Toward the River's Base by cath-st-germain, literature
Literature
Toward the River's Base
You'll never find me under the Ash;
emptied blood for empty tears.
Once plasma and dirt begin to clash,
what was frozen flesh reveals your fears.
The ground, it thaws
demonstrating flaws.
Nature is out of place.
Tracks of paws,
and snarling maws,
head toward the river's base.
Thus a hand emerges gently from frozen waters.
Vivid red, in little threads,
expose purity that falters.
A disheveled head,
pale and bled,
once was Manannan's daughters.
Scream my name,
once gentle claims,
allude I have been found.
A twinge of pain,
you've been detained,
I'm six feet underground.
Killing the lights,
dusk envelops a pair.
Fragility in short exhalations.
Prickling kisses, shocking unassuming skin.
Wind howling against the windows,
shaking the frames.
Grips tighten,
bodies draw closer.
A seraphic face shrouded in a blanket,
soft hairs falling forward and shaking with each breath.
Unimaginable chaos as two rhythms bounce against each other,
creating a quaking union.
The environment sways, eyes grow dizzy with euphoria.
Ecstatic coos exchanged, lids heavy.
Spiraling downward into the void,
clasping onto one another for some form of steady ground.
Sleep ensconces two troubled souls in desperate need of pea
The tried and true methods of quarantine,
Hold strongly on the home-front.
Ghosts of former philistines,
Haunt survivors of the defunct.
I call your name,
Alas, in vain,
Your presence ever lacking.
Comrades claim,
They saw the shame,
A rogue warrior attacking.
The wreckage cleared,
And what I've feared,
Turned out to be so true.
The victim-traitor,
Collaborator,
The renegade combatant was you.
Filthy monster.
A travesty amongst other human beings.
Drug addict.
Not fit to inhabit the realm of the norm.
Queen of vices.
Creation of sin and hedonistic society.
Home-wrecker.
Selfish wants turn to a regression in the lives of others.
One purifying glance mends all.
A cleansing blue;
Something so delicate it expunges the spirit.
Though the body is frayed,
the soul is
safe.
Isolation.
A snowed-in smokers' pavilion
on a desolate campus.
The yellowing walls of a hallway
to which only one soul resides.
Such callous things can be said
when someone is as alone as this.
This one's heart hardened so carelessly,
at about an hour's distance.
But love softens all blows;
a coddling of an open wound.
Treatment of a malaise
that had no hope until
an unknown saint
made his appearance
like fingers of ivy on a terrace,
slowly eking his way
into this one's soul.
Therapy in a cigarette,
millions of flakes,
like millions of people.
Completely unfathomable.
A peace of mind,
a certain blankness that encapsulates the soul.
What was this one thinking about?
Who's to say,
as a drug-induced solace
has muddled the synapses
and given a clarity by the grace of
pharmacologists.
Beautiful singularity
in a crowd of a few dozen,
but in a sense,
there is an untold happiness in loneliness.
Could this ever be permanent?
Who's to say.
Sharing.Beds.Talking.Death. by cath-st-germain, literature
Literature
Sharing.Beds.Talking.Death.
A pair of hearts,
tucked into the recesses of their cages,
gently introduce themselves,
fluttering timidly; half full.
The souls entwine,
like the spindly fingers materializing
from under the sheets.
Morale rises;
the fluttering now a gentle,
altered rhythmicity.
Love that spins the room like vertigo.
Whispers of death escape your lips,
And spill across the speckled pavement.
A shaking body in need of solace;
An ending to an indescribable feeling of
everlasting sorrow, no matter how small.
Hands quiver,
cigarettes are mindlessly smoked.
The urgent need for a jolt to the system,
close to a slap in the face,
but never g
The escalation of howls binds the ears
and leaves the listener longing for home.
But this is not home,
except for a hollow reminder of whence we came.
Floundering,
helpless,
we block out the stimuli
until we are nothing but husks in this
winded world.
