horror crime death psychopathWhen I am gone, people will read these letters I put together. Read all these letters that I put together to write words. Words put together to make sentences. The sentences put together to tell a story. Letters telling my story.

I will cheat death in the end.


You have a gift for deception.
Handing it out as if it is a gift from the Queen herself.
img_0561But what can one do with deception,
(which is just a lie in disguise)?
Especially a lie presented as a gift?
It cannot be unwrapped and then rewrapped,
with the hope of re-gifting it to someone else.
At least not intentionally.
I have re-gifted your lies.
Not realising that’s what they were,
I re-gifted your lies wrapped in betrayal,
and then tied, ever so cleverly,
in a ribbon of your deception.

You told me, once, you loved me. Once.
And so desperate to believe in fairy tales,
I believed you.
But the deception of love was not your greatest lie.
Having told that lie many times before.
You easily applied it as you do mascara.
With one grand stroke, Love is applied.
And what can be easily applied,
can just as easily be washed away.
But your greatest lie?
Never leaving.  Always remaining.
Thinking that door was firmly closed,
I awake each morning to find you are here.  Still.
You said you would leave.
Why are you here?

You told me too, you loved my voice.  Once.
That it was beautiful.
You beckoned me, use that voice,
that beautiful, beautiful voice.
And as I spoke, you stole it.
Stolen to claim it as your own,
because you know you have none,
well not one that anyone would listen to.
I wake each morning to find you are still here,
And scream!
But it is wrapped in your deception,
and then tied in a ribbon of your betrayal,
so all I get is your still silence.

You said you would leave,
but you are still here.


Fool’s Errand

kurtlookingatcherylsorg-1Eyes closed to dream.
To dream about you.
Not a dream of a yesterday you,
or a you of today,
but the you of tomorrow.
But, no dreams came.

My eyes open and you are there.
There, standing in front of me.
There, standing face-to-face.
I feel the cool air of your breathe on my lips.
You kiss me and my eyes close.
My eyes close, and I still see you.
You say something, I hear you, but am too afraid.
Afraid you won’t be there.
I close my eyes even tighter, trying to hold on.
Hold-on to a dream.

I open my eyes and you are there, still.
Still standing in front of me, still face-to-face. Still
The cool air from your breathing brushing my lips.
Your lips touch mine, and you tell me things.
Each word you speak, vibrating from your lips to mine.
Pulling you closer, closing my eyes,
I now feel you talk. You talk and I feel you.
I am,

But, you have moved me before.
Each time, with your words.
I have listened to you before. Each time,
clinging to every word.
Stripping each down to it’s letter,
each time, trying to find meaning,
any kind of meaning. Each time,
to only find they were

You kiss me again.
My eyes open, so I can see.
Your eyes are open too.
And we kiss. And as we kiss,
with our eyes wide open,
I realise then,
as you realised some time ago,

I am on a Fool’s Errand.

My Conversation With Death

For the past two years, he has steadfastly remained at my side. I hope I did not offend when I told him he had come too late.

“I died many years ago,” I said playing with the handkerchief I held in my hand.

He looked at me, and put a smirk on his face,

“Yes, I know.  I hear your silence.  I cannot kill, what is already dead.”

“So why do you stay?”

“To keep you company.”

Our silence, once again, returned.

The Judas

scabal test29447Her decision had been made.

She snuck in, past the guards, during the very early hours of the morning. Having found his cell, she stopped and stared at him. In the darkness, she could see his swollen face, beaten so badly, she thought him nearly unrecognisable. This, she had not expected. She made the journey because she convinced herself that she needed to see him one last time. To tell him she was sorry, that everything was going to be ok, and he would back in his home soon, surrounded by his family. But now here, those words would not come. She was too afraid, and even more ashamed to call-out to him. She stood motionless for 15 minutes (maybe more). Still no words came. As she left, she heard him mutter – but she did not stop. She kept her eyes forward, carefully slipping past the guards once more, never looking back.

The Jazz Singer

If I won’t be remembered for my songs,
I want to be remembered for your words.

Never stop talking my love.
Never stop.