Prayers

 

I need to learn, but one thing I trust in is that our intentions imprint in this world. I've prayed, transcendent delineating indication of the spirit through the dimensions of time & space into the universe. The waters of the soul reflecting back into the infinite through tears. In the darkness, I've prayed through the forces of death & life for her. Touching the oxygen of the beyond, tears into the transmundane infinite.

There's truth in the details of the light Paul of Tarsus saw on his trip, like trees in the desperate grasp for oxygen in the soul of a man trapped in the darkness. "Damascus" is being written into a song, it's about her. But despite the peaceful tranquility the man observed, that light is impossible to be as beautiful as her eyes in that Orlando park.

Hawthorne (Flashforwards)

It occurred in my room back before my soul was tested. In those weeks, I was intrigued by the blonde shocks and lightning flashes of her lust-filled lips breathing, biting, and fucking my face and neck. In a block away from where I lived, I knew she was a trophy and in need to be utilized. That face wasn't being appreciated enough. In a flash, I gave her my number and took her soul from an inadequate mate.

But in the walk to my place, after many weeks (months?) of intense love and passion, it felt like an inevitable funeral that was meant to be a sign of respect for her. I was unable to love, but still did. It was more than lust, and it didn't need to grow beyond that, but it did. In those precious eyes, an innocent affection stared back at me and I couldn't deny the thrill of needing to protect her in a brutal display of truth.

"I can't love. Not right now." It hurt to display those words, but I remembered the tattoo on the back of my right arm, and the imperative need to do what is necessary. She burst into tears, and screamed in my face, as if this didn't hurt me more than her. I think she thought something was wrong with her, which couldn't have been further from the truth. If anything, I would have loved to produce a marriage with her. I didn't think that was possible, after what I lost. But it wasn't time for me to love. I couldn't.

In a burst of instinct and intense emotion, I dropped to a knee and held her hand and implored her to understand that there were things beyond her understanding, and I just couldn't be involved in a romantic relationship in this period of my life. But her insecurities overtook her, I could detect it, and no amount of begging turned what was intended to be a protective break-up into another traumatic episode in my life. Before she left the room, she took a glance back at the love poem taped to my closet door, and angrily tore it before departing into isolation.

On the floor, I tried to decipher what just occurred in the air, this moment in time and space. Since the age of 16, I've tried desperately not to hurt girls and be dear and a knight to a beloved. But it is here, again, another broken girl, bleeding memories and a destroyed dream. It felt necessary to travel into this decision, in her best interest, but yet again - lonely crying girl in the aftermath. In rebirth people transform into something stronger, I just wish there was a way to drain the pain and block it. The destroyed poem on the floor, it occurred to me to just pick it up again, tape it to the wall and line out the Wolfsangel.

This time, at least, it wasn't on a ribcage, across a tattoo dedicated to me. This time at least, I didn't need to stop a suicide. It looks like I'm learning, isolated. A born villain in the end, though. Obviously.

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7 years later, and I'm staring at a music video, preparing myself to meet up with a girl who traveled through half of Oregon to see me. I'm not even turned on. "Just say you remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe." It hurt reminiscing the last drive in Orlando to the airport, holding the hand of the woman intended to be my wife. What was meant to be a death and resurrection show turned out to be a long dragged out death (yet another), but without the resurrection. "Red lips and rosy cheeks," masculine teardrops isolatedly dropping, this time from me, as the blue expansive sky transformed into a infuriated but despondent orange-red incinerating peacefully. "Say you'll see me again."

In the window, I saw my reflection and it looked like a shadow on the other side of a necromantic divination, the soul who refused to die and was forced to see the remaining world transform. In a Portland studio. Like I imagined. "I thought heaven can't help me now." But I put myself together. "Nothing lasts forever."

This girl I am spending tonight with is my lust desire, but I intended on also treating her in an incendiary trend. Ignite a fire within her, to drape her in confidence and inject joy and friendly love into her. It felt fun fucking girls in the past decade, and distracting myself with men and boys, but this was different. It felt intimate, like (ha!) in the beforetime. I wanted her to use me to build her confidence back. I was bewildered how such an incredibly lush and beautiful precious blonde didn't rejoice in her innate sluttiness and sexual tenacity. It was a drag, like a fountain of precious water being stopped by a douchebag or bad situation, I don't know what happened. But as I watched the wilderness and beasts in the video, it occurred to me if the same had happened to me.

