside.

Found by a lady
In yellow stripes
Light as a dove,
And just as nice,
A boy awakens.

The boy has forgotten. What did he seek?
Distracted, he loves…What made him so meek?
A transformation. Wild forgotten; changes.
Grassy forests of steel and glass…
In schools learning, teaching class.

Freedom chooses from a land of men,
What can be lost, what can be binned.
Rule is filtered through piles of trash,
And young ones are gelded into a
Womanly mash.

They dance and create.
Crude gravel becomes stone.
The world becomes paint;
Fragile and broken.
Real and False.

Soon stone becomes marble,
And beads become diamonds.
Freedom shatters,
Bound in chains for paltry satisfaction
In a designed distractions.


ISA

1st Hour

Went out to sea one winter eve
To fish for stone,
 to replace a wall,
Of bitter feelings
for those left and lost.
Met a pool of poisoned birds,
Shrieking to not hit the curbs
Though there was
Nothing left of the well within,
They scream for help
And did nothing but sink.
And though dawn is on the sail
Rotting logs bare yellow stains
And the stones we passed yell "Nothing to gain".
Questions sank and the boat goes under.
 
Next we saw some friendly sharks,
Asking for help to turn curiosity's spark
And to help them lead their babies away
From a terrible man with a terrible plan.
We passed them by and asked them questions but the man said:
"The newborn sharks need not pass the time
Looking in books for forgotten rhymes.
Reason's great big ugly head
Killed off dreams before they were dead."
He spat and hissed from within the ball
Cut off his arm just to see them fall.
And though there is hope in all life
They can't seek what's left of him
If they've no hope at all. And they go on, die out
Starve…and disappear, ruled by hands that chained them.
 
Jet black patches rolled on the waves
Kept safe and sound by lords of sin
Who want nothing more to kill again.
Left dry and wanting under the earth,
There isn't anything that won't bring their mirth.
Those disgusting blackguards wet their throat
And with cruelty bloat.
They moisten their loins on creatures' remains
Seeking endless thrills and gains.
They deprive deprave and with nothing to lose
Spend not but a penny, take away your gain, and supplement it with the cheapest of booze.
If no one's left to make sure they croak
The amphibians poison
will make sure the lever's broke
And we'll continue on the waves.
 
The man of the sea turned the boat around.
Head for port and harbor we found.
Not an hour away the nightmares left
To seek out younger, fresher flesh.
The memories of our day at sea,
With sailors, sharks, and dark daydreams
Quit our heads to head for some drink
To bring ourselves back from the brink.
Who knew when we left for cobblestone,
We’d find trouble before trouble'd gone home?
Not that captain, not the leader before the fray
Who sits in the corner drinking away his day.
With the bartender's money and his cups in his hand
The drunken sailor headed out for dry land,
And sat beneath the tree with a thousand bands.

 

ISA

Lost

They do not reach beyond the gate

Those words without voices left to speak.

Questions without answers bait

the curious to eke

out their existence in empty lines

of lawn and pine

Manufactured by the leftovers

Of those who brought light and dreams…

And those who died, felled by the whims of fancy.

 

A world without shadows is a lonely place

To any wayward soul.

There are no wheres to hide, no hidden grace

And weapons old.

Imagination is dead, buried under broken wings

Of forgotten people, places, proper things.

No corners to enter worlds beyond the scopes

Of already imagined ideals.

We conform and the world dies…

 

Forget the years, the people, the places, the objects of power

In our deepest memories of times lost under the scrutiny of disbelievers.

God? A word used no longer for hope, hanging lofty from the bowers

Of castles, defiled by deceivers.

H…o…p…e… slow typing trying to develop a sense of wonder and love

Non-existant as purity in the eyes of one turtle dove

Without it's mate in the seas of delirium.

Lo, we are lost.

 

 

ISA

Ridiculous Thoughts

Waking morning,

Day to day.

See the price it takes to play;

"Have a care, now hurry dear."

Leaving home: it takes some tears.

 

Running rampant down the street.

Running just to beat the heat.

Running just to trip and fall

Into stress's overalls.

Run to the left

"Got to make it just in time"

Run to the right

"Can't be late: It's not alright!"

 

Closed the door,

Didn't make it.

Angry at it;

Hate it, hate it.

No respect from the passing crowds;

Enough to scream it louder, loud.

 

Blow apart like the atom bomb:

Danger to others, sis, bro, and mom.

