Author Archives: Leigh B. Evans

I once believed death was life’s sole guarantee,

From birth, we embark on a slow demise,

Some sprint to the finish, others crawl,

Yet rest assured, death’s embrace awaits us all,

Except, perhaps, the politicians, in their rotten guise.

I once believed death was life’s sole guarantee,

Till grief crossed my path, altering my view,

As humans, with empathy’s beating heart,

We mourn our losses, small or vast,

From childhood’s lizard to a loyal canine friend,

And deepest sorrow when kin’s life meets its end.

I once believed death was life’s sole guarantee,

You may button up, lock emotions away,

But within, the longing to grieve will stay,

Your body, your mind, yearn for release,

So let sorrow surge, let healing increase,

Harness grief’s power, let it be your art,

Through music, through creation, rip your soul apart,

Unleash the torrent, let it purge and cleanse,

As your guts spill forth, healing shall commence.

I once believed death was life’s sole guarantee,

For grief, my friend, is but an emotional surge,

A thick response to loss, one must embrace and purge,

No turning inward or outward, don’t let it rage,

Instead, spill it forth, hang it from cathedrals, engage.

I once believed death was life’s sole guarantee,

Disembowel the sorrow, collect the crimson tide,

Slap it on canvas, let art be your guide,

Peel the flesh of anguish, sculpt it into beauty,

For in grief’s embrace, lies life’s challenging duty.

I once believed death was life’s sole guarantee,

Harness its power, let it flow and cascade,

Create from the depths, an emotional escapade,

Grief, the muse that dwells within your soul,

Transforms adversity, making you whole.

I once believed death was life’s sole guarantee,

So, my friend, unleash the artist within,

Let grief be your guide, let the healing begin,

In the realm of creation, find solace and release,

A beautiful journey, where pain finds its peace.

Create a testament to the human spirit, set yourself free

I wade into these feelings, cautious steps I take,

Purposefully embracing, as they consume and smolder.

Anger gives way to sorrow, then stoicism, acceptance,

Curiously, the pattern shifts, tears flow in waves, relentless.

Yet pain, subdued, its presence fades away.

No cries to gods, if they exist, uncertain, quiet

No help to seek, from celestial thrones I’ve outgrown.

But solace lingers, in the thought I hold dear,

That as we depart, we reunite with stars, finally one with the universe.

By: Leigh B. Evans

Go ahead, break me,

Crush my bones into pulverized particles,

Microcosms of pleasure for your inadequacies,

A symphony of shattered self-worth.

Destroy my inner sense, deplete and devour,

Your insults and manipulation, molten lava,

Your narcissistic ignorance, a boot to my face,

Questioning every syllable, every step.

Lift yourself, lofty and luminous,

In your self-created world, a long-ignored,

Unflushed toilet bowl, brimming with bile,

A feast you relish, revolting consumption.

Flex your fallacious, feeble faculties,

Lobs of “better than thou,” a false facade,

Facts feigned as if you’re Einstein amongst ants,

Yet devoid of useful cognitive capacity.

Indulge in the spoils of your time-wasting toil,

Tempting me with warmth, rekindling faith,

Only to unleash the acidic assault of your mouth,

A tempest that obliterates all in an instant.

But I shall rebuild, I shall endure,

Scars shall fade like fleeting shadows.

Yet you, an oozing mass of protoplasmic waste,

Spewing the vilest, constructing nests of lies,

Vigorous machismo and hollow bravado,

Immutable, unyielding to change.

You bear no worth to the human race,

A mucousy infection, spat upon the universe’s pavement,

You are excrement, a futile existence,

Destined to wither, alone with your deceit.

So break me, if you must, for I shall mend,

But you lack the fragments, scattered and lost.

Hence, I bid farewell,

Embrace the void that defines you.

By: Leigh B. Evans

You awaken to the dagger of a noise that feels to implode, beckoning you to join its chaotic embrace in a world cold.

 Now begins the aimless wandering, resisting the desperate pleas of your weary body to embrace tranquility, you fumble with your  synthetic stimulants.

Caffeine and nicotine violently infiltrate your consciousness, coercing the outcry of your restless body to retreat within the recesses of your very hidden bit aware essence.

With a moment or two to spare, you seat yourself in the dim, the serenity of its stillness. Why must tranquility reign supreme just before you go forth to shave precious years off existence?

