ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Jaye Eryk (nom de plume)
(Pronounced: Jay Ehreek) However I do shower daily, so let's move on.
You know what? I've already said too much.
POETIC STYLE:
This is interesting. Do I design poems in funny or unique shapes? No. Do I follow guidelines of any kind? No. Do I use any specific rhyming pattern? No. Am I really a poet? I have often said "No".
Though I've learned over the years that that is not necessarily true.
I've always been a writer, but I made no attempts at poetry or anything similar until I was almost 19 years old. In college, I took an extracurricular course in poetry. A group of 20 or so students and an English Professor met twice a week in the late afternoon.
On my first day with this group, I heard a half dozen or so read their respective poems as the Professor critiqued, and he was very kind I thought, never a harsh word. Then he asked me to read two of mine. So I did, and when I was finished he said, and I quote: "Class, this is a perfect example of how not to write poetry". Perhaps I had an overinflated ego because my whole life I've been a straight A student in English and always heard people tell me they loved my writing, but that really crushed me.
He went on to (pardon my French) tear me a new asshole. I didn't know how to feel. I was angry, hurt, and humiliated. I wanted to quit, and I did.
I wrote nothing for years, until I befriended a local band which got my creative juices flowing again. I started writing songs, but everyone told me they sounded like poems.
A short while later, a friend talked me into joining an online diary site. I despise writing a journal, hey, it's not for everyone, but he said that he just writes nonsense entries (which I'll get into later under "randoms") and that he doesn't use it as a diary. I joined; a few months later I posted my first poem, but I kept them far and few between, the comments I received kept me interested.
I started submitting 'poems' to various contests, and I started winning, but I couldn't submit what I really wanted to due to the line limitations on many of them.
The next thing I know, I join a poetry website designed largely around critiquing from other authors / poets, both published and not. I was intimidated to be perfectly honest, but my writing was well received. By this time, my 'poetry' had evolved into something undefinable. It wasn't really prose nor a free write style, and I often went out of my way to break conventional format which in time became as natural as breathing. I didn't want my poetry confined to rules; I just wrote. However it came out, it came out, and when it was done, I just left it for other people to classify. Funny things is... no one could, and I was just fine with that.
The only thing that most everyone agreed upon was that my writing is poetry. To come full circle; what is poetry? I define poetry as such: Anything you say from your heart can be poetic and if something is poetic, it is under the umbrella of poetry. There are literally dozens upon dozens of variations of poetry, one not more poetic than another. Not all poetry is emotional, though I prefer it to be. I don't write my poetry for you to understand them. I never explain them to anyone. My poetry is interpretive. All I want out of my readers is that you feel my words, their heaviness, their depth. I want to connect on an emotional level. If you tell me your interpretation of a piece and it's the exact opposite of what I was thinking when I wrote it, I think that's awesome. You won't know that it's the opposite because I won't tell you, but it still meant something to you, and that's what matters. We are two different people with different pasts and on different paths. We might not share experiences, but we do share the emotions of those experiences. We all share those emotions at one point or another.
Poetry does not have to be confined to the written word. If looking up at the sky wasn't poetic, there would be no poems about clouds. Poetry is all around us and within us; finding familiarity in another persons words... that in itself is poetry.
Vague & descriptive (2 words not commonly placed together is the best way to describe my work) as the great T.S. Eliot once wrote: "Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood." and I couldn't agree more.
Welcome.
Jaye Eryk (nom de plume)
(Pronounced: Jay Ehreek) However I do shower daily, so let's move on.
You know what? I've already said too much.
POETIC STYLE:
This is interesting. Do I design poems in funny or unique shapes? No. Do I follow guidelines of any kind? No. Do I use any specific rhyming pattern? No. Am I really a poet? I have often said "No".
Though I've learned over the years that that is not necessarily true.
I've always been a writer, but I made no attempts at poetry or anything similar until I was almost 19 years old. In college, I took an extracurricular course in poetry. A group of 20 or so students and an English Professor met twice a week in the late afternoon.
On my first day with this group, I heard a half dozen or so read their respective poems as the Professor critiqued, and he was very kind I thought, never a harsh word. Then he asked me to read two of mine. So I did, and when I was finished he said, and I quote: "Class, this is a perfect example of how not to write poetry". Perhaps I had an overinflated ego because my whole life I've been a straight A student in English and always heard people tell me they loved my writing, but that really crushed me.
