Grim Views

Nothing left but to fight.

This body needs sleep but the mind is constantly restless.  What am I searching for?  And why can't I find it..

I'm disappointed, to say the least.  But not sure yet in who or what.


Maybe just myself.

Ignore the voices
stay hidden, silent,
side-lined
There's no room for victory
with nagging thoughts
tagging along
      It's frightening
how calm a whimper becomes
Sobbing
  Lonely
One last sip of Bourbon
One more set of eyes to blink
"Prove yourself!"
by kicking your own corpse
  back down to the flask
To the hilt of a sword
plunged straight through
    no opposition
    no protest
Waiting for the night
  Stitching the frays
    Saving face

lightly written

Anar'alah, Anar'alah belore
Sin'dorei
Shindu fallah na
Sin'dorei
Anar'alah
Shindu Sin'dorei
Shindu fallah na
Sin'dorei
Anar'alah belore
Shindu Sin'dorei
Shindu fallah na
Sin'dorei
Anar'alah belore
Belore


By the light of the sun,
the sun..

first few lines illegible

..here to kill things, not be happy.  Hard to hide the grin that spreads as I slice into Alliance skin; Crimson, always at sunset.

Wash your hands in the river, watch your reflection ripple.
Wipe the blade clean, smile wide in the gleam.

Peace through Annihilation,
            in their sleep, they'll weep.

[[An old poem I wrote; felt it fit for the moment.]]


The noise crackles,
sending static through veins.
Bleed out the misunderstanding.
Try to soothe the chaos.
It rages against the argument
between bones and muscles.
Your flesh collapses,
it echoes your thoughts.
Chalk teeth crumble.
A war is evident in sound waves
as the spine compresses.

I hear your voice in my head
and it's lack of desperation.
It is used to the competition
of a thousand other voices
throbbing to be recognized.
I ignore your distance.
I focus on the pitch.
Screaming silent, humming softly,
fading with a perfect melody;
you move my feet and we dance.
You become the noise within.

Everything stops
for a melded second.
All that's heard are the muffled
whimpers of a trying heart.
Worn by the battle of sounds,
it can only patter now
as it withers in vibrations of memory.
The music is gone.
The images are shaky.
And every nerve knows
this is just the quiet before the boom.

Drown every twitch
in rumbles of emerald rage.
If Pain wasn’t jealous before,
it sure is now.
This body becomes prisoner
to the devastation of heart quakes.
The mind is a victim
of an army built with noise.
You will always be the commotion,
the withdrawal of empty moments.
There will never be peace again.

Too many words have bugged me these past weeks; from conversation with a 'traitor' to the verbal reasoning and reassuring of the Grim's Mandate. One showed Action, the other Fear.  But both were relentless in their convictions.  I drank with one and stood at full alert with the other.  What does that make me?  Am I a traitor myself?  Or just too informed of the faults from both sides.  Combine the forces and add up the corpses...


One day, Mandate or no--Grim be damned--there will be nothing but blood.

The destruction; it starts in the heart,
travels through to your eyes till they’re swollen red,
turns your mind to dead weight. 
Everyone likes to call it an ache but bruised wrists know better,
battered gums know the answer questioning teeth chatter,
our libidos spin on the fast-talking axis mouths spit.

Turn around, and around, and around.
Stumble down to my level.
And stand up a far worse person.

The jealousy; it follows the damage,
makes rougher paths with older flames,
taints a vivid world in shades of green.
Everyone says it’s easy to ignore but eyes say differently,
false fists speak with unsteady swings,
mute rages drag around every form of speech.

Mumble louder, and louder, and louder.
Swallow tongues to turn blue.
And end up a more numb language.

The acceptance; it doesn’t exist.

a streak of blood smears the page


I find myself questioning everyone's actions and inaction's lately; "You are Grim or you are Nothing." Well, what if you're Grim and you do nothing? What does that make you then? 

I'm more than an accessory, more than some mindless killer. But for now all it seems I can do is sharpen my blades.

There's curiosity in
holding your breath and breathing,
an unexplainable rush
of exhaling…
..expect impact.
Or how soft the ground will feel
when lowered into it.

There's nothing to catch
an echo of who you were.

scribbled tiredly


Things do change, apparently.  For the most part.  At least I can always count on a flask---till it's empty.  But for now.. Cheers to a new leader and hopefully a more organized order of killing. 

...drink until tired enough to consider sleeping.

Veins are taut, tied beneath paper
smearing words, bend the corners
to remember
or recall, whatever suits best.
Whichever hurts less.

Paper cuts...

Losing the drive; would they really call this 'living'?
I'm gripping tight, slipping all the same.

heavily written, almost dug through several pages


Stupid.. How many times must they lift my body up before I realize it's too much? I'm not strong or fast or motivated enough for this.  Drink alone, fight alone.  Not like they'd care either way.  Drift and sleep. 

My body aches.

Train in the shadows, stick to them. Disappear; they won't even notice.


One more blade to lose track of.