Motionless, you linger, savoring sips of coffee and inhaling from a cigarette, fixated on a deep corner where walls meet. A desire—a longing to dissolve into the fibers, to meld, prolonging passages of time. To join into the painted surface, surrendering your soul to cheap gypsum.

A second alarm jolts you back to the grim reality of no escape, you forcefully give away twelve hours to obtain a four hours of peace, this illusion of tranquility. You find yourself stagnant, motionless, devoid of progress or ascension. Trapped within existence, you consume bare essentials, sustaining yourself and clinging to survival.

They scream for more of you, urging your toil relentlessly, keep that fixed smile plastered on your face. Suppress your grievances, head down, within the boundaries, and in return, they promise you a sliver of the pie. Comply, and you too can gaze upon the empty human shapes from the high glass windows, peering at the world through a veil of excrement caused by your disconnect.

But a burning keeps that existence away. You persist in this ceaseless pursuit solely to secure shelter and sustenance. Your yearning extends far beyond their limited offerings. You ache for comfort and tranquility, those elusive states of being they steadfastly deny you.

You want nothing but their end. You have become cold and given quickly to anger. Even now, even when you think you’ve rallied against their exploits and extortions, you are exactly where they want you.

You are the empty.

By Leigh B. Evans

Christ, a cloaked enigma, known by the masses they claim to understand.

These followers clutch their cold steel when disagreement arises, yet when their errors bubble, they surrender to “it’s in His hands.”

Truth reveals their weakness,

Feeble as the frail words that fill their sacred tome.

Brittle pages, bereft of substance, only fit as kindling for me to spark and ignite cheap grass in high-school.

“Embrace religion,” they implore, “discover Jesus,” as if their savior were a metaphysical master of hide and seek, forever victorious.

“You must believe in something.” How those words slide slickly off their tongues, as oily as the phrase, “God needed another Angel.”

That’s the crux, these devotees of feeble deities forged by human minds, their essence lies in words, mere rhetoric sans action. Verbal games shape their fury, leading us to the darkest realm of their existence…An end.

The deathly stink resonates.

The dying creature they’ve transformed into flails and hisses, bleeding out in a secluded alley of their own creation. Not built with bricks and mortar, but crafted from hatred, malice, falsehoods, and sheer imbecility.

As time abandons them to their own devices, we will find solace as we collectively utter a resounding…

“God bless.”

By: Leigh B. Evans

Droog sees the shadows of the night

Whispers of the ancient rites

Mysteries that few can viddy

The secrets of eternity

I can see the god head, master of the art

Golden Dawn, a flame that never parts

Occult symbols, hidden from the light

In the darkness, they shine bright

Through astral planes and cosmic spheres

Stars transcend the realm of fears

Tarot cards and mystic signs

The keys to unlock the divine

I can see the god head, master of the art

Golden Dawn, a flame that never parts

Occult symbols, hidden from the light

In the darkness, they shine bright

Stars journey through the mystic veil of time

To reach the sublime

The path of the adept’s quest

To unlock the secrets of the blessed

In god head’s company, living art

Golden Dawn, a flame that never parts

Occult symbols, hidden from the light

In the darkness, they shine bright

In the silence of the night

The mysteries of death’s light

The secrets of ancient lore

Forevermore and evermore

I’m alive

I can see

I’ve arrived

Look at me

By: Leigh B. Evans

What I saw was who I am

What I wanted was who I would be

I asked myself am I dead

But I responded inside my head

What is life but some dream

In a world inbetween

What’s beyond we cannot say

We wouldn’t know anyway

If I destroy to be, what’s left

Am I a victim of my own theft

In a realm where shadows dance and gleam,

I found myself somewhere between,

Caught within the crossroads of my soul,

Yearning for a transformation, to be made whole.

What I saw reflected who I am,

Yet deep within, a yearning began,

To mold myself into something new,

To paint a masterpiece, both vibrant and true.

Within the confines of my mind’s abode,

A voice emerged, a truth it bestowed,

Life, a fleeting dream, ethereal and grand,

In a world betwixt, where wonders expand.

But what lies beyond, we cannot say,

Explorers lost in an endless fray,

If I dare to shatter, to break and rend,

What fragments remain, can they still mend?

Am I the thief of my own destiny,

Or merely a victim of life’s larceny?

In the act of destruction, can I find,

A rebirth, a redemption, a self redefined?