Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
The pain in my side stabs at me,
Every breath a sharp reminder,
Of how fragile humans really are,
A moment of wrong movement,
Inflicts pain and suffering for weeks.
I cannot lay on my side to hold you,
But know I long to,
My comfort, my balance, my control,
Healing is to recover these things,
And put you in my arms again.
I haven’t created new imagery for a while, since recently removing Facebook and Instagram I haven’t felt the desire. Have I retired from art? no, I’m just not currently feeling clear minded enough for satisfying imagination. As a result, I’m not 100% happy with the image, but I felt it important to share the process, both wins and the losses. The image represents my current state of mind.
I feel as though my mind is in stasis, or hibernation, I have been writing a considerable amount for a new book and that has been my focus. Art for therapy is important, I guess I’m feeling up against things lately, so it is important to push myself gently.
There is a point that we reach,
When the daily mask we wear,
No longer fits our life,
So, we remove and dispose of it,
Leaving the flesh beneath raw and pliable,
In the beginning, it is sensitive to all sensation,
Eventually it will harden into a new mask,
Life exists in a state of constant flux,
Hopefully a time will eventually come,
When no masks are required,
The way we interact with the world will change,
And we can finally rest and be free.
Life seems to be a blur,
It holds little pleasure anymore,
It is a series of necessary movements,
Each one perfectly engineered to pay,
In some way or another,
I’m constantly lost in thought,
Caught up in a flurry of movement,
Against competing sounds,
There is no longer an opportunity to stop,
I am a ball of confusion in motion,
Daily toil seems to have no end,
Stress abounds in infinite supply,
Pain is a daily reminder,
It is an inconvenience to others to mention it,
What doesn’t affect people has no meaning,
Pain is personal, worry is the same,
Ignorance is the Crown Prince of today,
Soon to be made the King of fools,
I see no point being involved with most things now,
Even imaginary escape is impossible,
Peace always has a cost associated,
Human spirit has been corrupted,
Life seems to be a blur,
It holds little pleasure anymore.
There is an unease beneath the surface,
Something unspoken lies there in waiting,
In a black hollow somewhere deep within me,
There is a discomfort when I feel it shift,
Until it resettles back into that unknown place,
I never know when that black feeling will arrive,
Secretly, it slides in cold beneath my skin,
The mask I call my face washes over pale and bleak,
When I feel that numbing icy presence, I know,
That something in my normal day has fractured,
Something dark begins to skip out of time,
Like a needle scratching across record tracks,
A personality, no longer my own, another me, takes over,
They are here with me now, cold, uncaring, menacing,
It’s unclear if that unease is a protector or predator,
But it takes me away, out of myself, into the black,
Where I am placed into a dense dark slumber,
The unease then steps forward into confrontation,
It feels like my closed eyes are still open to the void,
The wholeness of its appearance is immense,
When that darkness, that unease, that predator awakens,
All I can do is keep my eyes closed and hold the tears inside,
Until time passes, until the strangle hold slowly loosens,
And that wave passes, before breaking onto the shore,
Only then can I return to the light of the day.
I don’t feel like myself tonight,
Aches and pains, things aren’t right,
I don’t feel like I’ve been sleeping,
For at night my mind goes creeping,
Away to another world,
To the Isle of Sleep’s black sand shores,
Where pits lay open like gaping maws,
And ground vents breath a smoky haze,
Where fire topped trees all stand a blaze,
Where is it that my sleeping mind goes,
Every night my curiosity grows,
Wherever it is the dreams don’t share,
Am I visiting hell,
Who can tell,
Perhaps I’m already there.
The disconnection continues,
Self-expression is becoming strained,
Creative stores and levels are low,
The world feels like so much weight,
It drains all energy to appear human,
Conversational connection is awkward,
Reality is being challenged internally,
Line between thought and speech is blurred,
And, as though swept away by the wind,
Thought patterns are scattered and unclear,
Effective stability, control, and delivery is limited,
A numb comfort exists within mental shadows,
This house is slowly becoming darker,
With the termination of each light,
The outside causes the system to overflow,
Retreat into the within means survival,
The disconnection continues.
A trauma lives in the heart of every survivor,
Under the skin lies a poison growing darker,
Piercing the flesh like a black metal splinter,
The earth feels caught in an endless winter,
The broken exist using the little strength found,
Fearing the new world, every click, every sound,
When mechanical noises meant instant death,
When every 3am could mean your last breath,
Do they still search the world by night as we sleep,
Or in daylight as secrets the shadows keep,
The weight of breathing, the cost of days,
Every step feels one closer to a shallow grave,
Black venom in the blood, a ghost in the bone,
Every road I walk leads deeper to alone,
Everything feels heavier, weighed down like stone,
The world is asking for strength I’ve never known,
I would drown in sorrow, if sorrow would even try,
But I’m too empty now… even to cry.
This is an Infinite Black: A Grey New World poem, visit that link to learn more.
In the darkness we forever sleep,
Locked within her blackened keep,
Our sleeping eyes will not see,
Locked away no longer free,
In the darkness we all fall,
Past the light a distant call,
Harvested at 3 am,
Filed away, erased by them,
Our sleeping eyes cannot see,
A future where the light can be,
No more breath now, no more plea,
We are her dark machinery.
This is an Infinite Black poem, visit that page for more info.
A short distance from the heart of the machine,
Within a black mechanical cube, she slumbers,
The Queen of the Black Dawn,
Tended to and protected,
Affixed to her mechanical throne,
She is the keeper of arcane knowledge,
Curator of a library of occult facts,
Monarch of the portal witches,
And controller of the Dream Surgeons,
Those who deliver her nightmare payload,
Into the minds of the enslaved.
She fertilises the nightmare gardens,
Growing her awful terrors for mass consumption,
Through her, all human energy is converted,
Into a black lifeblood that flows through pipes and hoses,
Invading bodies and powers this realm of shadows.
She is the receptacle for the poison that tortures,
The provider of knowledge extracted.
A sinister machine, her only purpose is agony,
The queen is answerable to only one,
That which is a part of everything,
Creator of this world,
Her own tormentor,
Bringer of oblivion,
The one beloved, Mother.
This is an Infinite Black poem, visit that page to learn more.
Dan Verkys 