The Art of Human Suffering

We exist in ennui 

Lost in formulaic riddles and obstructed prose 

The mind becomes a moonless night 

So many thoughts and none that shine 

Reflections of deflections 

Loathing and Loving 

And somewhere in between

Complex simplicity

We’re always wrong but we never see 


We exist in ennui 

Lost in formulaic riddles and obstructed prose 

The mind becomes a moonless night 

So many thoughts and none that shine  


Filtered out and filtered new

On the outside, you can be pretty too

Stagnant and free from form 

Endless trees that bear no fruit 


So, you fought, so you won 

But here we are again and again        

Aimless and listless 

Just around the corner’s edge 

To the cornea's path 


Blind to the smiles 

That cover blind arrogance 

Blind to the self-induced madness 

Suffocating on the illusion of bliss


We’re always wrong but we'll never see

Hanging low, diseased and rotting 

Endless shifts of celebrated nullity

We are the saviors of nothing 


"It's a slow death without reason 

Prolonged by human weakness"


I don't remember when 

We were not divided by incompetance 

So much beauty in this world destroyed

Abused, forgotten and left by the wayside 


I've had hope that the future is brighter

But hope is my cognitive death 

If religion and philosophy can't heal 

Is there anything left?      


We are grasping for a tranquility that rides the cusp of a failing species 

In the mind's eye we see ourselves as heavenly, but in reality we are cosmological fiends  


Burn it all down

Burn it all away

and like Rome we will fall 

and like Rome we will stay 


What Is A Forlorn Hope? (With Old English And Dutch Influence And Germanic Origins)








What Is A Forlorn Hope?  (With Old English And Dutch Influence And Germanic Origins)



Although they are dregs,

Let me tell you what it's like

to live forlornly—

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Also as a personal note, regarding my etymological & linguistic studies (my informal studies).

The phrase originally denoted a band of soldiers picked to begin an attack, many of whom would not survive; the current sense (mid 17th century) derives from a misunderstanding of the etymology..

Hater of Life

Never ending nihilism. Could care less. Just along for the ride. Tired of just trying to survive. Would rather just die!!

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Somehow this decision

Has infliced none on me

Somehow my thoughts

Have inflicted all on me

Did I do this right?

Is there even a right?

In this endless game?

In this game of life?

In this game of struggle?

In this game of human pain?


All of the decisions made

Made in the sunlight or the rain

Have inflicted nothing

Just nothing

In this pointless endless game

I am in pain

Cranial Maceration


Skulls can no longer smile,

limited to that blank expression

until further degradation


Lost identity,

just a head,

no more life, no more breath



it must be lonely,

but they wouldnt know that would they?


Out of sight, out of mind,

we draw a fine line between

what is animate and inanimate


But is there really a difference

between them and Us?




are we really not just a skull wearing a mask?


Author's Notes/Comments: 
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A meaningless cycle called


is a sexually transmitted disease


is the food that sustains and feeds

A meaningless cycle...





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The Greater Absence

A silhouette did witness a descending puff of fog
and questioned then to which good end did this thing belong?
Its height suggests it's heaven-sent: it peaks above our reach -
but as it's struck upon the Earth it thins and there, depletes.
What God of good would craft a cloud and send it to its death?
What Death could come to claim a cloud devoid of consciousness?
What Mind of one, aware of none, could fret about its place?
What Balanced man, if any can, might mourn its scattered grace?

A silhouette stood motionless and peered into the sky,
impatient for a Thinking rain or the rolling of an eye.
The sheer and all-encompassed blue was stubborn and replete,
and the silhouette did tip his head; solemn in defeat.
Drawn from doldrums to its cry, above a bird then flew;
drawing patterns in its sky; a rainbow in its plume.
The silhouette, undaunted by this vacancy of truth,
left his peerless mourning, and, pursued this new pursuit.

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Still Bath

There he would sing,
lost in awe-inspired
knowing of
He thought not demise
awaited man
at end of their reign;
concluding their
No hand to lay beating,
frightening, firm
in its owning
of all of us;
all we own.
None stood upon pillar
against sun,
eclipsing all else
Nothing else far
from no where.

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Indistinguishable Chirps

Each night I am lulled asleep
by a sea of nameless chirping crickets.
All of whom, tells stories of their children.
“Bobby just learned how to ride a bike,
Jane and I couldn’t help but laugh
as we chased after him.”

“And after I gave the presentation
Mr. Hughes gave me a promotion.”

“My homework is boring but
my dishwasher is broken and
I had to go swimming across the lake
but I was laid off of work today.”

I am comforted at night
by indistinguishable chirps.