Two fingers grip it close.
Pulling at my legs like undertows,
Knots tied by you and you alone,
Weighted down to the depths to decompose.

Against a scalp a bare edge dragged across golden hair.
A waning, auburn moon,
Illuminating my nightmare.

Blue hues of two lives split on the same edge.
Find my body,
Continue to dredge.

I want to believe in the light that flickers at the surface.
Forget about my dark home,
Rotting and armless.
The crustacean, carrion feeder,
Consuming me, such a little abaser.

Pick me apart.
Reveal my black heart.
Use it in your ritual to impart,
My damning. My sin. My false start.

Pieces of me at the bottom of your lake.
Rotting for you, falling apart for your sake.
Memories that linger, persist like a stomachache.

Ferry my bones in your current.
Rewrite me as abhorrent,
Disgust my thought that lingers with the antidepressant.

Love me in your dark.
Ignore me when my flesh pulls apart—
Sleep through the pain.
Use my rot to grow your Wolfsbane.

Let me be part of your scenery.
A constant part of your Periphery,
A lingering injury,
The Wolfsbane in your garden scene.
Paint it out before you forget about me.

Blind By Choice

The lights are weary, like me—dreary. They flicker and fade. A shade of blue washes over the ivory white floor. A door at the end of the hall calls to me from beyond it all.

I want to stall when I hear the voices pick up, telling me to get up out of the dark. Parts of me wander free from the rest. Testing the boundaries of here and now, past and present—tense, The only feeling I can feel.

The ground undulates, dedicates its movements to knock me off my feet. That’s all before the walls sprout teeth.

I can’t breathe with this living debaser. See the walls peel off like burnt paper.

The end of the hall stretches and tapers down towards hellish flame. A demon for each lie in my mouth, doused in gasoline. Spit like fire and shame.

Under a new world’s gravity my form weakens. Buckles and strains beneath them.

The moons shatter into stars across the canvas of nothing, Touching the edge of my periphery. I can’t help to smile, bear my teeth and claws euphorically.

Nine millions stars separate me from you. Two pieces torn apart to bring about a new heart to start.

Birth me right into oblivion.

Tell me you believe in the heart beneath layers of dark. Your atoms belong to me. See how they make up the universe I create and pull apart.

Parasitic, pseudoisochromatic, Abhorrently disproportioned—

A living nebulous mind.  Ever hungry by design.

Open the way.

Bring me a hundred to kneel. Call forth the breathing and unbreathing, loyalty to break the seal.

Contagious beautiful fanaticism.  Dead to alive ad-nauseum.

Pulse with flies and beings from another reality to bring about the father of insanity. Another me breathing in human life synchronously. My messenger he will be. Sowing my mind-altering reality.

When I became fascinated with words.

SPOILERS!: for the 1999 Playstation game Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver. If you haven’t played it and want to, go do it. I don’t spoil much but God damn if I want people to experience the game. Also, the Intro scene is down below if you wish to watch it before reading this.

So, 1999 was pretty tight for a lot of reasons. But a recent retrospect of my life, in trying to figure out when I wanted to become a writer, brought me back to that year.

At first I thought maybe it was when I read Mister B. Gone by Clive Barker. A book that really fascinated me and one of my most beat-up paperback books as I have read it more times than any other. Honestly I couldn’t tell you what year that was. My memory seems selective. Hell I got about three dreams that my mind had decided to latch on too. (Two of which were inspiration for my novel. Maybe another post on those some other time).

But it was 1999. I was 9 years old. I can’t remeber if me and my brother rented it from a local video rental place or if we owned it. But we had Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver for our orginal Playstation.

Now the gameplay was amazing and quite something for the time it was released, but thats not what I want to talk about. I’m a creative writing blog and I want to talk about the writing, with special emphasis on the intro cinematic of the game.

Enthralling would be the best word to describe the feeling. I had never heard words placed so eloquently, described in such decisive and powerful ways. One line would pose a question and the next would answer one, pulling you into this world with one fluid motion.

Now it is worth saying that I had never played the orginal Legacy of Kain: Blood Omen. I did play the second, which was chronologically a prequel to Soul Reaver just as the first was. I was going into the world blind, and I was 9 for chirst’s sake.

I will have a YouTube link below with the intro for you all to enjoy as I am sure my descriptions will not do justice to the majesty that is that cinematic.

Looking back on it though, even showing my friends it from time to time when I was appalled they had never seen it or played it, it always lived up to the hype in my head. Still to this day, I get shivers and chills down my spine as each word is delivered with such beautiful gravitas.

That may make you wonder, “Yo, Blind Idiot God. Are we talking about the voice acting or the writing?”

Both. Because while books and the writen word is powerful, I think it gets turned to 11 when the emotion is brought forth through voice. Reading out loud is a way I used to do this at home. Giving weight to the words, feeling what I wanted to feel. And that’s why in games, I think it is so so important to have performances that really deliver on that. 