He went on to (pardon my French) tear me a new asshole. I didn't know how to feel. I was angry, hurt, and humiliated. I wanted to quit, and I did.
I wrote nothing for years, until I befriended a local band which got my creative juices flowing again. I started writing songs, but everyone told me they sounded like poems.
A short while later, a friend talked me into joining an online diary site. I despise writing a journal, hey, it's not for everyone, but he said that he just writes nonsense entries (which I'll get into later under "randoms") and that he doesn't use it as a diary. I joined; a few months later I posted my first poem, but I kept them far and few between, the comments I received kept me interested.
I started submitting 'poems' to various contests, and I started winning, but I couldn't submit what I really wanted to due to the line limitations on many of them.
The next thing I know, I join a poetry website designed largely around critiquing from other authors / poets, both published and not. I was intimidated to be perfectly honest, but my writing was well received. By this time, my 'poetry' had evolved into something undefinable. It wasn't really prose nor a free write style, and I often went out of my way to break conventional format which in time became as natural as breathing. I didn't want my poetry confined to rules; I just wrote. However it came out, it came out, and when it was done, I just left it for other people to classify. Funny things is... no one could, and I was just fine with that.
The only thing that most everyone agreed upon was that my writing is poetry. To come full circle; what is poetry? I define poetry as such: Anything you say from your heart can be poetic and if something is poetic, it is under the umbrella of poetry. There are literally dozens upon dozens of variations of poetry, one not more poetic than another. Not all poetry is emotional, though I prefer it to be. I don't write my poetry for you to understand them. I never explain them to anyone. My poetry is interpretive. All I want out of my readers is that you feel my words, their heaviness, their depth. I want to connect on an emotional level. If you tell me your interpretation of a piece and it's the exact opposite of what I was thinking when I wrote it, I think that's awesome. You won't know that it's the opposite because I won't tell you, but it still meant something to you, and that's what matters. We are two different people with different pasts and on different paths. We might not share experiences, but we do share the emotions of those experiences. We all share those emotions at one point or another.
Poetry does not have to be confined to the written word. If looking up at the sky wasn't poetic, there would be no poems about clouds. Poetry is all around us and within us; finding familiarity in another persons words... that in itself is poetry.
Vague & descriptive (2 words not commonly placed together is the best way to describe my work) as the great T.S. Eliot once wrote: "Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood." and I couldn't agree more.
Welcome.
A FEW QUOTES FROM READERS:
"You write in ways similar to Poe, very chilling and lonely. I feel your words through my own experiences.
I love your wonderful darkness!"
"That was so sad, but like a moth to a flame I was so drawn to it. We all have our darkness and sad stories. There are so many parts of this piece, where I felt as though you were talking about me! So much in fact that it was a bit eerie!!"
"Breath-taking! So beautiful, powerful and haunting! I adore your style: almost like a ballad but with twists here and there. The ending was perfect. There are so many things about this poem that are brilliant, I really can't point them all out. Your phrases and descriptions are very unique and creative. You have a great vocabulary, making use of some of the most wonderful, often over-looked words of the English language."
"You have a sort of.. wondrous way of writing, forcing me to keep on reading or maybe forcing is the wrong word. I need not to be forced to read what you write, but I just couldn't help getting the feeling that I simply could not stop reading - even if I would've wanted to. Quite astonishing."
"You write in ways similar to Poe, very chilling and lonely. I feel your words through my own experiences.
I love your wonderful darkness!"
"That was so sad, but like a moth to a flame I was so drawn to it. We all have our darkness and sad stories. There are so many parts of this piece, where I felt as though you were talking about me! So much in fact that it was a bit eerie!!"
"Breath-taking! So beautiful, powerful and haunting! I adore your style: almost like a ballad but with twists here and there. The ending was perfect. There are so many things about this poem that are brilliant, I really can't point them all out. Your phrases and descriptions are very unique and creative. You have a great vocabulary, making use of some of the most wonderful, often over-looked words of the English language."
"You have a sort of.. wondrous way of writing, forcing me to keep on reading or maybe forcing is the wrong word. I need not to be forced to read what you write, but I just couldn't help getting the feeling that I simply could not stop reading - even if I would've wanted to. Quite astonishing."
"Again, you inspire and utterly depress me all at the same time. The flow here is as easy as conversation without social or emotional boundaries, yet as graceful as poetry was ever meant to be. I don't know what you go through to feel so deeply with such tragic beauty, but I know that the literary results are breathtaking."