But this one
lit a cigarette to allow time to go by
while she just sat.
A look into illuminated astral planes
forced this one to come to terms;
the universe will keep spinning,
much like a young child,
oblivious to the others it may bump and bruise.
Content with the futility of the singular,
this one is at peace.
Reflections.Of.Sky. by cath-st-germain, literature
Literature
Reflections.Of.Sky.
Sullivan's death didn't shock anyone. Yet no one did anything to stop him from doing what he did. Everyone knew he had talked about suicide, he gave all his things away too. When we found him, he was hanging by his strong leather belt from a pipe in the ceiling. The walls, heavily water-damaged, were illuminated by a dim yellow light in the center of the room. Sullivan was off to the side. His wooden chair was tipped over. It was amazing how many things he managed to give away without anyone noticing what exactly was going on. Yet there we stood at the top of a hill, putting him underground.
The scariest thing was the look on his face. Some
Toward the River's Base by cath-st-germain, literature
Literature
Toward the River's Base
You'll never find me under the Ash;
emptied blood for empty tears.
Once plasma and dirt begin to clash,
what was frozen flesh reveals your fears.
The ground, it thaws
demonstrating flaws.
Nature is out of place.
Tracks of paws,
and snarling maws,
head toward the river's base.
Thus a hand emerges gently from frozen waters.
Vivid red, in little threads,
expose purity that falters.
A disheveled head,
pale and bled,
once was Manannan's daughters.
Scream my name,
once gentle claims,
allude I have been found.
A twinge of pain,
you've been detained,
I'm six feet underground.
Killing the lights,
dusk envelops a pair.
Fragility in short exhalations.
Prickling kisses, shocking unassuming skin.
Wind howling against the windows,
shaking the frames.
Grips tighten,
bodies draw closer.
A seraphic face shrouded in a blanket,
soft hairs falling forward and shaking with each breath.
Unimaginable chaos as two rhythms bounce against each other,
creating a quaking union.
The environment sways, eyes grow dizzy with euphoria.
Ecstatic coos exchanged, lids heavy.
Spiraling downward into the void,
clasping onto one another for some form of steady ground.
Sleep ensconces two troubled souls in desperate need of pea
The tried and true methods of quarantine,
Hold strongly on the home-front.
Ghosts of former philistines,
Haunt survivors of the defunct.
I call your name,
Alas, in vain,
Your presence ever lacking.
Comrades claim,
They saw the shame,
A rogue warrior attacking.
The wreckage cleared,
And what I've feared,
Turned out to be so true.
The victim-traitor,
Collaborator,
The renegade combatant was you.
Filthy monster.
A travesty amongst other human beings.
Drug addict.
Not fit to inhabit the realm of the norm.
Queen of vices.
Creation of sin and hedonistic society.
Home-wrecker.
Selfish wants turn to a regression in the lives of others.
One purifying glance mends all.
A cleansing blue;
Something so delicate it expunges the spirit.
Though the body is frayed,
the soul is
safe.
Isolation.
A snowed-in smokers' pavilion
on a desolate campus.
The yellowing walls of a hallway
to which only one soul resides.
Such callous things can be said
when someone is as alone as this.
This one's heart hardened so carelessly,
at about an hour's distance.
But love softens all blows;
a coddling of an open wound.
Treatment of a malaise
that had no hope until
an unknown saint
made his appearance
like fingers of ivy on a terrace,
slowly eking his way
into this one's soul.
Therapy in a cigarette,
millions of flakes,
like millions of people.
Completely unfathomable.
A peace of mind,
a certain blankness that encapsulates the soul.
What was this one thinking about?
Who's to say,
as a drug-induced solace
has muddled the synapses
and given a clarity by the grace of
pharmacologists.
Beautiful singularity
in a crowd of a few dozen,
but in a sense,
there is an untold happiness in loneliness.
Could this ever be permanent?
Who's to say.
