lastmanofgondor

lastmanofgondor @ 2006-03-18T12:59:00

2006-03-18T18:19:57Z

"We are presented with a situation of power, friends. A situation exemplified by what we live in, what we don't have, what we ant, and what we need. We are being written. Our lives are being written for us, my brothers and my sisters. We are being pushed by the pen. We laugh at the thought of hearts being broken, of lives being lost, or of homes being healed by a word. But we are being written, friends. Every moment that we allow Abijah to wield power, we are allowing him to write our novel, our story. We see the city we live in, we see how we treat each other; we are allowing Abijah to write our story to a tragic close. We are allowing Abijah to close our conversations, to break our relationships, to rule our hearts. We know that with Abijah as author our story will come to a close and we will be nothing. We will fizzle and fade and leave as much a a mark as ash upon a strong wind.
We are not ash.
But with Abijah in power, with Abijah wielding the author's sword, we are but storied to be executed and discarded; a million stoires that will never know their conclusion, or their climax or even their first turns in plot. Brothers and sisters, I would ask that you adi me in this tall task of wrenching the pen from Abijah's grip. Let us become the authors of our story, the authors that make the right choices, the authors that allow the righteous to walk the path to glory. I would ask that you help me in being the man that is beaten, broken, spit upon, befouled and hated. I would ask you to help me be the man who walks through the desert and the mountains. Help me be the man who emerges after a year in inferno untouched by the flames of despair and doubt. Help me be the man whose story is of triumph and glory. Friends, to help me you must join me as that man, as that woman, as that father and mother, son and daughter, as those people who are hated and reviled. Let us walk through the deserts of sorrow and the mountains of anguish. And let us emerge as the righteous who walked the long road to glory. But friends, to be those people, the righteous and the driven, we must walk that path, and we must overcome the obstacles which are set forth. And we must take the pen from Abijah's hand. We must stop him from ending our story. We must seize power and finish our chapter. We have the road to righteousness before us, we merely need write it."

"We are warriors in the twilight of man."

"Rage against the dying of a light."
We are certainly trying.We are certainly fighting those demons who would devour us whole. Those of us whose weakness is hopelessness, despair; we face this fading light with worry and trepidation, because we fear weakness of heart and of character. We see the corrosion and infirmity of those who stand beside us or who would lead us. And we flicker.

In the failing days of man, what would we do?

Those of us whose hearts are tied to the hearts of others, we see the pestilent and the parasitic, and they attack us. We are swallowed by the men who have walked in darkness. And we are left as husks, hollowed and consumed. And we ponder if we have souls. Look at the soulless, and we will see that we do.

I try to stand on the frontline of shadow and I try to rage against the onslaught of the soulless. But my heart wavers because I know the hearts of some have already been turned.

lastmanofgondor @ 2006-02-03T02:06:00

2006-02-03T07:09:28Z

“Some of us have gifts, Deacon. Some of choose to share them with others, and some choose to keep them secret. Those who share them? They are crushed under the weight of the others as they scrap and claw to climb shoulder upon shoulder. And those of us who keep our gifts to ourselves? Instead our feet remain pressed upon the necks of our lessers.”
Abijah stands from his leather desk chair. He is lean, and his eyes are hungry. He casually cracks the knuckles of his left hand, light glints off the ring on his pinky finger.
“And this man, this pretender, he comes to Loveless as Messiah? He comes as a liberator? As a saviour?” Abijah laughs and motions with his hand out the bay window. Loveless’ sky is smoggy today. “He comes to save Loveless? This city is beyond salvation. It should be called Hopeless.” Abijah’s voice sharpens and his eyes narrow. They look like daggers. “He comes to be a liberator, to be a saviour. Does he come to be a king as well?” Abijah is a snake ready to strike. “He has no right to kingship. This... this vagrant, this pauper, he claims kingship? What lineage does he have? He is from nowhere, and he is born of nothing.” The words drip from his mouth. “I spoke of gifts, Deacon. With a gift, true and pure talent, one can either rise, or be crushed under those who are risen. We who utilize our gifts for our greater good, are rewarded with power. And power, Deacon, becomes entitlement.”
Abijah idly scratches the top of his head with the middle finger of his right hand. “This pretender, what right does he have to power? He is descended from kings?” Abijah snorts. “He tries to take the role of messiah. He tries to climb from the gutters to the shoulders of his betters.” Abijah shakes his head, eyes gleaming. “My foot will press upon the neck of this pretender, Deacon. My foot will grind his bones into dust. I will erase him from history. And when I have erased him, I will take his title. I have the power of kings, I merely need the title; and this pretender, this man who claims kingship, from him I will wrench it. If he thinks he has the blood of kings in his veins, so shall the blood of kings be vented from him.” Abijah turns quickly, facing the window. His hands fold behind his back. “Find this pretender, Deacon. If this man claims true kingship, I want him to see my eyes before his blood pools around his feet. I want him to know who is taking his name from him.”

