Existence dies where I lye with no escape but my unexplainable, unattainable meanings of the reality from which I preside, how the world flies by when solely the desire to feel beautiful emblems the existential millennial crisis, all is well and good but with each step co-aligned with the master’s whip striking. We feel benign, compelled to walk each step with two feet strapped, the gat on your temporal lobe. The dreams, the hope, the desire to see the globe, the urge now one can no longer assume the burden of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness but the broken feet that once skipped, flipped and flopped to life’s content. The need for the master’s consent to feel the joy of life has now become the stock and stain of our existence. Freedom waits for no man, and we hope we breathe, we breathe fast, we all fall, but peace in this existence is all we desire but how, when, where, will this befall. These are the ponderings i lye awake wondering in my wake.

Pastel on Paper, 2019, by PM

Murder Conviction

The pin, the pin, the pin,
A distraught, bleak mind.
A broken, broken, pen.
Few views, few cues; my kind.
hit, spit, feel desire. 
Desired, left, abandoned, behind.
Watch, blind, leave, admire.
Day break, The Beast find.
Knock, listen, sit, slam.
Interrogation receive, perceptions blind. 
record, melt, fuck, damn
Death escaped, sentenced, sign.
Paper prosecution, murder conviction.

“What you seek is seeking you.” -Rumi


Inner Darkness

I am looking for an escape from my wicked betrayal of a mind, I no longer long for time to last ticking slowly and ever more rewarding but wish it to quicken its malevolent pace. I am afraid I can’t break free that all those thought me worthless are right, for if I think of myself as a sufficient writer, I discern teachers of old bidding me unworthy to cross ink upon my canvas. I tear my heart onto this page for the days of my existence are numbered. I am a broken, unfixable, unmanageable man. The world around me is chaotic, and I am trapped in a dark, gloomy, translucent cell of my mind with no bars glimmering with light and hope that day may break the darkness within. I am a shut-in, I find that to wake up is a struggle I should no have to bare. I lye in bed trying to contemplate competency, but nothing exists in my malicious being. I try and try to stand, but my legs function not, so I stay and stare at the walls of the vacancy I feel within. I am dead, for the dead produce more response than I, the broken man; This is my depression, my inescapable existence.

The World’s Fucked

The moment starts when we wake to an alarm, our most vulnerable time, when we awaken to nothing, we have nothing, and the day is only received with doubt. Doubt whether we will accomplish anything or if like every other day we spend it sleepwalking. How does one change life’s perspective in the ever growing loneliness we feel flashing before our eyes as if it’s the headlights of the freight train that you’ve been wondering whether or not to jump in front of will relieve you of the pain that seeps, spills into every area of your monotone life? As if the only way for enlightenment to your ostentatious view upon reality is consider the possibility of fate and whether or not you’re just fucked in your existence in humankind. The better option is to believe that life is only chaos and we all wander aimless little lives. , We could concede to the insignificance of the world. You and I, we find that poetic, we find the mystery of the unknown terrifying but enlightening. To leave this world of people who “have” discovered the existence of the entire human mind by going on diets or exercising like that will help my psychotic rage of self-inflicting pain that numbs the screams for the time being, how the hell is the keto diet going to help people like us? People who are swallowed up by self-doubts and insecurities that control our entire existence to the core of our being….

“In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.”

– Hunter S. Thompson
Acrylic on paper, 2019, by PM