Now I may be wrong, and like I said, my memory is selective, but there were no other games that brought the writing to life through voice acting as well as Soul Raver had.

Micheal Bell played the protagonist Raziel, Simon Templeman the infamous Kain, and the late great Tony Jay voiced a character simply known as The Elder God.

Now this is before I even knew who H.P. Lovecraft was. I was being set up to fall in love with cosmic horror before I knew it existed.

The game sets up the story in such a way that it leaves you needing to find out what the hell is going on. Starting the player off as an even more undead vampire, a vampire zombie that literally consumes the souls of the fallen. Moving through the spectral realm and the material realm centuries after the opening cinematic, seeing the “Divine” states of all your vampire brothers…It was so unique and the world felt built with love. Set 1500 years after the events of Blood Omen, the first game, enough time had passed that it was like having a beautiful skeleton and being able to build upon it perfectly.

I feel like this is more of a ramble than anything. That’s okay, it’s my blog I can do what I want, and I want to gush over and share what made me want to become a writer.

Again, I didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, but the characters themselves were beautifully written. A lot of the emotion I felt came from the performance as well. Obviously, as I wasn’t there, I don’t know if anything was off the cuff from the actors or if it was all written in stone, but Raziel wasn’t just some voiceless vessel for the player to insert themselves into. He had feelings and a very strong motivation for revenge that the Elder God was using to puppet him. It was this multi-faceted feeling. We felt bad for him. We wanted to see him kill his “family,” kill Kain, especially since all he did to “deserve” what he got was to surpass Kain, through no choice of his own. In that way, to me he never felt special, like a chosen one. He was one of Kain’s “children,” and if any of the others surpassed him then I imagine the same thing would of happened to them. Obviously, the Elder God choosing to resurrect him had a chosen one feel. But in the end, even that came from the motivation of the Elder God, which is more fleshed out in Soul Reaver 2.

It just felt like the people writing it cared. The people performing these characters cared. I think that’s why it stuck with me, why I put it on a pedestal. It’s because caring about the work you do will be noticed. You could read book after book from an author who didn’t give two shits about the books they were writing and even if they were “perfectly” written, it wouldn’t be good. It would feel hollow. False.

Looking back to what made me want to be a writer, it was a video game that came out when I was nine and felt as though it was a product of love. It was enough to stick with me as I broke into my 30’s and decided to follow my dream to become a writer, and I want to emulate the love that I perceived in that work and put it into mine.

Tour of my brain

Disclaimer: there is some stronger subject matter within this poem. mention of self harm mainly. This piece is different then most of the ones you will find here. I wanted to post a smaller, more blatantly personal one to see how people liked it. thank you again for even reading my work. plenty more to come!

Let’s take a tour of my head,

What do you say?

It’s mostly depression, aggression, a smidgen of frustration with what I have to think to get by.

Decide if I want to die.

It’s Tuesday, maybe a noose today?

That would be a lovely thought. The knot that releases an expression of hope across my face. 

Leaves the rope digging at my throat. But no.

No suicidal thoughts today. That’s a win, they are usually proverbial. 

So let’s run through the rest.

There are festering thoughts of the past. I still hold myself accountable alas.

But what do I do with them? If not obsess and obsess.

Well I turn it inward and assume I’m at fault.

The guilt lies with me. Self assault on my brain, ground down on the asphalt.

There is some happy–albeit short-lived and snappy. But I try my best to live where the hate isn’t.

Does it work? Of course not. But it helps me feel human. 

Focusing on the good rather than the happy famine. 

I can’t quite figure out the difference between my own hell and heaven.

That concludes the tour of my brain. 

I left out the monsters that strain my head everyday. 

I put them down on paper to scare others and keep them at bay. 

But hey, it’s a creative outlet. I’ll be okay.

Calling me Home I

I walk from my bed to the door.

One foot drags across the floor.

The door laughs at my forced smile as opening it takes me quite a while.

I walk through streets coated with rust.

Eyes in dark corners yearn for a dumb man’s trust.

I see the footprints I leave in the desiccated young returned to the Loam.

I hear the ones in the deep calling me home.

The earth burns and floods all at once.

A titanic hand reaches from between the fault lines to alter our continuance.

We prayed above for the god we knew,

But they did not answer before the ones below gathered us in a far-reaching slough.

They asked for subservience.

They asked for sacrifice.

The ones who did not go insane found paradise.

We killed and we burnt the world to the ground.

We led droves of people to the cataracts to drown.

As our bodies shifted and changed, as the gods invaded our chromosome,

We knelt in knee-deep muck to become one with our home

Abyss I

I walked the steps to Hell, 

Dark as night and deep as well.

With each step the steel adorned across my chest rang.

Echoing down the abyss, deeply they sang.