"Real. I can't think of a better way to sum up the whole of it. This is one of those things that's written by opening up a vein and letting your entire heart and soul be poured out upon the page, hoping you can focus long enough through the pain to put it in to coherent sense. I unfortunately can relate to this all too well. I'm reminded of yet another more bitter set of memories and the sea of emotions that still drown me along with them. Your words are a comforting hug for others who hurt."
"WOW! Yet another masterpiece from your painful poetic pen within. I could just feel the write as I went along each line tracing it like a pathway to a shattered soul. I thank you for sharing you, and I want you to know, I think your work touches the readers, and lets them know they are not alone in a world so hollow."
"Irresistible, this is. It really sucks you in. And being as abstract as it is, while I can relate to something buried deep within it, I have to read it through several times to understand it, and still it is veiled. The mystique you have created here is exquisite and mercifully withstanding. The character in this piece is intoxicating. It reverberates within the soul and causes the figurative spine to quiver. This takes talent to do this, and you certainly possess it. Very, very well done, I find very few poems that I enjoy or contemplate this much."
"Real. I can't think of a better way to sum up the whole of it. This is one of those things that's written by opening up a vein and letting your entire heart and soul be poured out upon the page, hoping you can focus long enough through the pain to put it in to coherent sense. I unfortunately can relate to this all too well. I'm reminded of yet another more bitter set of memories and the sea of emotions that still drown me along with them. Your words are a comforting hug for others who hurt."
"WOW! Yet another masterpiece from your painful poetic pen within. I could just feel the write as I went along each line tracing it like a pathway to a shattered soul. I thank you for sharing you, and I want you to know, I think your work touches the readers, and lets them know they are not alone in a world so hollow."
"Irresistible, this is. It really sucks you in. And being as abstract as it is, while I can relate to something buried deep within it, I have to read it through several times to understand it, and still it is veiled. The mystique you have created here is exquisite and mercifully withstanding. The character in this piece is intoxicating. It reverberates within the soul and causes the figurative spine to quiver. This takes talent to do this, and you certainly possess it. Very, very well done, I find very few poems that I enjoy or contemplate this much."
"As I read this, something unexplainable happened, I felt it completely and it renders me speechless, I beg your forgiveness, and hope you understand, I was carried away in the vacuum of a void and the echo of nothingness drowns out the sound of any intelligible language to express the depth at which this whispers to the dark spaces in my mind. As always... I am forever a fan."
"And this is why I love poetry. You have so splendidly captured the energy of pain and darkness in your descriptions and reflections. Darkness is sometimes so elusive when one attempts to capture its essence in mere words, but you have done it remarkable justice. I can feel the pain, sadness, and darkness radiating from the words in this poem, reaching out and speaking to my hardened heart. Beautiful."
"Please tell me that you are writing a book! I'll be the first in line to buy one (as long as you promise to sign it for me!!!)"
"This is wonderful and macabre, deep and spiritual. I will have to read this again. So full of meaning that it is impossible to get it all at once. Love poetry like that."
"Captured in a way few can replicate. That's something to take pride in. I don't envy whatever hell it is you go through to inspire things like this, but that won't keep me from taking selfish pleasure in the true priviledge of reading the genius that you write."
"You totally made me cry right now! I'm still teary eyed as I type this. Like typing through fogged goggles! That was the most dark & beautiful thing ever!!! I was moved with this... with each and every line I was pulled along with this piece, as if a puppet in the hands of his puppet master! I'm so floored, that I can barely think! I hope that this (and I'm almost certain that it will) goes down in time, as one of those emotional pieces that pull at everyone's heart, whether they have a whole or a piece of one left! Though you may feel you have a hollow heart... I've never met anyone with a bigger one than yours!!!"
MUSIC:
There's a selection of music to listen to as you read in front of each poem. Just an option I thought I'd throw in.
The following music was not written for me or by me, so it's not going to fit perfectly with each piece, but they are appropriate. It's simply the style of music I most often listen to while writing.
Enjoy.
There's a selection of music to listen to as you read in front of each poem. Just an option I thought I'd throw in.
The following music was not written for me or by me, so it's not going to fit perfectly with each piece, but they are appropriate. It's simply the style of music I most often listen to while writing.
Enjoy.
POETRY:
If I'm given the opportunity to write a book of poetry, it would be entitled:
"A Diary of Death and Dying"
and it would begin with this...
If I'm given the opportunity to write a book of poetry, it would be entitled:
"A Diary of Death and Dying"
and it would begin with this...