It was a pleasant night, and talking with her and traveling downtown and the waterfront inspired me to open a bit, and in her eyes, I could see she liked that. This girl enjoyed tearing me open. Like a predator. In the hotel room, is when I involuntarily turned. It felt vulnerable, unlike other situations in the past few years. This was uncomfortable.

But our bodies spoke, and as we trashed in the bed, the scent in the air took me back to the girl from high school. I was intending to perform a gentle, loving gesture, unlike previous escapades with other people. This time, it was intimate. I looked in her eyes, inhibiting tears internally, and she looked at me warmly and sweetly said,

"you really loved them, didn't you?"

It felt as if for the first time in my life, a person truly believed me, but it wasn't in words, but in my indeliberate body language that spoke on its own.

"Sorry, I was just having some flashbacks...."

"That's okay. Let's make some flashforwards, then."

It was at then that I turned into the other side of relationships, time, and dimensions. Not the previous transforming chapters that I thought were necromantic turning points, but in that sentence, that point in time, that this almost unknown girl said. As I bowed my head to taste her delicious pussy, my heart was content and it was a lively and joyful fun night. The intensity and trauma was off, and like I intended, I was able to make her quiver, ignite, and unleash her sexual confidence. But in pure honesty, in her predatory lustful eyes (the pupils don't lie) I think I was the one being devoured, all in blissful good fun.

--------------------------------

It's my hope she fucked well-mannered handsome guys, perhaps begin a relationship with one, but it finally seemed like I learned to be intimate. In a different time, in a different dimension, we could have been together, but it looks like it was my role within this timeline to ignite and awaken her confidence again. Healing is produced in the most unexpected areas, and I learned that. Debauchery & sexuality are the Devil's realm, and it's fascinating how it proves to be therapeutic.

If heaven isn't going to help me, it won't prevent me from dispatching the call in the shadow of Hawthorne just to let a high school lover know and say "I love you." And it didn't. It won't stop the chants of "HONOR, COURAGE, COMMITMENT" from a bursting guitar screaming in fury. It didn't stop me from taking that girl into my room, and breaking up with her. Drenched in perversion and sin, distractions of lust candy and debauchery, doesn't change the fact that intimacy is found in unlikely circumstances. It doesn't darken and extinguish the light of the inner soul that is known as love. It doesn't matter what they say and it won't deny, and it won't hide - because what this girl said, in that line, is true.

At the Bottom of Everything

"So there was this woman, and she was on an airplane. And she was flying to meet her fiancé seaming high above the largest ocean on planet Earth! She was seated next to this man she had tried to start conversation with, but the only thing she really heard him say was to order "Bloody Mary"...

She was sitting there and she was reading this really arduous magazine article about a third world country that she couldn't pronounce the name of. And she was feeling very bored and despondent.

And then suddenly, there was this huge mechanical failure, and one of the engines gave out!

And they started just falling 3,000 feet!

And the pilot's on the microphone and he's saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, go my God... I'm sorry." And apologizing. And she looks at the man and says, "where are we going?" and he looks at her and he says....

"We're going to a party. It's a birthday party. It's your birthday party. Happy birthday, darling. We love you very, very, very much."

And he starts humming this little tune, it kind of goes like this: 1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 4..."

Letter To A Ghost, Pt. III

My desire has changed, I do not seek your friendship anymore. The fear of loved ones dying and not having a last chance of saying goodbye is akin to my problem of perfectionism due to my need to see structure and organization. Nothing is perfect, and I accept that.

As you went up to Saratoga (and your horse naturally won), with confidence I can see that it is beyond your ability to analyze yourself for faults or be strong enough to accept the phrase "let's just be friends." You're not a shovel, and I am not your dirt. You are not abused and I am not your abuser.

I would lay defeated on the floor, praying at your kneels to reconsider, to be critical, to consider an inconvenient truth, but without mercy you laughed in nervous self-preservation and tried to conceal your hurt with whatever you could stick inside to runaway from the current situation.