Sharing.Beds.Talking.Death. by cath-st-germain, literature
Literature
Sharing.Beds.Talking.Death.
A pair of hearts,
tucked into the recesses of their cages,
gently introduce themselves,
fluttering timidly; half full.
The souls entwine,
like the spindly fingers materializing
from under the sheets.
Morale rises;
the fluttering now a gentle,
altered rhythmicity.
Love that spins the room like vertigo.
Whispers of death escape your lips,
And spill across the speckled pavement.
A shaking body in need of solace;
An ending to an indescribable feeling of
everlasting sorrow, no matter how small.
Hands quiver,
cigarettes are mindlessly smoked.
The urgent need for a jolt to the system,
close to a slap in the face,
but never g
The escalation of howls binds the ears
and leaves the listener longing for home.
But this is not home,
except for a hollow reminder of whence we came.
Floundering,
helpless,
we block out the stimuli
until we are nothing but husks in this
winded world.
But this one
lit a cigarette to allow time to go by
while she just sat.
A look into illuminated astral planes
forced this one to come to terms;
the universe will keep spinning,
much like a young child,
oblivious to the others it may bump and bruise.
Content with the futility of the singular,
this one is at peace.
Reflections.Of.Sky. by cath-st-germain, literature
Literature
Reflections.Of.Sky.
Sullivan's death didn't shock anyone. Yet no one did anything to stop him from doing what he did. Everyone knew he had talked about suicide, he gave all his things away too. When we found him, he was hanging by his strong leather belt from a pipe in the ceiling. The walls, heavily water-damaged, were illuminated by a dim yellow light in the center of the room. Sullivan was off to the side. His wooden chair was tipped over. It was amazing how many things he managed to give away without anyone noticing what exactly was going on. Yet there we stood at the top of a hill, putting him underground.
The scariest thing was the look on his face. Some
What do they see in these dead eyes-
That with them, I cannot?
There is a certain ceaseless vacancy,
An empathic emptiness enshrouding-
The victimized model as an echo,
Reflections dissipate with the original,
Impregnating the pupils with image,
Loving your encased shadow,
I am burning in neglected narcissism.
Cut another line diluted in my tears,
On the glass of a picture frame,
Turning down the portraits,
Upping the volume,
Upping the valium,
Razor burn.
Morphine machinations,
In the bathtub bleeding,
Words worth heeding
Ovarian opiates ovulating,
Sobriety is menopausal,
Point and spray steady nozzle,
Flooding the open senses,
I still search for a perfect drug,
Mine might just be pulling the plug,
Another line is drawn,
Wish she would get down from her high-
Horse, in time to say goodbye.
I have nothing, no release,
I am alone and time won't cease.
She wants the needle and the substance,
I need to take the burn of acid rain,
This morning I put on the same clothes I wore last night, put my hair up, and went out without any make-up. I'm mortified and relieved at the same time. On one hand, I felt naked because the same eyeliner style that I wore since 8th grade, so I've grown accustomed has to how it looks. On the other hand, I felt a sort of natural beauty surrounding me.
I want to stare at the wall, or put up my Christmas lights and stare at those. I feel listless, and yet I'm trying in vain to feel better and do something constructive.
How shall I decorate my room? I have Christmas lights, plan to buy two lava lamps, maybe bring my comfy chair into my room, an
I've noticed that in my two years at university, my classes have maybe been cancelled once or so. This is very depressing. I don't know why, but this semester is pretty much hell on my nerves. It's mostly 300-level classes and they expect you to dedicate your life to the class. Obviously, I can't do that, and I have no intention on doing so in the future.
I wrote the last story in my Russian class, and I'm still trying to figure out how to end the one story I've been writing for a while that I'm actually proud of.
My eyes hurt, I have to do something for my Africa class right now.
Depression is pretty cool. Also, I still have a deficiency of creativity.
Everything feels pretty futile as of late. As in, efforts to do anything remotely artistic.