From The Lab

Lost In Neverwhere

Must a hope always disappoint?
Must spirits constantly be down?
What do the dead do with those coins?
They serve no purpose underground;
And here I am, broken, annoyed,
With all these soulless folks around.

I grow weary through daily grinds,
Half-truths unseen, no wrong or right,
As I, a fossil of the times,
Am stuck within the tar of life,
Is my only worth in these lines,
Never observed by human sight?

My mind is lost amidst the pain,
The agony at any cost,
Where the mere effort of true strain,
Took its full toll upon my thoughts.
The mind's eye picture I had framed,
Was wrong, was gone, and all for naught.

Are artists born just to suffer?
Does tragedy the talent make?
Does every ounce of strength mustered
Leave the soul in a weakened state?
Do all your fears join and cluster
To scare you from your chosen fate?

From The Lab

Patient Things

Waiting?
They can wait forever...
And will.
Tucked away in the corners of the universe,
Biding their infinite time until
We are ready to receive,
And understand.
As of now, our wits are not prepared,
So they wait;
Hiding their secrets, closing their many eyes,
Folding their many wings, and
Waiting to teach the trade.

From The Lab

One Illusion Left

One by one the veils are torn away;

Fragile by nature and giving with ease,

Until one remains,

Settled with the dust of an age,

Standing tough through the destroyers of dreams,

Shatterers of illusion and perception,

(Proven by its raggedy condition).

This lasting mirage fights against the void,

Defiant, until the end it knows is coming

Arrives,

And soon, it too will be torn away

By the expectedly unknown forces.

So stop, stare, and gaze upon the doomed,

And offer thanks for the thin protection it provides.

From The Lab

Critique-Proof

A word to critics, lend your ears,
Your words do little good, you see,
Try as you will, you'll never find
My hidden insecurities,
I know your job, yes, all too well,
And that's why I don't respect it,
If that draws more venom to me,
No worries, for I expect it,
Yet if for some untold reason
You actually like my art,
It makes no difference in the end,
I didn't like it from the start,
There's nothing personal, in words-
It's simply the nature of things;
The critic prays for the talent,
In which God, to the artist, brings,
You may deny it as you please,
That your job is to judge, not hate,
But the ones who can't will critique,
While the ones who can will create.