I knew the dark held evils within it,

But the beast I followed, and darkness it beget.

The light of my torch flickered and faded,

A cool ember mirroring me, languid.

This descent will destroy me, I am sure,

Teeth and claws I attempt to inure,

I fear only for my mind in this place.

For I faced it once, just a taste.

It crawled on all fours despite its upright appearance. 

Across its dozens of eyes manipulated a calm fluorescence.

It would shriek as if harmed across the flooded moors at night,

Drawing in the curious like some form of pseudoparasite.

Half sunk in the mud it would appear beautiful.

The colors shifting, its motives unfathomable.

Do not trust the nebulous guise.

For when you close distance, its eyes synchronize. 

Wrenched from the mud, limbs long and with purpose,

You’re pulled into the mouth where it hid below the mud’s surface.

Its hunger was not ever satiated.

It left a hundred or more lost and dessicated. 

Now I pursue this beast I fear to imagine.

It slunk its way deep below this castle’s abandoned cavern.

A grip on the hilt I feel my purpose,

As the otherworldly colors on my mind would gain purchase.

My armor would echo in the open chasm.

Its colors illuminating a sight most gruesome


Chemicals are essential to function,

Be it control or destruction. 

I crave entropy—

The bright points of my dull catastrophe. 

A red necktie to stain my shirt and skin.

Love, doom. The only things I find hate in.

Love burrows into you like a starving invertebrate,

Peels back the shell to proliferate. 

Made from stars and just as far,

The light I snuff is the light you are.

I apologize for the creature inside your heart.

There is nothing else left of me, that’s the only part.

Keep it safe if you please.

It will die off soon, like a disease,

Just a little abnormality.

I apologize for the creature I left inside your heart.

I’m trying to recreate it with art.

Remember what I left of me in others,

Little things I left behind to discover.

When I leave and close my eyes,

I want something for those of you left behind—

A little creature in your heart to remember me by.

The Knight

I want to describe the scene. It’s something I am sure you will struggle to believe.

It was a dark and stormy night

when the metal-coated knight drew steel across the hide of the hidden beast.

Behind thousands of veils, he did not breathe in the least.

His story started below the dirt. He stirred. Disturbed the worms,Their guts so full of his honorable flesh

Withered and stretched across yards of forsaken ground.

Desecrated and abused by weather, the dead surround.

The rain had churned up more and more bodies through the winter.

In the night the knight heard the screaming, feeding worms eating at the bits left on bone.

He sensed without sensory organs.

Pulled in breath after breath in fear without lungs to bare them.

He felt the familiar damp. The wrapping of leather protecting bits of flesh and bone from metal the rain had shone.

Lifted from his grave he reformed and mind joined with thoughts new

He was surely dead as dead could be. But breathed in as if he was as alive as you or me.

He remembered the fights, dark beasts and blights left imprinted into his memory.

It was all that was left of me.

The ground ripped open and forced me to my feet. The earth formed a mouth and spoke as my body wanted to retreat.

“Bare the blade you died to keep. Sleep no more, slay this reality before it wakes what lies in the deep.”

The cartilage of my decayed fingers gripped around sword so familiar. Glimpses of a face once mine now fell away to this great disfigure.

Nothing made sense to me. The ground was spinning like that of a kaleidoscope. The trees started to speak of the beast that chose to interlope.

A mouth made of mouths and teeth of fingers sharpened to a point.

Bathed in the blood of reality and merged with the dead it chose to anoint.

I was disgraced to its millions of eyes- floating as orbs, illuminating new lies

seemingly altering the velocity of rain as it fell past their gaze.

With a yawn, its maw opened to pull me into its mental maze.

The abyss was infinite, formless and rigid to light.

It made little sense to scream as it took the first bite.

I spent night after night in the infinite.

A screaming aberration of reality limited, it fought to keep me down.

In its maze I felt my flaws pulse and push from my flesh. I watched my blood run from a dead dull brown to a deep red.

Gripping steel I could feel each gulp and contraction of the gore that trapped me within it.

I slept through the worst of what beget it.

It felt like always before my unlife ended within the beast.

My steel, compelled to feast, stabs in the dark so bleak.

Well past knee-deep, it starts.

I’m laughing, screaming my ears apart. Blood filling my lungs, feeling my heart start.

Spat out into a world less distorted than before.

A new world that was birthed from the gore.

One with less nights filled with undead knights.

Less fights and beasts that feed in the firelight.

No nightmares anymore.

With a sigh of pain I release my grip on the sword I swore to hold.

Let the dirt take me back to where I began, feeling feelings like never before, feeling…cold.

Stay Inside

Lifeless, empty but ever expanding. I feel it all through the halls. The floor creaks and cracks as if it were hundreds of years old, but I bought it no more than a year ago. I woke up every morning to the sounds of my wife and son—laughing, happy. All those noises slowly faded to silence. Happy doesn’t live in this house anymore.

