“Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.”

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  • finnisam 2w

    I look for you in dreams, my love,
    they all point to you,

    all of them show me city lights blazing against the night sky,
    fighting against the stars to outshine them.
    Of beauty, of all those things that make it,
    confuse it, and destroy it.

    All of these things I dream about,
    they all point to you,

    all of them show me smashed lightbulbs on darkened floors,
    waiting to cut any one who picks up a shard to stab, to clean, to repair.
    Of light, of dark, of all those things that make it, confuse it, destroy it.

    All of those things I forget,
    because they all point to you,

    all of them show me glimpses of love lost in between sips of obsession,
    until the cup was drunk dry, then dead conversations replaced life.
    Of love, of all those things that make it, confuse it, destroy it.

    I look for you in nightmares, my love,
    they all point to you.

  • finnisam 2w

    forsook my friends for they were sinful
    and i followed the letter
    the spirit spoilt me when it pleased to fill
    my eyes with nothing better
    so cold it is now
    my heart beats slower
    and smiles are all too rare
    I ask myself how
    but my pensive mood lowers
    into the depths of despair

  • finnisam 2w

    nighttime thoughts make it hell
    for the mind to sleep
    on past events pleased to dwell
    and useless memories keep
    monstrous urges carve a path
    through the daytime strength
    and I must face my reason’s wrath
    for no reason seemingly sent

    let me dream
    no only darkness
    let me see
    it only darkens

    and the love I wanted grew colder
    as the night stretched itself out
    and the pain grew bolder
    I wanted to shout
    cheeks were moistened by tears
    and fuelled by many fears
    buried beneath
    content to seethe
    until nighttime nears

  • finnisam 2w

    i saw your lip quiver

    lit up by the
    glaring light of the tv


    you laughed a laugh
    that said
    too much
    and said,

    it’s nothing,

    so i knew that it was me
    i smiled and looked into your eyes

    it was if the colour had faded since
    we first met,
    i said, what’s the matter, my love?

    our eyes met briefly
    and silence lingered
    until our eyes did not meet again

  • finnisam 3w

    O Virgin Mary! O Virgin Holy! O Virgin ever blest!
    Grant that I might see thy Son, and have eternal rest!
    O sweet Mother, O blessed one, neglect not my voice,
    ‘Twas thy lovely “Fiat.” And thy blesséd choice
    To bear my Saviour, Jesus Christ, God and yet a man —
    Reason knows not what did this, nor reason can.
    Of all women glorified, thy soul doth magnify
    The beauty of thy Son Divine, alas that he must die!
    O tearful Mother! O sorrowful Mother! Weep no more,
    For thy Son crowns thee as Queen of Heaven, blest forevermore!

  • finnisam 4w

    That life would ever burn within my breast
    And kindle the flame of this dull-beating heart —
    Give breath to the body, burden, unburden, rest.
    ‘Till nothing but the monstrous tempter depart.
    Where do you go, O faded flame of mine?
    What do you seek, that flee my presence?
    Give me anything, O soul, give me a sign —
    Bear these toilsome miseries and hateful laments
    While, while, while I gasp, and struggle for air,
    While, while, while I rasp, and see nothing there.
    Garden, sweet garden of delight that cast me out aright,
    Let me return to you, O tree, that once gave me sight.
    Ribless wanderer seeking help meet for this weary state,
    Appetite, O damnéd flesh that never can I sate!
    Beautiful Eve, where did you go? Why left you blessed Eden?
    Grant me reprieve, O God below, why, O why let me see then?
    Wretched serpent, deceptive beast, free me from this sin,
    You who fell from further heights, estranged from heavenly kin.
    Give me breath once more, O blessed God,
    Let me see your light.
    Must I further languish on this accursed sod?
    Let me put things right.
    Let me put things right.
    Let me — Eve, O darling Eve,
    Where did you go?

  • finnisam 4w

    That such dreams may be satirised, that none may look beyond for truth, that pain and sorrow be intensified, that the King may laugh at Jeremiah’s youth.
    Prophesy to us lies. Prophesy, who hit thee?
    The prophecy says he dies upon the wretched tree.

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    Drink deep, or taste not the ******* ******

    Invoked: *********

    They live to their art and damn themselves to death with smiles and
    grimaces and a thousand masques of varied indifference. Penning –
    eternity with a sudden look, the shock of a glimpse pouring forth
    from the nepenthes of Castalia, a Pierian spring undrunk.
    A lute is strung, a lyre is plucked, an apple from the root of their tree –
    axes laid up and thus brought down, the pen swivels for those who seek
    as the brush flourishes in a separate art – burrowing into the heart.

    Invoked: Thalia

    Muses laugh at their silent invocation; saints heap themselves up
    in phrases uttered hastily, slowly, all of them condemned.
    The goddess of nature plays along as her poesy weaves a song
    from threads of human blindness. O empty human kindness!
    Ill-formed beasts conjure themselves – vomited upon the page
    with witless speed, those seers of madmen who guide unheard melodies –
    conducting choirs of critique **** and scribbling virtues in water.

    Invoked: Urania

    “Pallas Athene bursts forth from the skull of Yorick
    as the dread bell tolls, “ALAS!”
    The stars watch on with the same force of nothingness
    they inspire within their acolytes.
    Libations offered, poured, and poured – into the gullets
    of self-proclaimed divinity
    intoxicated by the lasting
    illusion of the pen.”
    Quoth Alexander (Of Macedon), (Pope), (Pope VI):



  • finnisam 4w

    Inward harmony of dreadful mirth
    Tossing conscience hither and thither
    As the pilgrim wanders on earth
    And careful to water lest the flower wither.
    That flower of faith that resteth not
    On inward disposition nor outward show,
    But in unspotted goodness, O happy lot
    For those whom the love of God know!
    Futile in thinking, ye dreadful dignitaries
    That roam this good earth sowing sin —
    Ye may serve thy many principalities,
    But love in thee abideth not, but can begin.
    Make new thy minds, O many headed beasts!
    Turn back from the vain imaginings of thy flesh.
    Abandon thy sorrows buttressed by feasts —
    Soon cometh the one who the floor shall thresh.

  • finnisam 4w

    How does the melancholy mind its doom unfold?
    One might piece together sorrows from memories,
    Deathless dreams that glimmer more than gold
    Whose bright visages haunt the mind’s eternities.
    Internal heaven that external feelings touch
    Ever-eludes the tempting sounds of speech,
    Mind foreseeing man, making less of much
    Turns away. Sorrow matching sorrow, each to each.
    Love lingers, abstracting to oblivion, loss abounds
    And hatred sits where speech could not spring forth.
    Simmering in the deluge of hope unfound,
    Of words unspoken of ever-uncertain worth.

  • finnisam 5w

    Feeling the rhythms that undercut the real, paralleling our minds
    and threatening to brush away the comfort of the artificial
    is enough to send us all mad — paint poet and painter blind
    as they traverse the antiquated pages of Bible, prayer-book, and missal

    in search of sense among the seeming endless noise deafening
    heart, soul, spirit, mind. Venturing into the hesitant everlasting
    to have dreams made real — dreaming, pondering, posturing, beckoning
    with all might mustered. Receiving nothing. The rhythm

    To write of what we have seen and heard and speak to none at all.
    To speak and see that none cares, to beckon, to bleat, to call.
    I gave you my all.
    I gave you my all.
    I gave you my all.