Disassociated, numb, and unwilling to accept reality - I watched you walk away, daftly running into things with your eyes closed, jumping into large city street puddles, covering your ears with whatever feminist-approved popular song would drug you into the comfort of passive-aggressive self-righteousness and bigotry.

And there I was, the fool, on my knees, hoping to see more behind the eyes of a fallen angel. Praying with every inch of my soul that "she will come around, she will be mature, she will rise."

I see you falling down into the ocean floor, and with every ounce of my strength I attempted to raise you with me, but you kicked and punched. If I continued to work with you, we would sink together, but my inner Will does not allow me to do anything other than what is right and truthful.

A whirl of black hair and the angelic innocent face of a sad little girl sunk into the oceanic dark abyss, and I look above me, and saw a watercolor painting of beauty, dream, and Heaven above the surface of the water.

And I am there.

No matter how far away, I will always love you. But I am very far away - a million miles away.

Gone to Your Head

The world seems different depending on who you are with. I've noticed that my way of being, personality, mentality, perception of the world, and overall mood is subjective to whom I'm with. When I'm around someone who I am very silly with - the mood becomes quite comedic, not very serious, and playful. However around someone such as an employer or teacher, colors turn a bit more serious as well as my personality. It's interesting to note how the world becomes dependent on your surroundings. Walking around friendly and grungy Portland is delightful - much different from the fast paced commercial shopping mall of California.

Romantic relationships highlight this concept most of all. You're with a partner much more intimately and for longer stretches of time. To this day, listening to a track such as "Fucking Die 2 (€€ Cooper Mix)" by Skrillex takes me to distant Orlando, or AFI's Decemeberunderground returns me to San Francisco. With my ex-girlfriend I thought in terms of "street smart" or more down to earth and social perception, whereas with others things were more based on bulletin board-like/commercial/public perception or intellectualism combined with cosmic understanding of this life. It changes depending on whom I'm with... and I'll find with some to be drinking Four Loko's and with the other much more innocently painting a watercolor painting or staring at open skies.

They all also have a different perception of me as well as interpretation, and I was once, (but no longer), dependent on their perception of me for identity. A girlfriend's opinion of me meant everything to me, and if others found me to be pathetic, or the opposite, magnificent and epic, it did not matter - what my girl thought was what was important as well as winning her approval. But that was in the past, now I think in terms of "don't know which me that I love," since everyone you interact with, including friends, is going to have a different diamond-like view of you and interpretation.

I'm an introvert - so it is laughingly hilarious that I catch myself thinking of concepts such as this. Sometimes I need some time to be by myself in order to regain energy as well as be back in focus of who I am as a person. Apologies if it sounds like I am stating that as an obstacle or overall problem, it isn't, but rather an observation. My intention is to get the concept of "I define myself and sometimes I need to break free a bit to get a full view of the picture again" across.

One of the most important things I have learned in life and through observation of other people's troubles is the danger of falling into the abyss of becoming dependent on others for self-evaluation. This is most common with celebrities who feel exalted when they first hit fame - only to be brought down when their 15 minutes is down and negative opinions or constructive criticism becomes more prevalent, even if their ability and skill has been consistent the entire time.

That's why I do my best to accept a compliment, as well as insult, with a grain of salt, and instead of absorbing it for identity, see it as a specific interpretation. I'll judge my own skills and abilities based on performance and results - for anything else is dependent on anything other than objective reality.

Devil In A New Dress

I just got finished getting my cock sucked. There's something about women that makes me so submissive to their seductive charms and atmospheric femininity. Every three and a half seconds I fall in love with a new girl, and every minute I imagine a new dream of marriage.

Their love bites on my chest and neck are recognitions of dominance and ownership, and my willingness to be a slave to their erotic malevolence always arrives with an underlying misogynistic distrust and an almost hateful resentment for their power over me. I break her face with every flirtatious act, and her nose bleeds estrogen which is my savored cocaine.

"So fucking cute. So fucking gorgeous. So fucking beautiful. Darling, I want to destroy you."