MY SUICIDE NOTE
How do you begin one of these things anyhow?
I’ve cut myself; I’m not ashamed to admit it
I’ve hung myself and there was no limit
To the amount of abuse I would put myself through
But now that I’m older and see things differently
I realize that I was just as abusive to myself
As so many others were previously
Secretly, did I want to be them?
No chance in Hell!
My suicide note is not a good-bye
It’s a hello, my name is…
Like an AA meeting, I’m a survivor
A survivor of life, of death… and of me
Trying to find the kid that I was
The identity I’ve veiled in layers of pang
Because I miss that younger Jaye
Who rode his bike to the candy store each and every day
I miss kickball, and Frisbees and playing in the rain
I miss living which is what I was put on this earth to do
And my beautiful innocent smile
With the little missing tooth
That’s who I was
That’s who I am
And who I will always be
Despite the beatings, the disease
Being homeless in the heat
Eaten by mosquitoes and
Freezing on the streets
I can’t allow life to take living away from me
I’ve been imprisoned for far too long
My heart is empty, but I am strong
And filling it will become my destiny
My suicide note is my life
All that I write
This book of prose
Off the beaten path
A cathartic road
Which I have paved
With patchworks of pang
Just so you’ll know
That you’re not alone
Because every time you pick me up
“You” are doing the same.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2009
How do you begin one of these things anyhow?
I’ve cut myself; I’m not ashamed to admit it
I’ve hung myself and there was no limit
To the amount of abuse I would put myself through
But now that I’m older and see things differently
I realize that I was just as abusive to myself
As so many others were previously
Secretly, did I want to be them?
No chance in Hell!
My suicide note is not a good-bye
It’s a hello, my name is…
Like an AA meeting, I’m a survivor
A survivor of life, of death… and of me
Trying to find the kid that I was
The identity I’ve veiled in layers of pang
Because I miss that younger Jaye
Who rode his bike to the candy store each and every day
I miss kickball, and Frisbees and playing in the rain
I miss living which is what I was put on this earth to do
And my beautiful innocent smile
With the little missing tooth
That’s who I was
That’s who I am
And who I will always be
Despite the beatings, the disease
Being homeless in the heat
Eaten by mosquitoes and
Freezing on the streets
I can’t allow life to take living away from me
I’ve been imprisoned for far too long
My heart is empty, but I am strong
And filling it will become my destiny
My suicide note is my life
All that I write
This book of prose
Off the beaten path
A cathartic road
Which I have paved
With patchworks of pang
Just so you’ll know
That you’re not alone
Because every time you pick me up
“You” are doing the same.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2009
SOLILOQUIES IN SKELETAL KEYS
White-knuckled and pristine, she meanders between lamp-post shadows like ectoplasm in the wake of phantasma
Translucently pale
Stained in rusty gore
I can not lament the death of the Devil's whore
With whom I gave my soul
For hope
And auspicious sincerity
Like tattered clothes on bi-serrated wire
My heart
Is an empty cavity full of desire
I swooned to the emptiness of her muse and now cannot rid my head of the tune
Metal objects and glass shards are the sympathy card, and every scar is an apology for wanting more...
than this
eternal... emptiness
Daylight comes when my eyes are closed
My mind resides in darkness
Since she's killed all hope
Words engraved can not tell the tale of how this bed was made
Conned into believing that life was worth saving
Foolishly thinking that today is not tomorrow
It took me a lifetime to realize
That she was just another chapter
In my legacy of sorrow.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2008
White-knuckled and pristine, she meanders between lamp-post shadows like ectoplasm in the wake of phantasma
Translucently pale
Stained in rusty gore
I can not lament the death of the Devil's whore
With whom I gave my soul
For hope
And auspicious sincerity
Like tattered clothes on bi-serrated wire
My heart
Is an empty cavity full of desire
I swooned to the emptiness of her muse and now cannot rid my head of the tune
Metal objects and glass shards are the sympathy card, and every scar is an apology for wanting more...
than this
eternal... emptiness
Daylight comes when my eyes are closed
My mind resides in darkness
Since she's killed all hope
Words engraved can not tell the tale of how this bed was made
Conned into believing that life was worth saving
Foolishly thinking that today is not tomorrow
It took me a lifetime to realize
That she was just another chapter
In my legacy of sorrow.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2008
WHY DO YOU HIDE THOSE BEAUTIFUL EYES...?
