Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god
Silence, since you are gone
*Dedicated to my brother in light of all the change
Where did the silence come from?
This house used to be a whir with life.
Now there is a deathlike quiet.
There are only guides,
There is only the serenity of nature
Privileged enough to get through to I.
To see through to I,
To behold the miscellany of me, that comes from
A deep-rooted connection with nature
And all things of nature, of the life
And the death of guides
That came before the never-ending quiet.
I can smell the quiet,
It reeks like dry rot, and I
Inhale it like coke. Dare I guide
Myself far away from
The seasons that spring forth life?
I'll hide in the underbrush of nature.
Depression has stained the walls, has stained my nature,
Has diseased me with the kind of quiet
That makes the mind kill the soul. Life
Is what you make it, and I,
I know where I come from.
Suicide will not (once again) become my guide.
I've no direction to guide
Myself away from a self-destructive kind of nature.
I've tried and I'm sad and from
Within come the tears of quiet…
Or is it the rain that I
Confuse with the tears of life.
There is an experience of fear alluded in life.
Forever do I run, blind, without guides
And without immunity, for I
AM in the sanctity of fear; paranoid that nature
Will take its course in the form of dead quiet.
I needed you, but you walked back to the hell you came from.
Here, there is only my life. My nature
Of being guides you back to your own quiet.
And that is not where I am, that is not where I come from.
March 7, 2005
Suge
Where did the silence come from?
This house used to be a whir with life.
Now there is a deathlike quiet.
There are only guides,
There is only the serenity of nature
Privileged enough to get through to I.
To see through to I,
To behold the miscellany of me, that comes from
A deep-rooted connection with nature
And all things of nature, of the life
And the death of guides
That came before the never-ending quiet.
I can smell the quiet,
It reeks like dry rot, and I
Inhale it like coke. Dare I guide
Myself far away from
The seasons that spring forth life?
I'll hide in the underbrush of nature.
Depression has stained the walls, has stained my nature,
Has diseased me with the kind of quiet
That makes the mind kill the soul. Life
Is what you make it, and I,
I know where I come from.
Suicide will not (once again) become my guide.
I've no direction to guide
Myself away from a self-destructive kind of nature.
I've tried and I'm sad and from
Within come the tears of quiet…
Or is it the rain that I
Confuse with the tears of life.
There is an experience of fear alluded in life.
Forever do I run, blind, without guides
And without immunity, for I
AM in the sanctity of fear; paranoid that nature
Will take its course in the form of dead quiet.
I needed you, but you walked back to the hell you came from.
Here, there is only my life. My nature
Of being guides you back to your own quiet.
And that is not where I am, that is not where I come from.
March 7, 2005
Suge
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Silence, since you are gone
Silence, since you are gone