lastmanofgondor @ 2006-01-24T13:58:00

2006-01-24T19:00:46Z

So this is a little bit different from what I had expected. I was thinking I’d be travelling internationally, and helping people all over the world. Instead I’m going to a city not too far away, which upon doing some research, is rather fitfully named Loveless. Fitting, eh? I’m filling in for the Prince of Peace, the King of Kings, following in the footsteps of the guy who gave the Sermon on the Mount, and of all the places in the world, I’m going to a city called Loveless. Weird.
So like I was saying, I did some research on this city to kind of find out what to expect, and it’s not really a pretty scene. Murderers, rapists, junkies, mafiosos, the whole nine yards. Living up its name, Loveless is a harsh and unforgiving city. The good people there are slowly being ground underneath the boot heels of the sinning. I’m really struggling with the notion of helping everybody as well, even those that seemingly don’t deserve any help at all. A child rapist? A child-rapist? How do I save someone like that?
I’ve been ‘assigned’ someone to visit as soon as I arrive in Loveless. His name is Judah Matheson. Judah is a family man. He has two children, and a wife named Leona. Judah loves his wife, and he loves his children. He spends a great deal of time with his family. He also spends a great deal of time contemplating suicide. Part of him cannot do it because of his children, but another part of him says that his children will be better off without him. Part of Judah says that his wife will be able to take care of their children, and that she will love another more deeply than he loves her. This is not to say that Judah doesn’t think his wife loves him, he knows she does, but his will is dying. Judah’s soul is being crushed to death by his surroundings. He feels like he is a noose around his family’s neck, like he is a weight attached to their feet. Judah feels like he is drowning his family by living. If he leaves them, it will be like pruning a bush; a temporary loss for the betterment of the whole. To Judah, he is the branch that must be trimmed, that must be cut and discarded.
Judah sees his children, and he smiles. He sees his wife and he smiles. But everything else... everything else is grey, colourless. He looks in the mirror and sees on himself the same film that he sees covering everything else in Loveless. The city is slowly eating away at his soul. His family though, they’re untouched in his eyes by the sickness and depression of the city. He sees a spark of life in the eyes of his children that he himself had lost years ago. Judah feels like cancer. If he stays, his malaise and his depression will spread and consume his family. Judah thinks his only way out is by leaving Loveless, leaving his family, leaving his life. Death is his only exit, his only saviour.
I can understand where he’s coming from, but I don’t know if I’m going to be able to save Judah. He goes to work every day to a job he hates. He doesn’t make enough money. His car breaks down. His apartment is too small. His neighbourhood is run down. He lives in a den of thieves and murderers. His spark is fading; Judah is fading. He is last in line, and he can’t see any way out. He wants his last action to spur his children, to spark them to not make the same mistakes he made. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him. I don’t know how to save Judah. I don’t think that telling him to think about his children will work, because in Judah’s eyes, he is thinking about them.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need to think.

