ringside sermon.

…so often we look towards the Heavens
to ask for fulfillment of our egotistical desires
and solutions for our smallest problems
before we turn to look at ourselves…
thud.
bare knuckles
ring truth in the ears of
those once incapable of understanding,
now unable to stand.
applause as his opponent’s
limp body hits sweat stained mat
but all he hears are police sirens,
echos of a life long forgotten–
voices over a radio requesting dispatch units
to 200 Block of South End
because John had too much and
Mom had finally had enough
so she tried to leave.
he prayed every day–
prayed she’d come to her senses
and walk out that battered front door.
if only she’d found the courage sooner.
if only he’d found the courage sooner!
blood on his busted knuckles,
on his busted face–
he tried wiping it away after each fight
yet still he felt it staining his body.
now to center ring they walk him,
hoisting his arms overhead,
outstretched towards the Heavens
praising a savior who’d never answered before
nor seemingly ever would–
a savior who’d never stepped up and into the ring
to fight for a boy who fought for a world
that never seemed to fight for him.
under these lights nothing can hide,
no scars or bruises left unseen
by the prying eyes of those
who’d never truly comprehend
the Testament he wrote with each blow to the chest.
his verses written in blood,
he speaks to a different congregation–
a different kind of church.
hard liquor fitting for paint remover
substitutes Communion wine
for a man who’d never know the difference.
he’s walked from the building
surrounded by bodyguards and training staff,
through throngs of people touching him,
blindly groping at his body
and singing the gospels of wanting and desire.
over screams, cries, and chants,
he answers his crowd of disciples–
shouting to the thronging masses,
all of them worshippers
at his Saturday night ringside sermon.

-ZCS

verses of the midnight tower.

these empty halls,
these creaking floors,
these flickering lights,
these deadbolted doors-

with varnished knobs
and tarnished wood,
these silent guards
misunderstood.

after what happened,
none dare go.
what Night saw-
we’ll never know.

-ZCS

Reintroduction Dialouge

I haven’t written in a while.
No, that’s not true.
I haven’t posted in a while.
Better.
I haven’t posted in a while because I haven’t had anything I wanted to say.
Liar! Why aren’t you telling the truth?
I haven’t posted in a while because I haven’t had anything interesting to say.
Come on now, really?
I haven’t posted in a while because I haven’t had anything I thought other people would find interesting.
Ok, but people read your work for a reason. They read because they find you and your words interesting. So why not?
Life got so stressful and busy all of a sudden that there wasn’t really any time for me to formulate my thoughts into words, and to put those words on the page.
I’m hearing excuses for daily life.
I’ve been putting a lot of time into school work and adjusting college life.
So did a lot of people. I bet they kept writing.
Know what? Fine! I give! What do you think I should do?
Share what you’ve been working on.
It’s not ready.
Share it.
It’s not even interesting!
Share it.
Nobody will read it!
Share it.
Can I start tomorrow?
No, now.
Fine.

Devil’s Advocate.

I’ve watched you break hearts from several rooms away,
but every night I used to stand in line praying
that the next heart broken would be mine.
You play men like a loaded deck–
flashing your cards to keep them hooked,
waiting for their hearts to fold,
so you can put them to rest
with a royal flush and scandalous smile.
Teasing them with a seductive pot
keeps them coming back to gamble more–
but at a price.
Hell,
they’d pay that price just to watch you
slowly stand and lean over the table
in that hot little way that you do–
collecting their money with arms spread and eyes searching.
Instead of sampling the bartender’s special,
you like to fill up on the usual–
broken men in a crowded bar
without a ring on their hand
or a sober thought in their minds.
But not I–
I’ve stopped praying that you’ll turn my way
and fix those dark eyes on my already broken heart.
If anything,
I’m thankful that you never have.
You’re a smokeshow in scarlet–
with a smile that carves through moral reservations
like a butcher’s finest blade.
Only now the smoke has finally cleared,
and your “love” will never bite me.
-ZCS

 

Image: “In The Bar” by Olga via Deviantart

Kill // Switch

My brain needs a kill switch–
because otherwise I ramble on and on–
and on and on and on–
until it’s four in the morning–
and I can’t open my eyes–
out of pure exhaustion–
but the cogs and gears–
in my disillusioned mind–
keep whistling and spinning–
until eventually something shrieks to a halt–
and all hell breaks loose–
behind my very eyelids–
with me as it’s only witness–
who no longer has any control–
of the pandemonium that’s ensuing–
and it’s keeping me awake longer–
and longer and longer–
until it’s darker inside my mind–
than outside in the dead of night–
where all the bad things lurk–
but all the best things play–
and all the things worth seeing–
hide from those unworthy of seeing them–
and you hide there because I’m not worthy–
but nobody ever will be–
no matter how hard they try–
with gifts and compliments and kisses–
because they’re useless–
like bandaids for a broken heart–
and the only thing you really need–
is a kill switch for your brain–
so we can stop rambling at each other–
which will allow you to think clearly–
and finally love me back.
-ZCS

Image: “Forgotten Songs” by Shiroa via Deviantart

 

Way Back When.