My ex-girlfriend called me yesterday and as always my compulsion drove me to say that I would have stayed with her in California if she asked, but of course that was just my adrenaline speaking. After some of the batshit crazy and disturbed people I have encountered  in the past few years, it feels great to have someone in my life that isn't immature or passive aggressive, but I wonder if I'm holding myself to the same standard. Probably not, my hellmouth can't stop itself from spitting seductive charms out of a lustful adoration to every girl I meet.

"I'm making love to the Angel of Death."

My fingers drip of a different carcinogenic nectar, and instead of nicotine-stained fingers they now are covered in the most obvious sexual acceptance, their sacred honey, my addiction. I savor all the precious that is female and to watch her squeal in delight is a beautiful dream of heaven. There's a stripper in there too. I've dated the nymphet of a stripper, along with a musician, blood-painter, college girl, and cute girl next door. Always do I bow down over their pink and purple atmospheres in the blue shade. Some I fuck furiously and imagine with other men, others I cuddle and claim and want nobody to take them from me. But I adore all.

Wolf monster satisfied by the women of Portland.

Exquisite is when you choke on your own breath as an absolutely gorgeous princess gives you a seductive smile. "I'm sooooooo your slave" I plead to her, and hold her hand to kiss. Bending over for her is fine, fine just fine.

Addiction is such a thrilling demise when the magnificent girl of your dreams cuddles with you on the couch and discreetly whispers her most fragile secrets and opens her gorgeous neck for consumption. I want her, her war, her disaster, her lust, her vanity, and her adoration. Sitting next to her on that couch made the hotel party seem like a precursor to some sort of sexual heaven and the intoxicating perfume still has not left my mind.

Once Upon A Time

Upward & Onward

Because other people in the world don't have the same self-awareness to the degree in which I do, I feel responsible to be the best person that I can be in all aspects of my life. The majority of the human herd go about their day blindly, subscribing to whatever their society and immediate social circles (which includes family) asks them to do, whether directly or subliminally. We, "with the eyes to see", even as children, have an extra dash of critical thinking that makes us question things that the masses are too afraid to do so.

The reason why it is so difficult for me to move on from my relationships is not so much out of traces of longing love, but regret in the context of personal development and how I could have went about things differently. A perfectionist, you could say. When I'm with somebody that I love, I'm the best lover, protector, beloved, and supporter that I can be because I chose them and want to give them the affection that they deserve. And as hard as I try, I can't seem to ignore the idiots that roam this planet that treat their significant other with the same amount of care that they would to a dumb drunk broad they met at the pub. I'm no saint, I have done many things in the past that I regret, but it is because of the fact that I contemplate on how I could have went about things differently that I am making some sort of amendment to my mistakes.

It's grotesque how most simply cry to love songs or curse their ex-lover in a phone tantrum without even attempting to see their side of mistakes, or observe the situation from an objective point of view. Pitiful.

My infuriated spite has been a great source of productive energy. It is evident right now - without the Untermenschen dancing around like jackasses, clothed in their parent's money, throwing away their financial aid by smoking pot in front of a donut shop, and crashing their (rather stated, their parent-bought) car every other week, I would have not had the fear of becoming like them, and therefore, will and motivation to accomplish my dream to move to Portland and carve life, instead of letting it carve me.

Under no circumstances am I stating to be elite other than a higher critical thinking ability, but rather that the majority of the world is filled with walking corpses, programmed by religion, government, social conditioning, capitalistic advertisements, society, and they are below, while I, and "those with the eyes to see", rise upward and onward.

My Compulsion

I'd kiss your bleeding wounds, but what right does the man who gave those shreds have to cure? A loving embrace that melts your heart and makes you feel in a haven would be another option, but I'm sure my mere warmth would burn and scar your limbs even further.

I can smell the hate through the phone, and as I inhale I remember all those memories of dead love and burden. This would have been my excuse to give up restraint and spit out fire, burning all the attacks against me and illuminating your logic as wrong.

But I don't care about being right, my compulsion stems out of loyalty to the good times, the ones I wish would coat over all the fights, angry statements, and immature behavior.

However, like I said, who am I to heal your wounds, and I'm sure when air passes through and stings, it helps, because it gives you a tool to hate me and curse down every apology I give.