“The world abandoned me.” I looked at Judah with sort of a blank stare, and I think that caught him off guard a little. Judah was a slight man. He only stood maybe five-foot-six-inches, and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and thirty pounds. His face was drawn, and he looks tired. Maybe tired isn’t the best word. Defeated? Broken? Worn out? Judah looked all of those things.
“The world abandoned you?”
Judah shrugged, and sank into his chair, putting his face into one hand. “I’m failing my family.” He motioned around the cramped apartment. “They think I’m at work right now. I got laid off. I leave in the morning for an hour, and once Leona and the kids are gone, I come back.” His sigh sounded like it should have come from a far larger man. His shoulders are slumped. “My kids make me smile, but it’s, I don’t know... it’s detached. They make me happy, but just on a really superficial level. I love them more than anything, but I can’t keep going on. I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep living a life full of broken promises and broken dreams.” He sighs again. “When I was growing up in Loveless I wanted to be a reporter. I remember when this city used to be nice. I remember when dreams came true. But nobody cares about anybody anymore, or that’s what it seems like. Nobody holds the door, nobody says please or thank you. Nobody has any manners. There’s no ethics, there’s no morals. People are killing each other in the streets. Junkies are shooting up in public. This whole city has gone to hell.” He sighs a third time. “I wanted to be a reporter. I wanted to be out there reporting what was going on, and maybe making an impact on the world, but that was a fucking pipe dream. Besides my family, I’ve had nothing but a lifetime of sorrow.”
I’ve never heard someone speak with such absolute resignation in his voice. “Judah.” He removes his hand from his face and looks at me. “Judah, if you kill yourself, who is going to support Leona and your children?” His eyes are red, they are tearing up.
“Jesus, I don’t know.” He got me off-guard. Does he think I’m Jesus? Or is he just saying Jesus? “I have no idea. I’m a fucking loser. I’m a fucking never-was and never-will-be. I have so many woulda, coulda, shouldas in my life, man. Look around at this!” He motions again to his surroundings. His eyes flash and narrow at me. There is still a flame in his heart, though it burns out of rage and hatred. “Where have you been all these years? Why are you here now instead of when I really needed you?” I didn’t have an answer for him. I didn’t know how to tell him that maybe nobody had been listening to him all these years. I didn’t know how to tell him that every time he asked for help, that he might as well have been talking to a wall. How do I help someone who thinks he is beyond help? Can I?
“I don’t really know how to answer that, Judah. I can’t do anything about the past, it’s what makes us who we are.” My answer did nothing but further stoke the fire in Judah’s heart.
“The past is what makes us who we are?” He snorted derisively. “That’s easy for you to say. Have you ever lived in Loveless? Did you watch as the cancers spread from the gutters to the roofs?” Judah’s eyes flared. He snorted again and shakes his head. “Of course you didn’t. You’re the Messiah? You’re supposed to save us and liberate us? This city is killing me more and more everyday. And not just me, it’s killing everybody who stays here. I just want to leave while I’m standing, not when I’m broken on my knees.”
Judah’s anger subsided quickly, but it seemed to be replaced by a deep feeling of melancholy. His blue eyes could not hide the depth of the despair that he felt. He looked like a shell of a man. “You know that suicide is a sin, right?” Definitely not the best question to ask.
“I haven’t missed a Mass in ten years. Of course I know that suicide is a sin.” Judah’s face once again rested in his palms. “But maybe it’ll be like a sacrifice or something. Maybe you’ll listen then and help my family.”
I don’t know what to say. What can I say? I mean, it’s not like I’m able to just wave a wand and fix everything up for Judah and his family. The idea that he thinks of himself as a sacrifice is a little disconcerting. He said he hadn’t missed Mass in ten years? I haven’t been here long, but Loveless looked like it could have just as easily been called Faithless. From what I know of the city thus far attending Mass on a regular basis in this city didn’t mean squat. “Are you going to say something? Or are you going to keep looking at me like a dead fish?”
Judah’s voice had again taken on that hard edge. His eyes burn with a strange fire, furious yet incredibly vulnerable; defiant, but wholly defeated.. “Why did you wait so long to come help?” His voice breaks. “I’ve been asking for years.” His face is buried in his hands, his small frame is wracked with sobs. I don’t think he will be saying much for a little while at least.
I lean back and look at Judah. I am deeply disturbed by his last comment. I don’t think it’s help that he’s been asking for the last years, not for his family and not to save his life. I think he’s been asking for help to die.
“Judah, when did things change for you? What made you want to kill yourself? And I mean in specific, not just everything that’s piled up.”
The small man looked up at me, bloodshot eyes meeting mine. We locked eyes for a moment, and then he chilled me to my bones: “Archbishop Abijah.”
“The Archbishop made you want to kill yourself?”
“That’s when things changed, when Abijah came to power. Before him, the city wasn’t perfect, but we weren’t living in squalor.” Judah sighs again.

