MURDERING Yourself In Writing The Wrong Way Before You Start

Go Bare Maximum with Edgar Rider

Image result for murder chalk

The perfect way to extinguish yourself is to try to be like someone else.

The world needs different voices desperately. Not another known person we just need you.

If you try to copy people  you admire  you  have just murdered yourself the wrong way before you even started.

We often say to ourselves I want what they have. We admire people and want to be them. I want that Lexus and their house. I want their talent.  We are killing ourselves with that kind of thinking.

Why not be your own thing?  You never will be them anyway . So don’t even try. Start with your own distinct voice.  Only you can say it so keep practicing. It must become well defined .
The wrong way is to become somebody else.  The right way is obvious.

Image result for knife in back

The Right way  to murder your imitation is to become yourself.
“Do it until…

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The grace of shadows

 

 

The grace of shadows

 

Shadows dance behind my eyelids turning previews into search for a non-existent Terra Nova.

A thought impales itself upon a destructive power writing its own muse that crawls for the

depths of humor.

Remembering the lost and not forgetting my place of dishonor in society, being the pariah of

sharp tongues

While inflictions are shared and are connected on a plane of infinity, the surprises even haunt

the faint at heart.

A modern preparation depicting the avarice of some, and healed with glimpse of love twisted

with chagrin,

The Pater Familia succumbs to old wounds and changes continuous important limitations

shackled by the past.

By the grace of a replaced beggar accused of heresy, he begins his journey forward in a

backward style of a deity

And to build on an imprinting and swallowing, and by an appreciative lesson controlled by

standing on one’s own grounds.

Naiveté inspires curiosity with eyes closed, blinded by entitlement surrounded by imagery from

fertile thoughts and shadows that have not found their home.

A burning sensation pleaded with insanity that has wandered in its own predicament entangled

with nostalgia.

One has to salvage and prioritize solidarity, invading fragility of a flaunting validation

And struggling in eternity with remnants draped over chagrin and invading colliding

melodies that flicker of a mysterious paradise.

An entitlement peruses by virtue of humbleness, seeking out the failure of truths scurrying back

into abandonment.

A starlit night mistaken for fireflies with a Sapphire twinkle, smile of dimensions unknown and

hidden in a secret society.

A translation is perched with new beginnings, to begin to lament and articulate many song

verses which are depleted during an aria.

The song verses pull on the heartstrings of clairvoyance attempting to reach out beyond the veil

that obliterated the sense of sight only to let us see within our hearts.

And this is when we are spared by the grace of shadows.

 

 

 

 

The Jack-o’-Lantern gone mad

 

 

 

 

 

The Jack-o’-lantern gone mad

 

 

 

The fog drifts slowly, creeping mysteriously over hallowed grounds.

 

The resting home of the dead was filled with scary sounds.

 

There is this Jack-o’-Lantern and the cemetery is his home.

 

He has been there since 1784, and decides this is where he will roam

 

To those who walk bravely in the cemetery at night.

 

The Jack-o’-Lantern will give you such an eerie fright.

 

Ghost friends create mischief with him too,

 

Their hair stands up with just one blood curdling boo.

 

A cat with raised hackles sits on a tombstone with a hiss.

 

And a zombie out from a grave wildly shakes his fist.

 

Around in the cemetery in circles flies a wicked witch,

 

Her cackle loud enough with a high piercing pitch.

 

A spider web might be cast upon a face or two.

 

The web is icky and will stick to you like glue.

 

Jack’ o’ Lantern’s smile was up and not down.

 

Now, not a pleasant smile but only a frightening frown.

 

The Jack O’ Lantern throws flames only to have fun.

 

He laughs in a frenzy watching people wildly run.

 

If he saw that their clothes were not singed and blackened scorched,

 

He would bite them if they dared come onto the rickety old porch!

 

If that did not work he would stand on his feet

 

And chase them all screaming, running down the street.

 

If ever on Halloween you are in a cemetery and lean over onto a grave,

 

Dare to be frightened or dare to be brave.

 

It is only one night throughout all the years.

 

You have nothing to be scared of – perhaps only your fears.

 

Remember: The Jack-o’-Lantern lives for Halloween.

 

This is the night he could be nastier, nastier and chillingly mean.

 

At one time he was a good pumpkin – this is so sad.

 

One day he snapped his lid and went absolutely mad.

 

 

Halloween

 

Veiled Ink

 

Veiled Ink

 

In a soft embrace of shadows

As you release me from your pen

Will I see you today?

As I create my life with words.

Throw the alphabet out of the window

I know you will make your own life with letters

Chisel and shape me up on the potter’s wheel of sentences

That is a side of you I have never seen

Dripping Ink – Life’s ink

It was dark – It was leaking

Leaking your memories

Bringing them to life once again

In a poem perhaps placed in your pocket for another day

I see your pen writing again with calligraphic thoughts

With all its flowing swirl

Inventing a new language

Papers flying in the wind

Sheet by sheet

Bound – A story written

A never ended tale of tearing candles

Moonlight fever

Passions unleashed

Of scratching pen to paper

Writing the last chapter of my life

And now you write of me

Behind the veil