how is it that the wave must dip
when the upward turn begins
and all sparkles with clarity
as the artery of life the brain is denied?
Then the body suffers the mind.

Death could be darkness
it could be remorse
it could be timeless bludgeoning
from the fists of a demon.

Perhaps it truly ends
and there is satisfaction in completion;
the end of movement.

Do we really know it will get better
or is it a motto to pacify the miserable  
until one takes action
to improve or die.

Oh the hypocrisy of the uninitiated
stabs like needles in my eyes;
it punctures and blinds,
it attacks the body where it is weakest,
it draws blood and shatters vision,

but does nothing in the end but hurt me for a moment.

Death and blackness await
        stillness            no desire
                        cold                     no movement
                             I look forward to it

Would you cry for me and mean it
      I have cried for you
              and stopped myself
                      from entering the tunnel

                      but my body aches
             and my mind is slow
    my lips are heavy
and perhaps I have nothing left to offer          
                                                                   anyone

                           I will go there
      it must be better 
                                than having a            taste
and having the food ripped                    from your

           mouth

I am dead, I am Simon, am I dead. I am the sickness, my own sickness, and I choose to be no more. I am my own worst nightmare and so I choose to die, to meet that other soul, to go, a place I've never been. But that I could take you along to see the wonders dark and deep that the crush of body, mind and soul creates inside the shell of man. Do words ever relate the power the twisted journey brings to the brave who cease to fear unknown and enter worlds inside. I think not, so you must come with me and perhaps before the journey's end all destinations cease to be perhaps we cease to be again. It is time and my words, huh, my words! They've become excessive and my drug awaits. This, the last day of my being. I choose the exit, I scramble to the safety of the outside, escape the mob, crawling and screaming for identity, a name, a place beyond here.

It sneaks up from behind and snares you
takes tranquillity and laughs;
laughs in the face of elation
deflates the happy loftiness
of carefree time.

What is it? What is it?
is it an idea or a thing of the night
a demon? the color red
or perhaps blue:
a black squiggle over my head.

Nothing but proof of the dark center
creeping up to say
"Here I am, I control you"
we hope to keep it in check
sometimes we do, sometimes we don't.

to stop the line, to be the last; the punctuation at the end of a sentence. I will be an ellipses... no matter how I or others wish me to be an exclamation point! I taste the end feel it gnawing at my heels pulling my hair; my tongue is numb and my eyes are glassy soon I will rest.

A room with indirect light and fire a towel and a gun a tear perhaps a hope to deny the inevitable Horizontal incoherent asleep a dirty carpet and a bottle of wine escape in a sea of sound, vibrations Alone wondering if, when the blood would fly back away would I feel the sound or the wetness would there be a scream or a tear a blood soaked towel gunpowder and kitchen odors I'd retreat.

[Cover | Surroundings | Creativity | Darkness | Life | Nature | Love | Peace | Epilogue]

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"A Look is my Will to Be" ©1997, 1999 Paul Mascott/ Masco Music, all rights reserved

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Paul Mascott and Masco Music retain all rights to this work.