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Description
Whisper

I hold you in the dark places of my mind, press you down behind the fears I pretend to lack and the feelings I fail to have.

It is not an easy battle, and kicking and screaming you emerge to haunt me from time to time, your phantom a plague upon the house of my thoughts.

Memories scatter across the dusty floor, doing pushups to reach a perfection I thought I had with you.

And only older memories still, can keep my heart beating, remembering that the windswept blue sky valleys and white-capped seas of my home are a solace.

You have found your way to this home, and the constant threat of emerging from the crowd keeps me running scared, as if you could flay me apart with a scowl.

The chills I get when sirens blare make me tremble in wanting to flee. To huddle like an animal under a craggy rock.

But I guess this is your home too now. And my small refuges are the quiet times when I've escaped the whispers of your voice flitting through my head like iridescent dragonflies.

Yet you linger, and where I've defeated all the ghosts of past lovers you defiantly stand your spectral ground and refuse to yield my peace of self to quiet. I could never remember your phone number but I can never forget your voice no matter how much I try.

And I'm bothered that you were never like the rest, gears clicking symphonies of failed rationalizations in the hot abyss.

So I push you down once more, hushing the whispers of who you were and try to clear the loop I find every fiber of my self twirling in, the stick in the whirlpool of remembering.

Who are we to defy the stars? And yet I robot boy my way through fate in a damnation of the windowsill rain-day songs we used to sing.

I suffer slings and arrows because fortune is a lie and I am no soldier of such things and soft sheets only drive me closer to madness.

So the whispers come, and I push you down, as if I could erase my memories like a flash drive, hurling the thoughts of you into a dark-room incinerator.

I wonder how long most hauntings last, as I'm ready to exorcise my right to feel, to banish the demons of your image in my head.

Whispers mumble into the background like a softly playing radio, and I finally regain control. This is how the blank slate world ends; by trying to start again.

Description
Whisper

I hold you in the dark places of my mind, press you down behind the fears I pretend to lack and the feelings I fail to have.

It is not an easy battle, and kicking and screaming you emerge to haunt me from time to time, your phantom a plague upon the house of my thoughts.

Memories scatter across the dusty floor, doing pushups to reach a perfection I thought I had with you.

And only older memories still, can keep my heart beating, remembering that the windswept blue sky valleys and white-capped seas of my home are a solace.

You have found your way to this home, and the constant threat of emerging from the crowd keeps me running scared, as if you could flay me apart with a scowl.

The chills I get when sirens blare make me tremble in wanting to flee. To huddle like an animal under a craggy rock.

But I guess this is your home too now. And my small refuges are the quiet times when I've escaped the whispers of your voice flitting through my head like iridescent dragonflies.

Yet you linger, and where I've defeated all the ghosts of past lovers you defiantly stand your spectral ground and refuse to yield my peace of self to quiet. I could never remember your phone number but I can never forget your voice no matter how much I try.

And I'm bothered that you were never like the rest, gears clicking symphonies of failed rationalizations in the hot abyss.

So I push you down once more, hushing the whispers of who you were and try to clear the loop I find every fiber of my self twirling in, the stick in the whirlpool of remembering.

Who are we to defy the stars? And yet I robot boy my way through fate in a damnation of the windowsill rain-day songs we used to sing.

I suffer slings and arrows because fortune is a lie and I am no soldier of such things and soft sheets only drive me closer to madness.

So the whispers come, and I push you down, as if I could erase my memories like a flash drive, hurling the thoughts of you into a dark-room incinerator.

I wonder how long most hauntings last, as I'm ready to exorcise my right to feel, to banish the demons of your image in my head.

Whispers mumble into the background like a softly playing radio, and I finally regain control. This is how the blank slate world ends; by trying to start again.