Love You More

The best way to describe my relationship with my ex-girlfriend is conveyed in the song "Love You More." There was some sort of sexual attraction to the anger and stress of the relationship, to the point in where it actually turned me on when she made me jealous. When she did, it gave me all the more desire to dominate her in bed, ravage her, and fuck all thoughts of anybody else out of her head. I've been more aggressive with her than with anybody else I have been with, to the point of even painting my adopted symbol on her skin with blood.

But underlying the "fun & excitement" of sexual anger was the need to prove myself in terms of masculinity, self-worth, and morality. Her opinion meant everything to me, and it changed me as a person as well. I partook in things I didn't feel comfortable with, and continued on even when I thought we were best separated. It's amusing - despite the fact that I fucked her roughly with her hair in a clenched fist, and torso held tightly, she always held the dominant hand over me.

I highly doubt she cares enough about me to read this blog, so it's safe to be frank and honest. I still care very much about her. One of the hardships of intense relationships is that emotions can get so high that it leads to rough fighting and what Eminem describes as "spitting venom in your words."

I'm sure in time we will both grow as people and exercise more maturity in the way that we deal with people, but now that I'm on good speaking terms with her, I'm just afraid of either of us screwing it up.

A Day In Quotes

"I'll never stoop so low again, I guess I don't know my own strength."

"Fuck guilt. This cold wind makes me feel alive."

"Now you're special, you weren't so special when I was with you."

"A silver lining of clouds shines on people Jesus couldn't save."

"I love the way you lie."

"We fell back into the same patterns."

"Maybe I'm addicted to the pain, stress, & trauma."

"I'm just a soul who's intentions are good, please don't let me be misunderstood."

"As they took his soul, they stole his pride."

"The mystery of your rhythm is so feminine."

"A silver lining of clouds shines on people Jesus couldn't save."

"I wanted perfect, I got my perfect, now you're too perfect for someone like me."

"You grabbed your red lipstick and wrote on the mirror 'por siempre.' Now I'm 19 and you're 20 and it should have worn off by now."

"Sadism & masochism. Dominant & submissive. Masculine & feminine."

"Run out the room and I'll follow like a lost puppy."

"Our relationship was a beautiful little girl that was murdered and mutilated and dumped on the side of the road." ('07)

"I'm not answering the phone, let it ring. Lately I've been feeling like a falling bomb."

"You have good intentions, and you always get what you want, but you're always so damn aggressive about it."

"This song is dedicated to a friend of mine. One day we got into a huge fist fight and didn't speak again. A year later he was shot in the head, and killed. This song is about appreciating what you have in the now - it's called Steps Ascending."

"I tried so hard, and in the end, it doesn't even matter."

"Megalomanic, you're no Jesus, yeah, you're no fucking Elvis. Step down. STEP DOWN."

"This is your baptism, and you can't forgive them."

"You can only scream so loud until they forget your existence."

Blind Ape

"I feel that when I'm old, I'll look at you and know: the world was grotesque."

"(1) callous unconcern for the feelings of others, (2) incapacity to maintain enduring relationships, (3) reckless disregard for the safety of others, (4) deceitfulness: repeated lying and conning others for profit, (5) incapacity to experience guilt, (6) failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors."

You're not hot shit and you never have been. What you are is a reckless individual without any concern for your own safety or that of others. In short, you're a fucking crazy bitch.

Fabric of Time

"I feel that when I'm old, I'll look at you and know: the world was grotesque."

Part 2, The Persistence of War

While you wallow in the wake of your destruction, you never take a moment to look at the path which brought you here. Your ego is so large that you can't realize that the mistakes you have made are fatal, and have destroyed our relationship to a point where even looking at you is self-inflicted mutilation.

It doesn't take a genius to realize that if it causes you to burn in fury and scream words of hate, it is the moment to remove yourself before you are marked as an infernal monster. Being with you and the lies which you brought to me time after time have turned me into an insecure fool - too scared to run, unsure about myself and the constant hurt you injected into my arm like your drugs of choice.

A knife or letterbomb won't be necessary to hurt you, because in the same way that you caused this car crash, you will injure yourself in the coming days. You will injure yourself when you touch his (whoever it may be) skin and feel nothing but cold and distance.

You should be ashamed of what you have done to the person who truly took an effort to help, and stood by you regardless of all the high disrespect you shoved in his face.