To someone I knew… a long time ago
To someone I loved… before love was known
To someone who grew… through life’s highs and lows
To someone whose destiny… is yet unknown
To someone I loved… before love was known
To someone who grew… through life’s highs and lows
To someone whose destiny… is yet unknown
To someone who knows… the importance of truth
To someone whose hidden heart… still, bleeds hope
To someone whose searched… the depths of their soul
To someone who deserves… the sanctity of home
To someone whose hidden heart… still, bleeds hope
To someone whose searched… the depths of their soul
To someone who deserves… the sanctity of home
To someone whose dreams… have gone up in smoke
To someone who has always… felt alone
To someone who can’t quit… because of the unknown
To someone whom true love… has never been shown
To someone who has always… felt alone
To someone who can’t quit… because of the unknown
To someone whom true love… has never been shown
To someone who sees me… through their eyes
In the mirror
Every night
In the mirror
Every night
To someone that has survived… life
With a wounded heart, and an empty hand.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright: ©2006
BORN WITH A HOLLOW HEART
I see my reflection in the water... and it's always windy when I look. Distorted is the creature that glares back at me.
I have given away all my best virtues and cut open my heart so everyone can have their piece; leaving nothing for me. Yet the pain I endure must mean I have left some infinitesimal trace. A tiny clump in my chest cavity; a coagulated artery... Look into your palms... (I am bleeding to death).
I cannot share that which I do not have, nor do I want my pieces back. Never did they offer me solace; never did they give me warmth or a place to hide. I was born with a hollow heart. And I learned that only by giving it away to those in need did it ever become whole.
I can feel it beat from 1000's of miles away... but I cannot hear that rhythmic...
thump...thump...
...thump...thump...
...thump...thump...
...thump...thump...
My heart is only in my mind... a memory, and an old one at that. My mind is all that I am, and rotten to the core. Depression is just a word, in itself nothing, but driven by a hatred for oneself in a world that beats him mercilessly... it is a powerful force. I envy people that I can no longer commune with... for finding success in my failures.
I've killed myself so many times over I can not remember the first. I'm desperate for an egress... as I long for the anger of my youth. I need to be taken back there. I am fearlessly afraid. I need to complete the puzzle, but it's impossible. For I possess the last piece... the last piece of my childhood which was taken from me; with it, my innocence, my beauty, my future....
I cannot be given what is not truly offered. I cannot accept differently that which I have given away. I shall never be complete, because another must empty to fill all that I've lost and if a sacrifice is to be made, it will be made by me and me alone.
I've lost every battle, surviving with less each time. I have been pillaged over and over... but war rages on. My arms scathed and scarred; my breath is weak. My eyes bloodshot, my hair disheveled and streaked across my face. Everything... burning, stinging... tendons tightened, my muscles are in knots. The pain is unbearable!
I want to say the right thing, but never do I find the words. If I try and say anything, it will be wrong. If I sit in silence, I'm told to go away. All I am is a code of chivalry in ashes... I want to stand over a sewer and liquate, bones and all... for that is where I belong... in the company of flies and disease. Not this Hell anymore....
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2006
I see my reflection in the water... and it's always windy when I look. Distorted is the creature that glares back at me.
I have given away all my best virtues and cut open my heart so everyone can have their piece; leaving nothing for me. Yet the pain I endure must mean I have left some infinitesimal trace. A tiny clump in my chest cavity; a coagulated artery... Look into your palms... (I am bleeding to death).
I cannot share that which I do not have, nor do I want my pieces back. Never did they offer me solace; never did they give me warmth or a place to hide. I was born with a hollow heart. And I learned that only by giving it away to those in need did it ever become whole.
I can feel it beat from 1000's of miles away... but I cannot hear that rhythmic...
thump...thump...
...thump...thump...
...thump...thump...
...thump...thump...
My heart is only in my mind... a memory, and an old one at that. My mind is all that I am, and rotten to the core. Depression is just a word, in itself nothing, but driven by a hatred for oneself in a world that beats him mercilessly... it is a powerful force. I envy people that I can no longer commune with... for finding success in my failures.
I've killed myself so many times over I can not remember the first. I'm desperate for an egress... as I long for the anger of my youth. I need to be taken back there. I am fearlessly afraid. I need to complete the puzzle, but it's impossible. For I possess the last piece... the last piece of my childhood which was taken from me; with it, my innocence, my beauty, my future....
I cannot be given what is not truly offered. I cannot accept differently that which I have given away. I shall never be complete, because another must empty to fill all that I've lost and if a sacrifice is to be made, it will be made by me and me alone.
