AKA - The Sleepytime Blog​

Angel of Repose

I am made of tons of tiny countries
With closely guarded borders
Each country has a castle
Each castle has a throne
You are the tiny king
Of your very own​

I sneak across at night
When the crossing is easy
I watch and I wonder
At your curious customs,
But I forget them all by day​

Did the night invade the day?
Or was it day invaded night?
Were you among the last to be found?
Did you have your hands
In the ground?​

I buried the dead and they came stories
I planted the stories, they came up singing
I planted the song and it came up dancing
I buried the dance and it
Came up facing home​

I buried the dead and they came laughing
I planted the laugher, it came up singing
I planted the song and it came up fighting
I buried the battle, it came up facing home​

I buried the dead and they came up laughing
I buried the laughter and cried​

This garden we?ve planted will come up around us
And take us all down in a great big avalanche
Of useless things, of persistently plastic things,
Of things that cost us this tiny world of tiny kings​

The oddest things make so much sense to me.

I always seem to take an objective view when I talk about myself, trying to seem like I'm part of the ordinary. Am I weird? Everyone is weird, in their own way, much like being unique, only having a whimsical connotation. No, I wouldn't say weird, or odd, or whimsical. In fact, I'm not sure what I would call myself, other than confused, and I guess that makes me like you. I always watch your curious customs, but I'm afraid to ask what they are. And for what? A life wasted in shadows, by which I hide from any sort of connection? Isolation? If only it weren't so simple.​

Being alone is something to which I have grown accustomed, it's just how I do things. I can't help it, people either find me boring; I'm always putting up a face to hide behind, I don't think I've revealed myself in full to anyone I've met in real life; the internet, with it's anonymity is a much more viable option for myself, considering my history. My garden is what I've planted, and it's a very artificial one, composed of things by which I hide, things I use to avoid interaction, ideas by which I use to console those who can't understand me, objects I obsess over to find ways to pass the time. Persistently plastic, something I know all too well. My little kingdom is being crushed under falsities, things by which I've lived my entire life. Try burying laughter, and not cry about it, try burying the dance, and not laughing about it. Try burying your dead, dead people of your kingdom, and not break down and laugh.​

Teeth. Teeth in my arm, around my neck, in my mind, in my heart. Teeth that tear, slice and mangle, teeth that will not relent, teeth that are, unfortunately, mine. I will not bear it any longer.​


Mouth of beast, ravening
Worshipful, their eyes sent reeling
Head first
Into the cage
Eyes down
Suffer the lathe​

What beast? I'm the beast, except in this story, there is no beauty. I'm the cage, I'm the beast, I'm the lathe. I am my own kingdom, after all. What type of kingdom doesn't have it's own beast?​

How must it be to be different? What's it like on the other side? Is the Grass really greener? Worse? Better? Nothing? -What sides?- I've come to the conclusion that sides are nothing more than perceptions of the same damn plot of earth, and by this, we are able to hope, to fantasize. Certainly, the other side is, if not better, different? Is it? Why? Why would the other side be better, or even different? Are we not people? Do we not fear? Do we not bleed? Do we not cry? Do we not sigh? Do we not hold hands? Do we not romp in anger? Are we not the same? Sides are what we make them, we each have a side, one that we cannot leave, because we are that side, we are the perception of that plot of earth, that we all see, through different eyes. No, there are no sides, there are only individuals.​

The Dragon laughed. "Why? Why anything?"

However, my own perception may be skewed. I'm much more into self relflection, and introspect than anything else, unfortunately. You tell me something, and I'll be damned if I catch anything other than what you said. I'm perceptive with speech, with people. Not in the sense that I'd like, I only know the people I don't know.​

I blanket myself with obscurities, unfamiliarities; I don't think I want anyone to relate to me. I make it so difficult for people, even those who desperately want to, get close to me that it even befuddles me. I don't try to do that, at least I don't think so. Sometimes I think I just do that so I seem eccentric; sometime I believe that I really am just eccentric. The latter is more than likely the correct answer, though I may, at times, vivaciously deny it. Maybe I might find someone, someday, sometime, somewhere, at some place. Maybe.​

I don't think I'm bitter.​

"How I wish [how I wish]
That the world [that the world]
Had just one throat,
And my fingers were around it."​

And thus concludes my platitude. Nothing more, really. At a time when everything is as confusing as when everything in the world was a mountain, every person a giant, every problem just a problem, at least I have retrospect to assure myself that I'm stupid just like everyone else, human, and in more ways than will ever be known, to any person, beautiful. There is nothing more beautiful, achingly so, than a real live person, someone you know, know as another soul. There is beauty all around, covered by masks. Phantoms of their operas. Let it end.​

Bring back the Apocalypse

Bring back
Bring it back
Bring it
Bring it back
Bring back the apocalypse
It's never too late for the end of time​


What end?​

And you thought I was esoteric before.