I will wipe this dry cum, shit, and spit you have spilled on me like a cocoon and fashion myself into a form of hawk eyes to distinguish the unworthy and like the wolfsangel carved from the yew tree, be a weapon of might that will cut itself through this burning fabric covering me and step forth into the third chapter of my life.

"Use your fist and not your mouth. <3"

Go ahead and mock me, but I will no longer lower myself to be fit into your tabloid salivating horny desire to persecute me as a monster. I quit.

Space Bound

Walking while listening to Space Bound at 4 o'clock in the morning. I can feel the fabric of time.

"We touch I feel a rush. We clutch it isn't much, but it's enough to make me wonder whats in store for us. It's lust, it's torturous."

Gray Blood

As we glide through these scenes with too much detail to fully grasp, each other's lives cut the shape of our own and fashion scars that make us into new people. Paintings that were in our head made their way into real life, but like all art it isn't exactly as planned.

But here you stand, covered in blood and some cliche melodramatic song in the background. With the perfume of self-mutilation it is no wonder why you encounter the disturbed vampires that you do, and with your new lover in sight the blood suits you quite well as a fucking lubricant. Blood paintings of gray, because what runs through your veins is a cancerous carcinogen that has made it's way into my lungs.

I don't give, the fire isn't there anymore, just give me back my innocence and you'll hear from me never more. If I had the calmness I would continue that into a song, but my disgust with you shakes my hands so much it is hard to think. These days it is hard to shake off this sickness, and I'm feeling like the quicksand will consume every small glimpse of oxygen I hold.

I don't give, the fire isn't there anymore. Like I said, give me back my innocence and you'll hear from me never more.

With your stupid smile in place, you can't see the farce on your forehead, and I wish I could rip off every affection I "kiss blew" to you.

My dry breath gasps for renewal, and my nicotine-stained fingers have curled into an asphyxiated despaired fist.

Wolf Snarl

And I will jab this knife into your back for every time that you placed warmth into my face, and you will receive no comfort but the delicacy of blood embracing your sweet little face.

Will the frost of winter be enough to thaw these vicious flames of passion? For your sake, you better hope so, because my heart is a ticking bullet ready to penetrate and fuck sweet, betraying, and disloyal skin.

Confusion

We exchange glances towards one another, and I never hesitate to say what a beautiful girl you are. Yeah, sure, my remarks have been said to other girls, if not simultaneously behind your back, but it's not like we're together. Apparently I'm the most handsome thing in the room from your perspective, and you can't wait to pull me by the hair and ride me. As you press your hand against my lips, I make effort to look into your eyes and transmit the message that "I want you."

Why is it that every time I give you an extra long hug I feel the sentiment of sin all over my body? Why do I get the feeling that you're forbidden fruit that shouldn't be picked? You send me a mix message and express disappointment when I see you in a platonic level. What else am I supposed to do, be a mindreader? Don't be upset when I treat you as just a friend if you aren't able to make things clear of what your intentions are.

And as for the self-loathing, Favenris, why do you allow complications like this infiltrate your life? You're in love, that's well established, so why are you messing with these other girls?

What is the bane of your existence...

Romantic Gore

Jonathan is a sinister minister, and my religion is to please you. Ride with this pup, and I'll be arrested for another break-up. Such a bore: the two of you need some romantic gore. So invite this vampire in, and I'll devour your nectar as if in a cup...

Rambling encompassing, giving Dada a name with a sentiment I wish to express in my [ex] peer wince:

"She rolled her eyes back frenziedly to avoid seeing me, inside I didn't know if her or my hand was bleeding. Mutilated by a smoke of blonde, her fumes sharpened me to memories I've never gone (or wanted to). Infidelity is my mentality, discarding relationships like an untidy reaper. When the court sentenced me, I was forced to present their gravestone of a relationship through my hickey. My name is Jonathan, and I'll destroy your boyfriends."

In the spirit of Wilde, Madame, retort with wit, or if the night calls for Dada, resort to it.

Cheers. *raises cup of absinthe*

Nectar

Written at some point in high school.

The indifference,

fueled by her legs and blonde hair,

is my nectar juice.

I like to visit Jenna,

she makes the little boys cry.