lastmanofgondor @ 2005-06-25T14:27:00

2005-06-25T19:02:15Z

A return, a healing.
We must seek re-birth from the slow death we have fallen victim to.
A return to zero, a return to perfection.
Freedom from the desire to defy gravity, freed from from its pull.
Freed from hearts sullised by fear, a healing of hearts damaged by flight.
To be reborn.
We should strive for the ultimate balance; perfection of heart, oneness of soul.
Freedom to fly because gravity no longer binds us.
To fly without desire, to land as one wills.
But we remain too fettered to our world.
We are too grounded to truly fly.

In our hearts we are flawed and cracked and broken.
We are so far from zero that it is a boon to have regained sight of that pure digit.
The way to return is long and dangerous. It will question everything we hold, but we must return.
We must walk the path.
We must shed our skin on this journey and be careful to let the sun and wind continue to wither us away.
When we have returned home, we will be as we were, we will have severed ourselves and marched the long path.
We will be beyond.

But what cost does our rebirth bear?
To fly may be to sell ourselves,
To soar as the wind blows may be a price we wish not to pay.
This flight, this timeless and endless journey could end us.
Our own budding wings of neutrality sever us from that which fetters us to the earth.
To soar in perpetuity might not be worth ending our march in turmoil.
But I long for balance, I long for the return, I await the day that gravity has dissolved and we are free to soar.
I will tearfully bid goodbye to our bonds of earth. I will tearfully embrace perfection.

Interesting, eh?

lastmanofgondor @ 2005-05-30T16:26:00

2005-05-30T21:09:49Z

You've changed your face a thousnad times. That's fine, that's fucking fine, but not when you're insisting that you're the same person you've always been. You've killed yourself a thousand times and come back a different person each time. This isn't fucking groundhog day, and you're not Bill Murray. Change as you will, but don't say you stayed the same.

How tough are you when the bullet's between your eyes? That's what I thought. You either don't care, or you're too stupid to know better. I'm not sure which one is worse.

I wasn't there in '88. I wasn't there in '95. I'm here now and that's what should matter. It's not what I've done that you should judge me by, but what I'm going to do. If I don't do anything but talk and puff my chest, then you can spit at me. But if I pour my heart out, I'd hope that two minutes count more than 20 years.

This is my song about the future. This where I ramble about how I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. This is where I say that I'm taking things one day at a time, where I smile and put on the bravest face I have. But here's the truth: I'm so fucking scared that these words can't even begin to say what I feel. That's the truth, there's no way around it. I'll make it through, but I hate to think that as much as we say we'll see each other through, this might be something that I'll just have to get through on my own. That's what scares me the most. Not that you won't be there, but that I might not be there when you come along to help me out. I have have already started moving. Moving on scares me, tomorrow fucking scares me.

