From The Lab

Show Me The Way or Forgive Me For Being Lost

With each grain of falling sand,
That's another pain I feel,
And I begin to doubt the plan,
That I, at one time, thought so real.

What hope lies for those of us
That want to believe, but can't?
Those who betray, and cannot trust,
All they can do is rave and rant.

There's not a doubt in my mind,
For I know that you exist,
Though I'm let down, time after time,
(So what kind of payback is this?)

Am I cursed to be denied
That which gets me through the day?
Now does it matter that we cry?
Does it affect you anyway?

I cannot help but question
These inhumane, cruel tactics,
'Till I recall the exception,
You'll never be us poor bastards.

Are we made in your image,
Fatherless imitations?
Will we learn it at the finish,
If we reached your expectations?

If this is the best it gets,
If this is all that there is,
It's no wonder we get depressed,
It's no wonder I still get pissed.

So will I always be this
Anonymous scrap of flesh?
See, I'm not trying to resist,
I'm just weary from all the tests.

If these words fall on deaf ears,
It could just add to my hate,
But there are no answers I hear,
Now all I have left is my faith.

From The Lab

Er, Conductor?

Fast stuck in a world of darkness,
Painful blow after painful blow,
Attempting to stay on target,
In bottom of the barrel flows,
Running slow, so we won't die tired,
Choosing paths on a trail surreal,
Admiring, as a trophy case,
As clear as glass, secrets revealed.
Holding on to forgotten strengths
Exploring cold and murky depths,
Of choppy waters, twisting and
Writhing long on the blood express,
Set the destination: Nowhere,
We'll just enjoy the scenic view,
Standing tall amongst the fallen,
All made that way because of you,
They overlooked your tendencies,
Is this strategy more earnest?
We're just as blind with far less fuel
To fill your still starving furnace,
That ancient engine, never seen,
Must we match in lowbrow tactics?
The high road's never seemed so far,
Or is that simply semantics,
And we should always stay on track,
Despite all the alternate routes,
That tempt us all along the way
With wicked whisper's forceful shout.
It's a game; surprised we noticed?
We, the many self-aware pawns,
With numbered seats and tickets punched,
Accepting the location drawn,
You've always had our attention,
Knowingly, the few have kept score,
Sure, you're leaving, but I'll choose to
Ignore that call of 'all aboard.'

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

CLOCKWORK

Setting tired workers for the slaughter,
Who fall in line so the cause will excel.
Who has the rights to superior man?
Tough men bleeding fear in torrents, or the
Fellowship of great minds gathered in a
Safe room? Age-old questions still unanswered,
Still fragile as newly frozen water,
Ticking effortlessly past time itself.
Could the muscles, tendons, thoughts, and choices,
Long inept beliefs, and methods of the
Ancients, (whom would be enraged at what their
Sweat and tears amounted to), become the
Proper execution for the future
All along; that miserable clockwork?

The Vial (part 3)

Catch up on the story with part 1 and part 2 


On one of their many outings together, Cassie convinced her mother to go to the local tanning salon, seeing as how beach season was right around the corner. (I could never understand the need to get a tan before planning to spend weeks lying in the sun but I'm told that women can.) Her mother agreed and they bought separate booths for an hour each. Cassie knew that they would have to take off any and all jewelry in order to avoid being burned by the heated metal, besides who would want a semi-permanent ring or necklace pattern on their skin? While undressing she made note of where her mother placed the chain and waited for her opportunity.

After about forty-five minutes, Cassie told her mother she had had enough and was headed off to take a cool shower. Her mother, who always loved lying out in the sun, was determined to stay for the full hour as she expected. She then darted straight for the locker room and pulled her mother's jeans out of their shared locker. Reaching into the back pocket she removed the fragile necklace with the nervous calm of someone about to diffuse a bomb. As she fought to unscrew the lid, waves of guilt washed over her and her conscience promptly ignored them. She'd waited too long and came too far to let such a trifle bother her.

As the lid finally gave way she peered into the tiny opening. Inside it was all but empty except for a small amount of liquid resting at the bottom. Unable to tell what it was she reluctantly poured some of it onto her hand. It was clear, and a few sniffs revealed that it had no scent. It was water. Cassie was more confused than ever. Why would her mother wear this container, complete with nothing more than a few droplets of water in it, at all times? With more questions than answers, she carefully screwed the lid back on and made sure to place the chain in the correct pocket. She put her mother's jeans back as best she could remember, closed the locker, and headed for the showers.

The next few days were both difficult and awkward for Cassie as the newly gained information gnawed away at her brain. What was the practical purpose, if any, of carrying around the charm? More importantly, what secret did the water hold that made her mother react the way she did? Struggling to solve these questions and more, it wasn't until a week later that she was able to get some answers.

There were two ways to get to the bottom of it, neither of them pleasant. Her mother still wrote in a diary now and then, as she had since before she was Cassie's age. As she never grew out of the habit she had a number of volumes. Surely the chosen information would be in one of the older editions, Cassie thought. The only problem was that her mother kept these precious books in a fireproof safe, along with her tax forms and other important papers. Cassie remembered seeing them there once, clear as day, when she needed to get her birth certificate for a class trip. She didn't know the combination and never had to. She and her mother always made efforts to respect each others privacy. She was fairly confident she could figure the combo out, or break into it if need be, but this did not appeal to her. The other way was no less disturbing. She could confront her mother about the charm face to face, and tell how she'd snuck in and stolen a glimpse of her mother's secret.

Good-hearted people tend to do good things, it's in their nature. Thus was the case with Cassie. She would choose the lesser of the two evils. On the one hand she would have to pry into her mother's private side again, piling up offenses and adding to her already considerable guilt; on the other, she would admit to her wrong doings, accept whatever she got coming to her, and hope upon hope that her mother would at least explain things a little bit before going off on her. So she chose the latter, but decided not to reveal the entirety of the setup. She would say she found it accidentally and take her shameful secret to the grave. This was going to be painful enough, why add to it? Sometimes lies are the only acceptable answer, at least that's what Cassie tried to tell herself.

From The Lab

Art's Fiercest Spark

What causes man to create,
His hopes, his thoughts, his desires?
Can imagination substantiate
The first spark of the creative fire?
Can the artist deny their fate,
Or will the consequences be too dire?
And if the mind and soul collaborate,
Will the passion be accepted? Admired?