The pictures I hung of my family are reminders of what I can’t see anymore. Not as if I took advantage of freedom back then. I was distant, cold at times. As things started to worsen outside, inside things were rotting, falling apart. The world fell apart. It was one thing after another. First, we were “strongly advised” not to leave. Now, choosing to walk out a door is choosing to walk into your own death. It’s the world we live in—lived in.

As things got worse, I closed off rooms. Boards and nails, ripped from furniture and cabinets. They weren’t needed. Dark hardwood that would hide shadows that spilled across it. White walls that seem to amplify the dread in the room. The emptiness inside of the house—inside of me. I had nothing left besides the walls. When I was the only one left in the house, when the rooms with windows began to be more dangerous to me, I feared them. I feared them like I feared everything that was happening outside these walls.

The plague sunk its teeth into the people. The coughing millions had gone quiet. They were ignored by most and refuted by the idiocy of the loudest until it was too late. Now I sit alone. The white walls slowly grow duller as time wears them down to a sickly dark yellow that only serves as a reminder of the filth I can’t escape. Boarded windows block the light, block anything from getting inside.

Things start to meld together when remaining in the same place for so long. Home should be just that—home. But after weeks and weeks, it becomes the stomach of the world that swallowed your life whole. I am being digested by a massive creature that has warped our reality into frailty and erosion, pieces falling off as the virus breaks us down.

It started with something that seems simple now but was then so complicated. “Stay inside,” “distance yourselves.” After years of this there were less and less people, less and less reason to leave our houses. The phone stopped ringing, then the phone lines didn’t work at all. The mass burnings of the bodies lasted so long that the smoke pillars reached higher than any skyscraper and blotted out the sun for months. The weather started to match the feelings of those left—cold. The looting, assaults, and murders would all steadily increase as basic systems shut down. With less people came less noise. Cities became graveyards, each building a tombstone. I sit in the same place clutched in anguish of the reality of this existence. Nothing is right here. Nothing feels right anymore. It is much easier to cope when you can’t remember when it was right. Like a foggy memory of playing as a child. You know it happened, but its blurred, barley there. Is the blur saving me? Distorting the parts I wouldn’t like?

When the ground started to give way, it bled for all the pain we caused. I do not mean a flood of water. No, the ground bled. Thick crimson fluid oozed from the soil. It became ankle-deep and we tried our best to carry on. It became waist-deep, and children would go missing beneath the viscous liquid. I could hear those on the floors below me being taken by it. Praying, screaming for help. It became neck-high and started to birth horrors from the flesh and corruption that is laced within the strata. The fault lines cracked like bone—a disgusting crack heard around the world, echoing through empty buildings. Primordial things older than knowledge found their way to the surface.

I peeked. You can’t help yourself when it sounds like the earth is splitting open like a dead man’s skull. You have to look. I wish I didn’t. I wouldn’t have seen the creatures being birthed from the liquid below me. Some grew large like a plant reaching into the sky, blooming spores into the atmosphere that would consume those who dare breathe in the open air. Others walked along the Earth’s soaked crust. Wandering through, not attacking. No. They never attack. Their mere sights attack our minds, tear them apart from the inside. Death would be preferred. Day in and day out we do our best inside. Today, I am losing my best. I want to rip off the boards to the warped landscape and embrace whatever it is. My end? A blank canvas?—What’s the difference? It would be much better than this. This place contorts like a body in the throes of pain. My mind is lost to me like my reality. It lies in the other room, far away from me. Far away from this hell that was birthed. This place is not ours anymore, isn’t recognizable anymore. I am not me. I had to stay inside. 

Birth of a God

As I am writing, I am relentlessly fighting the dead voices. Accosted by them now and always.

Deciding what to do with my choices.

I am neither here nor there, with you or with me.

I can’t seem to break free, part the veil and slip through the seams.

One after another, bones splinter and falter under the weight of worlds I don’t know.

Skys that follow my eyes and ground that shifts and sighs, breathing deep long breaths of something alive.

What am I to do? With all of this I am not sure I could continue.

The mountains are eyes, I’ve been coughing up flies.

Red and sharp, made out of my own sinew.

Breathing feels like glass has grown within my spine, flexing and rearranging my design.

I forget what I am half the time. I am not sure if I could define all the things I see in the space

outside my human paradigm.

I am the parter of veils, both the gate and the key.

I feed on nothing. I only watch my form part abhorrently.

Amorphous and split between it all, I see the rise of man and the coming fall.

Despite the pain I endured before, I can barely remember who I was anymore.

I am what I am.

My eyes like stars, uncountable.

My form no longer anatomical.

I see the cosmos for what it is: a writhing pit of germs and shit.

Beings growing from one another and dying the same day.

I am all, I am one. I am the opener of the way.