I've lost every battle, surviving with less each time. I have been pillaged over and over... but war rages on. My arms scathed and scarred; my breath is weak. My eyes bloodshot, my hair disheveled and streaked across my face. Everything... burning, stinging... tendons tightened, my muscles are in knots. The pain is unbearable!
I want to say the right thing, but never do I find the words. If I try and say anything, it will be wrong. If I sit in silence, I'm told to go away. All I am is a code of chivalry in ashes... I want to stand over a sewer and liquate, bones and all... for that is where I belong... in the company of flies and disease. Not this Hell anymore....
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2006
MY APOCALIPS
All mighty G-D could not have created a sweeter pair if he himself formed the mold, and no devil could have curled them into wilted vines… such as they are.
My apocaliptic vision is unlike the one so commonly told, with a pool of inside out swans filling every gaping hole; A place where doves fly blind, headfirst into walls; as molten feathers descend from the heavens littering the ground.
Roads of bones criss-cross the countryside, a pirate’s wet dream… less the rising waters of flooded streams. All moisture here is coagulated into ropes designed like trees needing no sunlight,
no breeze.
The temperature is 98 degrees and sultry. There is no air, so one cannot breathe, and all you can do is stare helplessly upon the beast.
This beautiful demure and demonic priestess with eyes so warm they melt your heart, and lips…
… those supple poison-tipped lips killing once again without mercy from each word that purses them.
A labyrinthine hell built from the walls we construct ourselves to protect that which is most vulnerable. Imprisoning everything but the images that surf the sky
and like a deer in headlights…
…we end up
on the mantle
of
her
smile.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2009
All mighty G-D could not have created a sweeter pair if he himself formed the mold, and no devil could have curled them into wilted vines… such as they are.
My apocaliptic vision is unlike the one so commonly told, with a pool of inside out swans filling every gaping hole; A place where doves fly blind, headfirst into walls; as molten feathers descend from the heavens littering the ground.
Roads of bones criss-cross the countryside, a pirate’s wet dream… less the rising waters of flooded streams. All moisture here is coagulated into ropes designed like trees needing no sunlight,
no breeze.
The temperature is 98 degrees and sultry. There is no air, so one cannot breathe, and all you can do is stare helplessly upon the beast.
This beautiful demure and demonic priestess with eyes so warm they melt your heart, and lips…
… those supple poison-tipped lips killing once again without mercy from each word that purses them.
A labyrinthine hell built from the walls we construct ourselves to protect that which is most vulnerable. Imprisoning everything but the images that surf the sky
and like a deer in headlights…
…we end up
on the mantle
of
her
smile.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2009
DOUSE THE LUMINOSITY
There are leaves playing with debris out in the street (and it’s home to me). Tears fill my head to the point of sea sickness, causing me to stagger along like a drunken pirate.
I’m on a road to ruin where life slows to a crawl. Figuratively on my hands and knees, filthy & begrimed most of the time, and I must lie down.
Oh please let me rest; I beg for the ground to bare my hindrances, and help me quicken my pace toward extinction. There are no crossroads, no signs, and no sunlight, just the midnight blue and a few stars which accompany the moon. Slovenly I meander through the thickening shadows gaining strength until they are shoulder to shoulder.
Insects crawl upon my flesh, looking to burrow themselves a new home. I smack my neck upon their touch, but to the flies, I am only muck. I’m too exhausted to fight this war and swathe a path through the swarm. Let them fly, let ‘em creep and crawl and multiply... at least my body will not completely go to waste.
Everything I touch is covered in winter’s gown. I’m so out of breath, when I collapse there is no sound. Face down, my mouth to the ground, I inhale deep. This is it, finally... the punctuation to my life.
… and it’s disappointing at best.
.
I look though watery eyes… at hands blistered, bleeding and sore, raw from clawing the earthen floor. Fingernails bending back from rocks and roots in their path. I am numb to the severity of abuse I put myself through. A grave so shallow, birds will perch upon my wings; their new home on rigor mortised limbs.
My eyes close to the sound of buzzards crooning over dinner, like silverware scraping across a plate; and I’ve just one fear left... That death just ended, and the rotting, and chewing, and burrowing of my flesh will be felt by the deadened heart within my chest.
S.C.R.E.A.M..I..N.G in cadaverous spasms...
my life is unchanged.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2007
There are leaves playing with debris out in the street (and it’s home to me). Tears fill my head to the point of sea sickness, causing me to stagger along like a drunken pirate.
