Villainous Times: Intro Guardian Wings

A Social Prose Commentary Opening to Poetry.

No one has written,

      Maybe the standard for 'the first submission' is very high and as of yet to be anywhere near met via said works of the citizens of the Witness Guardian. I know not, though that is my only guess.

      So what to write...? Certainly nearly anyone who exists has a story to tell that might be found worthy of being broadcast under the witness guardian protection digital media program of this here little website, but what shall this tale stagnantly tell? Possibly it is not derelict, as an ancient nothing but rusted out holds long looted by pirates about to run aground on a shoreline where no tourists, nor natives, have ever dwelt. It shall be an odyssey of a grand undiluted saga of win! Yes, win, for all your basis are belong to us.

      How bout a telling of an everlong saga of nearly all starving to not so struggling artists, the woeful longsuffering life of perseverance despite... Well, hereafter you shall have it.

　Nearly all journeys,

      Into the creative side of writing are uniquely besieged by dark tides. Some adventures are riddled with writer's block which can send your dreams down a porcelain throne if you're not diligent to continue writing; this is also true of those who finish a first or third draft of a work they deem 'magnificent' or 'a game changer in their creative realm' and thus give up their dedication to their craft in order to persuade others to produce or sponsor their project.

      There are countless instances of artists being plagued by external avenues of time theft. Whether that be f(r)iend or arch nemesis if your ever presence fails and you delay ever long, there may come a time when you walk back to the door of your dreams... You find it locked, thus you begin knocking, no one responds. Therein is silence, the pattern of creative beauty is no longer at home in any landscape of your mind.

      The achievement at the quest's end, to make merely enough to continue writing, unhindered. Mine began with an accident, well two to be exact. The first was that of my body being damaged beyond diagnosis. I was twenty three years old when, at work, a fork lift came round the bend of pallets. In a fright the driver lurched and I was struck by the tusks and sent falling into said stacks of pallets. All would have been well if the young lad had merely looked ahead, as I did, slowing in the tight bend.

      No diagnostic tool, from bone to cat of scans, conjured results of my injury and for nearly a year I was overcome with pain and the mental haze of pain killers. Finally I simply began stretching and holding yoga poses at home from a book I got second hand at a charity shop.

      Out of money and no where to live, having no f(r)iends from a bullied lonely youth and subsequent useless young adulthood I began to write. Words streamed out of me as poetically infused prose journal entries. What I read was imaginative empathy trapped in the horrors of the rage inside. At the hand of chance's fate I ended up across the country working for a massive corporation and quickly began moving up the ladder, though not so swiftly of pay grade and the writing all but came to a screeching halt.

      Then the second accident happened, I believed a lie. A creature unimaginable floated by as butterfly, beauty on one side but decrepit on the other. Sadly everyone that knew her believed she was at very least, normal, thus so did I. In the presence of a therapist/counsellor years down the road I heard her say 'I hid things from him and lived that way because I never trusted him.'

      What I had to offer, she wanted, the comfortable life of a sedated pacifist. But my creative rage instilled words would not be quelled by the offer of sex; after all I had barely touched her realized her deviant ploy the day after she moved in and we weren't physical before that... Alas for the deadly mask of lies that came off immediately in betrayal. The line was clear 'If you weren't even interesting in meeting my needs, so I had someone else do it.'

      Now I write endlessly, after recognition and a lengthy recovery of multiple mental illnesses rebuilding my body from injury and the plague of dead confidence, deadly self loathing esteem and an eating disorder, the too thin of shell kind, I am now nearly 'normal.'

Prescription's Decline

Vivid delirium nonsense

Conquest of a protagonist

Salient infantry private in uniform

Regular patient of the bomb shelter

Cold sirens dilute all daylight

Distress method of destiny

Integrate lucid anomalies

Gas ruined breathing

Lobotomy's silence

Failure of strategy

Mend in death

     What is this malarky, stop the swelling vermilion red's kindred tide of anti-sedation upon the shores of consciousness! We are comfortable here, but alas the poem goes on...

Medication on notice

Paranoia attention decline

Deficit lost profit disorder

Monetary guilt trip up in arms

Toxins under forced recovery sheets

Prevail against peaceful sleep

Sinking in a red tide of sweat

Ocean of beads skin fallen

Pills bleeding prescription

Sedated in overdose

Pills will prevail... 

The first half a poem, one of many thousands.

      At least I'm stable and carry only the baggage that helps mend others through spoken word, lyrics, podcasts and prose poetry. I live to write and write to die, empty. In hopes that the journeys I craft will help others in some way. Through social issues read from various online news sources to the hearing of a tragic story first hand, I write about what seems to matter; equality, domestic violence, mental illness, prejudice, injustice, love, mother earth, father time and artificial intelligence, a cyborg holding the last human's hand in the end.

      For one it might be realizing and confronting a grievous wound or explicit deep scar trauma. For others it might be witnessing in their minds the sorrows of others, unable to change the node on the dial or alter the channel to escape the imaginary landscape adventure.

      Whether it's being able to identify with others in a new and beautiful, empathetic to non pacifist way after being stolen away on a journey through tragedy, loss or mourning or the realization that they are or have indeed suffered and confront that reality, possibly for the first time... Hope is the prescribed outcome, that is my only hope.

Bipolar Beauty

Paralysed bipolar look up scene

Beauty trapped in fire infused sand

Mirror amplifies the psychosis

Derangement not by choice

Furniture inside deforms

Despite the prescription

Still hallucinating

Abnormal scientific referral

Accepted terms for testing

Abrasive codex of dignity

Accidental manic prey

Bipolar schizophrenic shallow breathing

Darkness of the mind depressive

Sworn to psychosis secrets

Trapped in her own head

Yet she is defined...

By illness instead of beauty

      Where does your mending begin? On a train home from work after Baring Witness to an audacious conversation between two gossiping quacks? In a school room after taking in the impact of a lesson spoken by some random workshop poet scheduled in for the day? After some traumatic misery signal that was the sign you prayed or hoped for that would spark you to change... But sadly you didn't until it was too late?

      There is no such thing as writer's block, there is just being stuck. Persevere, write on and create despite the lack of inspiration, you'll never know what you might craft if you believe you're stuck and don't make a move forward in your creative endeavours.

     There is no such thing as being tone deaf, when your mother calls you over the phone, you know who it is... You can instantly tell by her tone whether or not she is happy, upset, sad or frustrated. Slowly apply this to your own voice and you too can learn to sing in beautiful tones of melody.

      The point is, don't stop creating before you've started just because someone informed you or some media state of ill propaganda fed to you throughout you life instilled a belief that 'you cannot... because.' Unlearn such non-sense and begin mending, healing, scoping out your own wounds to scar them over, cauterize them and slowly heal.

      We can never be perfect for ourselves or our partners, but we can be complete in our selves. They can help the mending process, but only we can find contentment in who we exist as, projecting the ball and not always healthy chains of our past with us as we travel towards the escapees of conscience, acceptance and compassion.

      I leave you with a poem written while witnessing, which seems appropriate given the content herein is written for a guardian proposing that life's witnesses view, digest and reassemble to share a tale with would be clicky fingered viewers.

Baring Witness

      Crows gossip beside me, murder stains their beaks, vermilion scales of painted red dance like pawns cursing a game they never meant to play, sinisterly calm in year long trenches of venomous speech, paper wire tapping idle of response unstable personalities bounding ridicule against f(r)iends through parasitic liquid revenge sworn unto death seething from the mouth of hate...

In earnest anticipation of,