haunted notions of chance since passed
like a looming maze of regret and doubt
an apology or a kiss always wondering:
could these have changed this?

a sadness so profound once truth be known:
time heals no wounds and mends no rifts
distance at hearts and distance of minds
brings a withering ever creeping divide

Till at last the memories that still reside
convince us you were a fool ever to try
but through it all, this hope still lingers.
that one day these souls might shimmer

where those you've wronged may see
you never meant harm and those scars
no words could ever heal at last relent
and stain no more

where for a moment the dream will seem
ever right, no interruption to the starred night
or you might awaken, alone, mistaken
trembling with the anxious slinking depression

Life

Ridiculous creation.

Death teases with sleep.

Insignificant birth,

loved by a serrated cyclone

that ends without a sound. again.

Progenitive disappointment haunts

while the weight of Cronus reveals

frailty beneath.

Then she comes.

Ridiculous creation.

-jsn

Status!

It always seems to be a down hill ride. What I wouldn't give again for but a single moment of the past. I'm not even picky. Just give me one before this all started. Foolish and childish I know, and yet I can't seem to help myself. I've had four incredibly bad cluster attacks within the past week. Four emergency room visits, of course. It's really quite shitty, as they can do nothing to help except pump me full of pain medicine until it passes. In the process of fighting back against the attacks, I end up ripping out my hair and gnashing my teeth into oblivion. No, no, I don't do it on purpose. It just happens.

My dresser still looks like a pharmacy. I've been doing my best to wean myself off of the Lortab I have to take, as my tolerance was just going through the roof. The withdraw from it was absolutely horrific (I like that word, horrific.) but I'm back down to my regular dosage and hope to keep it that way. Of course, my other vices kick in simply because my mind has been raped. Strong word, I know. I think the sanity of any other person at this point would be lost, and yet I'm still here, sort of. I admit, my mind is not what it used to be. I find I forget common things I should know. Spelling, famous poems I love, things just told to me, things I should be doing. Things I mean to write, and then forget to. I feel like I'm withering right in front of myself and am completely powerless to stop it. But I'm still here, so I go on. Cigarettes are awfully nice, and despite the fact they produce clusters in other people, it's one of the few things that seems to provide me with momentary relief. I suppose I take what I can get. It's better than the Lortab anyway.

So much time to think, as I can't do much else. I think it must be true, the ever cliche saying you hear in movies, and from those who have lived full lives: It's never about what you've done, only what you didn't. I see how I squandered what was given to me early on, and I'm sad to admit, I do regret it.

I regret not being more generous with who I was.
For clinging to childish ideals and fantasies.
For ruining friendships.
For not saying I love you, more often.
For sitting down, when I should have stood up.
For saying no, when I should have said yes.
Sometimes, for saying yes, when I should have said no.
The list goes on, but it doesn't matter. If I focus on these things, I really will be lost. Sometimes, I forget how bad it hurts. I don't know why, just moments. And I mean moments: minutes, seconds, even. Never longer, and I think I feel happy again, for just a second. Then I get emotional, and the water works start. Har, har, I know. (I actually still have my sense of humor. I don't think it can be taken from me.) Well, I think that's enough gushy isn't it? I really do have a soul, despite how irritable I can be at times. It's really not who I am. Really, isn't.

I like this one, a lot. Most fitting title. Evar.

And It's All About Me

and it's all about me,
that pain that mocks me every moment;
those questions no other can answer.
how I cannot turn away
And the animal that mewls outside my door,
inciting such flame within me;
when it begs for the scraps I will only waste
how I cannot turn away..
What of the homeless man who pleads from the street;
who wants but a single dollar of my time;
whom I disdain simply for his words.
how I cannot turn away.
Then there are those who hate;
who can't bear the thought of another;
those who despise what they are not.
how I cannot turn away!
And it's all about me;
Compassion gone wrong; yet :
I cannot turn away!!
My hate-threaded love
can't turn away...
cannot turn away.
CANNOT TURN AWAY

sincerely,
-j

Movin' on

Nothing great to report. Saw a new ENT, he seems to be more intelligent than the rest of them. My elitist, arrogant, hate-filled Catholic room mate is starting to annoy the living piss out of me. I endure. Look, I even write short, sappy, sweet things. See below.


Train of Thought

Sometimes I'm thinking it's really just a ride;
that some guy has convinced us is awesomely wild
It feels that way to me, sometimes bumpy, often
quite slow; and at times rained out, closed down for the snow
But we can't get out, just shop through tinted window;
irritable, impatiently waiting for the go signal
And there's something I've been thinking, hoping
it not wrong: that if you were stuck beside me, I
could wait forever long.

Never let it be said I'm all doom and gloom!
-jsn

Wmg, 50 original works

It's true! I've finally posted fifty original works on this site. I never thought it would come this far, even if it still isn't much. I've really enjoyed sharing my writing with anyone that has happened to see it. You've my deepest gratitude if you stopped only to look for a moment.

For this one, I tried something I dub "blurbing" it's just a single scene of a character, with nothing more. References are to Through the Looking Glass, Gulliver's Travels, and the story of Tithonus. Short and sweet.

No Alice Here.

She lays her head on the window sill and let's the cold midnight breeze swirl in. Raising her arm across her chest, she grips her shoulder weakly in a self giving hug. Where are the arms meant to wrap me from behind? It's only beautiful when not looking through glass. I'm no Alice; plenty of time. I think I'm a Struldbrugg; Tithonus dusting the rug. Where are you? I'm lost, and the world is all wrong.

-jsn

Number 48?

High above the smog stained city,
a bright fire dashes across the sky
it's radiant star storming light bathes
the artificial below. And in moments
it has passed; fled the moon and her
horizon for another uncountable age.
But no one has noticed and that which
is never seen can not be forgotten.
So while the heavens gave its cosmic
show, most were too busy: the Idol
was on.

Just a poem

And the softest silken hair,
yet to touch was something no one seemed to dare

A heart of the most brilliant loving light,
yet strangled and wrapped in dark's chilling night

Still in a body quite young and less than fit,
yet a mind so tired, so razed, it prefers to sit

Bearer of lips that crave anothers deepest kiss,
yet alone so often they grow cold; left amiss

And if you knew how much love she had lurking
within, you'd weep with despair claiming it so unfair