I’m on a road to ruin where life slows to a crawl. Figuratively on my hands and knees, filthy & begrimed most of the time, and I must lie down.
Oh please let me rest; I beg for the ground to bare my hindrances, and help me quicken my pace toward extinction. There are no crossroads, no signs, and no sunlight, just the midnight blue and a few stars which accompany the moon. Slovenly I meander through the thickening shadows gaining strength until they are shoulder to shoulder.
Insects crawl upon my flesh, looking to burrow themselves a new home. I smack my neck upon their touch, but to the flies, I am only muck. I’m too exhausted to fight this war and swathe a path through the swarm. Let them fly, let ‘em creep and crawl and multiply... at least my body will not completely go to waste.
Everything I touch is covered in winter’s gown. I’m so out of breath, when I collapse there is no sound. Face down, my mouth to the ground, I inhale deep. This is it, finally... the punctuation to my life.
… and it’s disappointing at best.
.
I look though watery eyes… at hands blistered, bleeding and sore, raw from clawing the earthen floor. Fingernails bending back from rocks and roots in their path. I am numb to the severity of abuse I put myself through. A grave so shallow, birds will perch upon my wings; their new home on rigor mortised limbs.
My eyes close to the sound of buzzards crooning over dinner, like silverware scraping across a plate; and I’ve just one fear left... That death just ended, and the rotting, and chewing, and burrowing of my flesh will be felt by the deadened heart within my chest.
S.C.R.E.A.M..I..N.G in cadaverous spasms...
my life is unchanged.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2007
CAST IRON MASK
My pain is abysmal; a labyrinthine and Byzantine maze of indistinguishable trails.
My brain is a place, not even I care to traverse
And all of my breadcrumbs are stale
Nothing is familiar. I’m rotting from the inside
Filled with so much tragedy
Not even Shakespeare could write
So much Hell in a body heaven sent
So many tears these eyes have spent
So much beauty, gone astray
Nothing but inexorable heartache and pain
.
I’m lost, I’m on my own; homeless and alone
Hanging by a noose from a promise
Not meant for rescue
Indistinct whispers caught in shallow breaths send shivers down my spine
With no escape; my love… caged inside
I'm given no answers…
… to the where’s… to the when’s and to the why’s…
My strength falters in my darkest hour; just as I need it the most
Emptied and devoured, what is left to kill?
Of a soul, lifeless and tortured
And ever unfulfilled
.
The scars carry no burden, but a heart flooded with tears
This heaviness in my chest, almost too much to bare
Yet how I linger, in circles do I wade
In a shallow ocean of emotion
I lay, wide awake
My mouth open, to drink of the past
The only way out of this cast iron mask
Choking…as my lungs fill with rheum
The whispers return…
(and like a tightening noose)
.
She sibilates...
... "I - love - you."
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2007
My pain is abysmal; a labyrinthine and Byzantine maze of indistinguishable trails.
My brain is a place, not even I care to traverse
And all of my breadcrumbs are stale
Nothing is familiar. I’m rotting from the inside
Filled with so much tragedy
Not even Shakespeare could write
So much Hell in a body heaven sent
So many tears these eyes have spent
So much beauty, gone astray
Nothing but inexorable heartache and pain
.
I’m lost, I’m on my own; homeless and alone
Hanging by a noose from a promise
Not meant for rescue
Indistinct whispers caught in shallow breaths send shivers down my spine
With no escape; my love… caged inside
I'm given no answers…
… to the where’s… to the when’s and to the why’s…
My strength falters in my darkest hour; just as I need it the most
Emptied and devoured, what is left to kill?
Of a soul, lifeless and tortured
And ever unfulfilled
.
The scars carry no burden, but a heart flooded with tears
This heaviness in my chest, almost too much to bare
Yet how I linger, in circles do I wade
In a shallow ocean of emotion
I lay, wide awake
My mouth open, to drink of the past
The only way out of this cast iron mask
Choking…as my lungs fill with rheum
The whispers return…
(and like a tightening noose)
.
She sibilates...
... "I - love - you."
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2007
A SOUL TORN ASUNDER
Madness crept through my veins
Stirring my blood in alchemic ways
I swayed; unbalanced in thought
And wept in streams of caustic salt.
Stirring my blood in alchemic ways
I swayed; unbalanced in thought
And wept in streams of caustic salt.