I used to think I’d miss you–
used to think I’d cry when you eventually left.
But that day was yesterday,
and today my heart already feels whole again.
Instead of ripping it in half you fixed it,
healing it with every taken step.
It’s not quite the same as before you,
and only time will tell.
No longer is it brimming with fear and anxiety,
but instead overflowing with a mix of joy and happy relief.
As I sit here without a single tear left to shed,
you’re the only thing that’s changed.
I used to think what we had was love–
Used to believe that you were the only one for me.
But that all ended yesterday,
When my open eyes could finally see.
I’d like to say I’ll remember our time fondly–
But that’s not even a half truth.
Photographs that were once bustling with life and color
sit crammed in a single dresser drawer,
stone cold and void of love
that we were once convinced we shared.
You were my first and my only,
but you certainly won’t be my last.
-ZCS

Image: “Wall” via Deviantart by Amendoins

Death of a Writer

For the first time in several years,
I tore out a piece of my writing from a notebook,
crumpled it into a misshapen ball,
and tossed the disfigured wad into my kitchen garbage can.
I’m a word hoarder–
collecting and keeping every word I write
in the hopes that one day those words will
mean something to someone other than me.
Except… not these words.

After finishing my piece and setting down my pen
I began to read–
only to quickly realize that these were not
words I would ever desire to take credit for,
let alone share with the world.
Because these words…
they were so full of hate, anger, suffocating greed,
and misery that tore at my soul in a way that I couldn’t understand.
I guess it’s time I stop trying to write about the news.

-ZCS

**Image: “Daily News” via Deviantart by Vangelis

Window Pains.

Broken light pours through the already
shattered church window, sporadically casting an array of
distorted colors onto the family that society forgot–
ruined, sitting in the sinful silence of the 3rd row in the
empty church and wearing beaten up clothing scrounged up from anywhere and everywhere.

Broken hearts–living in an apocalyptic world full of
shattered homes with a
distorted sense of right and wrong because society
ruined them and the only thing they feel is
empty.

Broken shards of glass flew everywhere as sharp shrapnel
shattered the last remaining stained window of the church, sending
distorted reflections of ravens scattering from the rafters as they flew out into the
ruined city and the
empty midnight air.

Broken was the evening sky, as gunshots
shattered the stillness of night and
distorted the cries of the people, as lives were
ruined and the church was suddenly 
empty.

-ZCS

**”Christ Church Window 03″ by Stephanie via Deviantart

On Getting Stuck.

For some reason,
you are the web
that keeps ensnaring my
stumbling step.
You don’t mean it–
you never have
and you never will.
But nonetheless,
I’m stuck–
and you’re the only one to blame.
I’ve struggled and shrugged,
trying to rid myself of you.
If only it was that easy.
If only I could just reopen my eyes,
wipe the sleep from my heavy lids,
and be free of the wretched spell you’ve cast.
It seems,
from my perspective,
that it’s far more than physical.
I’m tongue-tied and tethered,
brain-bound and gagged,
knotted and secured
by a worn strip of nylon,
running from my head to my heart.
Shackles slow steps steadily,
leaving my legs lethargic
and strides uneven;
every movement dragging me closer and closer
to the earthy path which I sluggishly traverse.
I’m a hostage in my own body,
hijacked by an unseen assailant.
I’m a raving lunatic in a straightjacket,
waiting to be thrown in the psych ward.
All because of you.
As I sit here,
waiting to be wheeled away,
all I can do is laugh and shake my head.
Here I am again,
stuck between your love and a hard place.
-ZCS

**Image: “Spider Web” by Haxonite

Pitter-Patter

It’s pouring rain
and the drainage ditches on the side of the road
have long since overflowed.
Headlights swerve to and fro in the dark cloak of night–
unable to follow the lines of the road
or the curve of the guardrail.
When the car smashes through the heavy metal,
it also smashes through the silence.
While the night was once filled
with the calm pitter-patter of rain,
it’s suddenly drowned out
by the guttural screams of a wounded steel beast
ripping from it’s cage.
It doesn’t just tumble down the cliffside–
but bounces and flips
like a demented thrill ride
from a cheap traveling carnival.
At the bottom of the ravine,
the vehicle is still–
resting awkwardly against a rotting pine.
In the silence that follows,
it’s impossible not to become aware
of the pitter-patter of the rain–
quietly falling and tumbling
through the nighttime sky.
-ZCS

**Image: “Rain” by Bartek via Deviantart