Wouldn't be a problem, but that's alright

Let's treat the angry like neophytes.

 

 

ISA

 

Hell, All Nonsense, Dream Sequence ((H.A.N.D.S.))

Bloody tears and screaming cries

Fall from angels in dark disguise.

Hated speech and vitriol vowels

Turn and rend wounds from heads

In the bowels

Of the deepest pits and dungeon.

 

Bread with wine and honeyed words

decorate the corpses of ravens

and their corpulent masters

 As ringing joyous golden bells

Tear down the shields separating hell.

Silver mourning on broken refrains

The cracked vocals of mothers voicing their pain

Keep the demons in power with no restraint.

 

Level limits without restraint

The wills of the faithful who succumb to hate.

The greedy and miserly of worship and vows,

Hypocrites and despoilers find their home

And punishment grueling.

To be cut into quarters, aware and alive

Is a punishment all dearly despise.

 

Insane and foolish

Find themselves in paradise

Spurning advances not egregious outwise to beat at their flesh.

With hammers and pickets, like scythes cutting yield,

The Hopeless-not-actors  are rent by despair and regret.

 

Thorns twist and pull, digging into the flesh

Of betrayers of justice.

The fools who judge one side,

with no hope for the criminals but to destroy,

T'was their lack in being wise.

 

Red hot irons twist and gouge,

Repeating lines across flesh ad nauseam

For those that forget.

 

***

 

Spot the hill over yonder

With the beast in the gate.

See it keep screaming

See it in pain.

It continues to burn

Many eyes

Many faces

Yet they all scream the same

From inward they rage

As profanity reigns.

 

Little children, Young mothers

Fathers, Little Sisters,

Cousins and Brothers

They're tied to stakes

Sacrificial pyres

Lit from beneath

By the big man's own ire.

 

The world has no god.

There's nothing worth living.

Yet from day to day

Humans stay livid.

They cry

And they laugh.

They falter, they lie.

Some rage against the world,

Others force change.

Yet it all stays the same…
And Chaos Rains.

And Chaos Reigns…

 

***

 

Black thoughts, green wishes.

Needless violence gets in the way of purple visions.

One day beside,

And love despairs;

One heartless rose puts on airs.

 

Grim thought leave grey stains upon the minds of their victims.

Primal torture…eating at fear...

long forgotten: reach new ears.

 

Dreamless sleep exists without rest.

Nightmares take like parasites dear.

Dreaming oddities clear to clear

Is enjoyment that eventually disappears.

Could be near,

Those endless tears.

I've been seeking far too long to give my inner thought…

Any clout; ice cold leers.

 

 

 

ISA



Let it go

 

Smell the water from the coming storms.

Feel the fires of the hopeful born.

Let dreamers seek great delight

And potions clear the plague's dour blight.

 

Let artists slather beauty in every painting

And every word

Written by authors without tainting

The pure.

Let warriors break out their swords and their shields,

And musicians ring bells with divine peal.

 

Let criminals deceive,

And lawmen convict.

Let demons and angels

Like clockwork click.

Let all the world

Feel it all.

Let nature blossom.

Let it fall.

 

Society blue,

Blackened and blistered,

Bear the pain;

The knife left to right twisted.

Let's all choke on the aftermath acids.

Love and crap in one hand resistance.

 

Mutant defilers,

All thoughts gone.

Let the creatures of disgust

Bust and blacken.

Like cold steel left in the water too long,

Let all rust:

Decay and be gone.

 

Let every life left on course.

Let all the world scream a name,

Let insanity reach all in fifteen-second fame.

Like wind and fire, ice and snow,

And nature's flowers:

Let it go.

Let it go.

Let it go.

 

 

ISA

Gerudo Valley

 

 

Gerudo Valley

 

 

Needless life

"Taken in"

Only strife

"Can be found"

In other bounds.

 

Can you feel?

Can you see?

Can you heal?

Is there nothing left in life?

That I can breathe,

That I can find?

 

I say…

Let the storm rise

And let it fall.

Sands shift and

Sands peel…away the times.

Storms of courage

Must be found.

And with

Power, wisdom,

Endless abound:

Only then can truth be found.

 

Hope is living

Among the dead.

Burden paled;

Piled on refuse piles:

Woven tales

Of timeless idles.

 

Legends begin…

And end with a song.

A wolf from story…

Is as much help as the heroes of now.

 

ISA