Wresting between black and white
Unable to avoid the grey
Where love is lost and blanketed with cold
Usurped with an emotion from the depths of the unknown.
Unable to avoid the grey
Where love is lost and blanketed with cold
Usurped with an emotion from the depths of the unknown.
I tried to explain how nothing has changed; the words still swim underneath my skin; covered with translucent metaphor. But when you first laid me down to rest… it wasn’t your voice that I heard or touch I caressed. Poisoned with the bitterness of silence; I rose from my grave you so delicately arranged, and now walk aimlessly blinded by the falseness of truth.
I know you lay flowers (for yourself) upon my grave and pray to a faint memory which at best renders me powerless. Know you not that I stand behind you, oozing with sourness and fragmented promises. A broken toothed mouth rasping accusations; the transmogrification is complete.
With someone to mourn, you are no longer alone. The selfishness that created your isolation is bequeathed to me, and I loathe that I cannot render your flesh in retribution.
To see you but once a year on our second anniversary is both a blessing and a curse.
The worst part of all this…
… is the comfort I give to you…
… and the price…
… that I have paid for it.
… is the comfort I give to you…
… and the price…
… that I have paid for it.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2012
Copyright ©2012
Come And Death It...
Frayed strings would normally bend and break when played, but the theme strummed at my heels to the curvature of my spine is that of no other; in tune with my sauntering, injuries and all. The piano, the rhythm, the tolling of the bells… an iniquitous and serpentine orchestration befitting my tar-like shadow-esque physique.
Unearthly blue to translucent grey, my eyes mirror a shedding snake; they change like a chameleon in danger.
In present tense
The earth beneath my feet, but not a flower in bloom
I look to the sky devoid of stars
To a world without the hue of the moon
Here Lies…
…Yet I stand
A man sensing a Mephistophelian presence swelling in the darkness, I see… something, but not my hand in front of my face.
My soundtrack trails off to snarls and growls and faint tortured screams. Surrounded now, with putrefying pungence and cloven feet; here’s where I smile.
Raising my arms in welcomed fashion, closing my eyes, tilting my head back in orgasmic guise of their ignorance; I think to myself: “Come and get it…”
And as if all Hell unleashed itself unto me simultaneously:
I’m bitten through every vein
My flesh clawed into strips
My bones crushed to dust
Here Lies… me, but awake I breathe. My lungs, one torn, the other exposed to the night air…in / out…… in / out. Dead leaves kicked upon me in celebration, as I listen with dismembered ear the chewing of meat and organ.
…
Organ… I hear the organs, ever so faintly. The violins with frayed strings, and I breathe, and I eat (by any physical means) all the parts of me. Exposed to my dark light, Rogues and nefarious Zoophagous alike find themselves with nowhere to go; every unearthly egress now closed.
I stand again in silence… alone
My demons - swallowed whole.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2007
Frayed strings would normally bend and break when played, but the theme strummed at my heels to the curvature of my spine is that of no other; in tune with my sauntering, injuries and all. The piano, the rhythm, the tolling of the bells… an iniquitous and serpentine orchestration befitting my tar-like shadow-esque physique.
Unearthly blue to translucent grey, my eyes mirror a shedding snake; they change like a chameleon in danger.
In present tense
The earth beneath my feet, but not a flower in bloom
I look to the sky devoid of stars
To a world without the hue of the moon
Here Lies…
…Yet I stand
A man sensing a Mephistophelian presence swelling in the darkness, I see… something, but not my hand in front of my face.
My soundtrack trails off to snarls and growls and faint tortured screams. Surrounded now, with putrefying pungence and cloven feet; here’s where I smile.
Raising my arms in welcomed fashion, closing my eyes, tilting my head back in orgasmic guise of their ignorance; I think to myself: “Come and get it…”
And as if all Hell unleashed itself unto me simultaneously:
I’m bitten through every vein
My flesh clawed into strips
My bones crushed to dust
Here Lies… me, but awake I breathe. My lungs, one torn, the other exposed to the night air…in / out…… in / out. Dead leaves kicked upon me in celebration, as I listen with dismembered ear the chewing of meat and organ.
…
Organ… I hear the organs, ever so faintly. The violins with frayed strings, and I breathe, and I eat (by any physical means) all the parts of me. Exposed to my dark light, Rogues and nefarious Zoophagous alike find themselves with nowhere to go; every unearthly egress now closed.
I stand again in silence… alone
My demons - swallowed whole.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2007
