Posts Tagged liar

She doesn’t seek his memory, it just comes creeping; and when it does, that’s all there is.

Its nothing to do with fear or inspiration; building a fan base that was there long before he was; or anything at all for matter of fact. For who would dream of seeking such hurt.

Its simply a means of soul survival; an attempt to heal, her wounds on her own. Purging her being in the form of words; bloodletting her system of his poison, his disease. Being caught in the death trap, he sets and springs.

His desperation for reprieve, amounting to nothing; empty words of apology and pleas of forgiveness. He gobbles her words and his ego grows, waiting for Twitter to tell him there’s more.

There comes a certain “feel,” no matter where you happen to be, whenever his thoughts turn in your direction.

It starts at the basic level of the flesh; like the cool breeze on a crisp autumn night; tantalizing and chilling all at once.

Your blood pressure rises, heart rate increases, as he sends invisible waves of desire, cascading in your direction.

At the sound of his voice, a chemical reaction triggers, and suddenly you are seized; with a mix of exhilaration and excitement like none other you have ever known.

A connection is what he seeks; the ability to reach out and snatch you from reality; pulling you into his realm of illusion; with nothing more than his thoughts and voice.

Once he connects, the feeding begins; everything you want to hear, anyone you want him to be; larger than life, too good to be true; having searched for eternity and now loving only you.

Before you can blink, you are on a downward spiral; surrendered completely while careening out of control.

He drains you empty, while filling you up; taking every scrap offered, pillaging the rest while you dream.

Making his exit as quickly as he comes; a puddle of nothing, you remain on the floor. Left alone, to sift through the pain; cloaked in his filthy blanket of noir.

He stole away
Under the cloak
Of darkness

Backpack thrown
Carelessly
Over weary hunched
Shoulders

Filled with
Unsuspecting
souls
Carelessly collected
Over nowhere
Miles

Casting shadows
Of doubt
Calling it love
Leaving a trail
Of broken bits
Wherever he goes

Dear Veronica Lake,

The truth of us.

Something you believe only the two of you share; yet something we’ve all been forced to wonder about. We too had a truth in an airport, he and I; just as he had truths made up of lies with a plethora of intelligent, creative, beautiful, loving, soulful women; all of which were spoon-fed the exact same line, differing only slightly, as the situation, circumstance and female heart warranted.

At this point, you refuse to believe that which your mind has forced you to wonder of; as your heart precariously dangles by a soul string. Wanting so much to believe that he is who he says, that YOU are the twin of his flame, the mate of his soul and yours is the only connection that is real and matters. Refusing to believe that what you shared during your time together meant nothing, when it meant and still means, absolutely everything to you.

Finally realizing, for the first time in your life, since your karmic connection, that YASS, this is the way it was intended. Finally another soul on earth, who understands you like none other. No judgments; just complete, unconditional acceptance and love. Exactly what you always knew, in the depths of your soul, love was supposed to be. Every wasted moment and past mistake leading to this crossroad that brought the two of you together….

Ignoring the red flags, due to his lifetime membership within the upper echelons of intelligencia. Stories of his dysfunctional and abusive childhood, which as a mother you can surely sympathize. His self-destructive pain and angst, leading him to long for death; his only comfort found within darkness’ welcome embrace; singing always that sweet song of stygian.

Believing in your heart that your love for him can and will make a difference; that happiness can be found and shared, if only he would allow himself to trust, believe and take your hand. At this point, your perception of your own reality so skewed that you know for certain the only way to survive this life is with him by your side.

Wake up, love. This isn’t a classic movie you’re starring in; this is your life you’re allowing him to fuck with. There’s an antidote for those of us who have been infected with this disease; the first step is realizing you want and need to be cured.

The sooner you realize that there is no truth where the Hyena is concerned and the only reason he will ever come back is if there is something he needs from you, which he cannot provide for himself; the better off you and yours will be.

The only way to get back to living is by killing the Hyena. He must become dead to you in order to see and accept the truth; the only truth there is of him. The one too many of us have come to know…

The music strikes a cord, as rain falls steady outside your four doors; and you feel him suddenly, tugging at your soul. Memories come down like raindrops on the windshield; and you realize with gripping certainty, just how close you came to throwing it all away; for a stranger whose specialty was manipulating words; who didn’t just consume, but devoured every morsel; your heart, your soul, your poetry and prose; digging your mind, inspiring your muse, feigning a connection while loving your soul…

Like a tree
Solid strong
Broad and stocky
Hollow at the
Core
Rotten inside

Peering leering
Paranoid searching
Driven by
Ego
Googling his own
Name

Empty of
Feeling
Driven by
Madness
Writing his
Life
In poetry and
Prose

Found on pages
Endless pages
Dostoevsky
Bukowski
Kerouac
Neitzsche

Incapable of
Grasping
All forms of
Reality
Stories already
Told

A life of
Emulation
Lost in theirs
Unconscious of
Time
Forever living
The lie

It is no accident that she sees these things, these glimpses of the future and what lies behind the veil of façade in which some choose to linger. There are no accidents and they always seem to come at an appropriate time in her life; just when she needs the clarity most, but still, always surprising and completely unexpected.

She knew there was a certain level of craziness in him, but wanted to believe it was more of a rebelliousness than actual lunacy; although he claimed to be insane more than once, almost to the point of bragging; as if being insane and unable to control his thoughts and function in society was something to be proud of; an achievement of those with superior intelligence and knowledge. He was intelligent, of that there was no doubt; and strange enough, it was his mind and perception of life that attracted her in the first place, which left her wondering of her own mental stability in the end.

He preached change, was obsessed with changing, always claiming to have or be in process of changing; but people like him don’t change, just talk a good line of bullshit and continue wandering aimlessly; alone, taking up space and doing absolutely nothing for the greater good of mankind, and leaving a trail of destruction and debris in their wake.

She saw him walking the streets along the bay; baggy shorts, sandals and a Hawaiian touristy shirt; a 280 pound chic magnet in tow, in the form of a St. Bernard named Bud. He looked just as he had, but older with rougher edges and quite a bit heavier and wider; still talking his crap, looking for the next big score; still no pot to piss in or window to throw it out of; no longer able to count on his looks and words to lure them on his own, letting Bud do the work of hooking them, as he tried his damndest to reel them in.

Eventually they all stopped listening and even in darkness he couldn’t find peace, as the voices in his head refused to stop taunting. He lived a life of loneliness, claiming to have wanted it that way, but he was a liar and a con, left to reap exactly what he had sown. Unable to hold even the most menial of jobs; no money to feed himself or his dog, he wandered the streets panhandling, with that single copy of the book he had penned, designed and produced years ago by a chic whose name he’d long since forgotten; pages yellowed and dog-eared, no one listening to the raving lunatic, who stood on the corner and read excerpts aloud, from the book by an author no one ever heard of.