Whatever you read. Take it slow and easy, otherwise you won’t hear nor see me.
I think sometimes the clouds shield me from the unforgiving eye and temper
I think whatever slips under my warm covers might be the devil itself.
I think and think. This mind never shuts down. Strong, eh?
Okay. Let me get it together.
I think it is all a circus. Why not?
I think every warrior, every poet knows Huginn.
The memories that shatter whatever I am should not fly back.
Die Muninn, die!
The memories that remind me of lost battles should not fly back.
Die Muninn, die!
Memories of Love are only in my blood, those fly back.
Live Muninn, live!
Memories of me dancing to the strings of every undeserving warden should wither.
I do not hate Muninn.
Even I sometimes worry. I want them all home.
Huginn and Muninn
Thought and Memory keeps my feet warm, keeps my blades sharp and has my magic ready on the go.
Huginn and Muninn!
Do you remember when I told you to never tell a warrior his fate?
To never tell him that it is written in the stars or that it is carved in the caves on the hills.
Just the other day as I was preparing to ambush those in command,
I was ambushed.
“Why are you sharpening your blades?”
As if you do not know. I wanted to come claim whatever it is you have of mine.
“With sharp blades?”
And a shining silver armor. Tell them I’ll be there before dawn.
“To take what exactly?”
The fullness of who I can be. Selfish you, always giving me in rations.
“What is in your heart young warrior?”
Good question, what is in it? Fear or Fire?
“What are you afraid of? What purpose does the fire serve?”
Afraid to be forgotten, what else? What does fire serve, ha!
“Is it why you fight so much and so hard? To not be a forgotten young warrior?”
Is it why?
I couldn’t see it until t’was a wee bit too late.
Left with change off gold and rubies and all other precious stones.
Men slaughter for reasons that please the trembling in their blood.
Some for liquor, some for coins and others for the old brute love.
The old fashion give and give.
Yes. Let it be done, please?
To be free of the mornings I wake to a brooding sunshine.
Yes, it is done!
Tomorrow I won’t wake with a devil nesting in my insides.
I have this dungeon I created just for myself, to test my sanity against oblivion.
I had just broken free from myself made dungeon,
A castle made and carpeted with patterns of royal oblivion.
My eyes are up here!
Stop staring at the bulge in my chest,
It is my little minion lifting weights.
Then the whispers got to me that my story was written in the stars.
I laughed and laughed.
Then I rushed to the heavens and crushed each with my steel mind.
The night sky now is mine. Now the story I write is mine!
The moon and the waters too are now mine.
Never tell a Warrior his fate!
Just hold on,
I have finally answered my greatest query.
Of what I really want.
I want the fullest of what I am supposed to be,
Not what those other guys over there want of me.
You know, the ones with the scary endings,
Always trying to control with their silly phantasmagoria.
I just want what this land has for me,
I want to gather what those before me tried gathering, I want to heal.
But those guys won’t teach me how to heal them,
Those chains of wrong doings in my lineage.
The mistakes of all those mothers and mothers of mine,
And the graveness of all those fathers and fathers of mine.
They told me to try it is a bad ending.
Searching to heal myself in the truth of all those before me,
They said that is to deny their hero. Yes, a bad ending.
They said I will perish in their phantasmagoria.
It is not always that I write with my heart superior to my mind. I hope you like it, I hope it softens you.
Blood, Sweat and Love. A mixture of 3.
I have been waiting for this day to tell this,
She has my blood.
To sweat for each other through mischief.
And Love, artists don’t say much. I don’t.
A sister for me. Ha!
Come on now, even the stone organ knows this.
Blood, Sweat and Love.
Hello reader. Just a few breaths and a clear mind, you’ll see what I want you to.
So see this, July the 1st. A cold ugly morning.
The sun is being outshined by the freezing fog
Somehow I feel like half man half dog,
Hungry for the things men want and hungry for the things dogs fling.
See, I have nothing in my heart and my body isn’t even alive.
I can smell my own fear bringing the ugliness alive.
With the little I had, a swollen mind and a sullen unadorned jive
With all I had my head still hurt
See this, a man fighting through a cornfield of shadows
A man bruised but refuses to bleed, a man yelling
July the ugly 1st.
When was the last time I told you about warring?
I am so far away from my home,
The rocks seem angered by something the stars did and,
The soil tickles pain down my soles.
I ran away from my home.
Because I couldn’t take the peace and the calm and all that humming.
I was back in formation. Boots cold and armoured up.
But the soldiers of this new land turned against each other.
I want to go back home, but I like it here.
I like the idea of fighting and making it mine.
This land where the rocks are angry and the soil tickles.
Come on, just tell me you like my writing. That you wish I’d tell you more about this and the other. Then maybe friendly reader,silent reader or whomever reader, I’ll stop playing around
It does matter now that everyone sees monsters,
Monster her, monster him, monster them.
From the cages you have built for yourself I bet you can hear your cries.
I stopped fighting.
Life is the longest Oracle and mine neither can shorten.
Not this nor the other,
But hey, I knew this monster.
Beauty wrapped in 7 letters,
M for marvellous Monster.
Roses are red, the sky might be blue,
Once I swore for you now blue is my hue!
Listen. Don’t touch the images I’ve painted painted on the wall, just listen.
Look at them,
They wish for freedom but they cannot live freedom.
Look at them running,
For the crumbs that leave the gods’ table.
Tumbling see them running
See the ground making love to the fire,
Listen to the singing stones as they melt into lava.
Listen to the runners turning back.
Scampering back to something.
Listen to the ashes of that past glory,
A painting of how it is all useless.
The things they run for, I run for.
We are victims of this,
So touch not my paintings.