I always set out to be positive, and sometimes I make it halfway there and end up making a mistake. I try to be smiles and good times, but I can't do it all day (everyday). Sometimes life just fucking gets to me, and bullshit starts turning me around. I'm hardly the only in this sport, only liars are happy all the time. I try everyday though, I try like I've never failed, and sometimes I fail like I've never even tried. Life's funny like that sometimes. Grin and bear it, try again tomorrow.

I've been thinking a lot lately about where I stand and which side of that line I'll be on when the fight comes to my doorstep. When it all comes down, will I cash out or ante up? It's always easier to leave with something then to die with nothing, but I think when the fight meets me eye to eye, I'll throw in everything I have. Fight with my mind, and kill with my heart. I'd rather leave on my back then on my feet.

Emotions can eat us alive. Our greatest gift is our greatest vice, and to feel too much can cost us our lives (and sometimes it does). When those tears on our cheeks become floods we can get lost and never come back. When our fits of laughter turn to death rattles there's not much time left on the clock. There's nothing more of grief than to be consumed by ourself; by our hearts. And nothing is more tragic than knowing sometimes that's just the way things are.

When I look back at things, I realize how stupid they actually were; but when I feel that smile touch my face and I see it on yours then I know everything was worth it. I know that every broken window, broken bone, and run from the cops was more important than every bill I've ever paid, and every grocery I've ever bought, and every job I've ever had. When we ran by the clocks in our heart over the watches on my wrists, we were free. When we forgot who we were and checkeed everything at the door, we were kings. Maybe those things weren't so stupid after all, maybe we were right the whole time.

There's not a whole lot that keeps my head on straight; only a few things really pick me up and say that this is all worth it. "hugs and highfives." You said it best, man, you said it better than I ever could. Sometimes when someone else has already said something better, you just have to steal it and say it on your own. So instead of three words that keep me going, it's those four that you gave to all of us. "Hugs and high fives." It's those four words that wake me up in the morning and keep me from wanting to go to bed at night.

I knew this was right the first time that I saw you up there. I knew that I had (for the first time) seen something really special. Smiles, a fucking sea of them; me with the biggest and dumbset one in the place. I guess it's hard sometimes to write about being happy without sounding stupid, but I couldn't care less about that anymore. You'd think more people would smile, but I guess that's not tough or cool, I guess it's a sign of weakness or something. If that's the case, then I'm happy be to be the stupidest and weakest person in the place, but at least I'll be the one with the biggest and brightest smile. At least I'll be the one whose smile reaches my heart.

"I think about you a lot, like a lot." That really trips me out. It makes me chew at my arm to get away. I know that I shouldn't feel that way, I know that. You care about me and I care about you too, but hearing it is so so different than knowing it. HHearing it makes mee feel like there's nowhere to run. It makes me feel like I'm the last man standing and that helicopter's never coming. I feel like a mixed up kid, I guess, and I know that it's me and not you. I hope that I can stop looking for a way out, and I hope that instead of chewing my arm off, I'll realize that this isn't a set up or a trap. I've got to stop trying. I've got to face up and make a choice. Make a choice whether or not this is worth losing an arm for.

A choice is a choice is a choice is a choice is a choice. It always means something and it always has a weight. Your choice is your change. Don't ever say that choice doesn't equal change.

I know I rased my voice and probably said a few things I shouldn't have. I made sure I apologized for how I said those words, but not for what I siad. I know there were better and more diplomatic ways I could have spoken, but you lit a fire under my ass and I had to run until it was out, and standing around with my mouth shut wasn;t going to help. And afterwards when my hand was shaking and my heart was beating fater and faster, I knew that I had said something good. I knew that I had a thought that was worthwhile. Sometimes to really say something you feel, you have to yell. I'm sorry I got angry, but that fire wasn't going anywhere until I burned it out.

You opened your mouth again. And again I thought why the fuck are you even saying anything. And it struck me that I'm the one who was fucking up; it was me that didn't have anything good going through my head right then. I'm sitll working on being better and being an okay person, btI sometimes forget how much shit comes out of my own mouth sometimes. I forget how stupid I must sound ninety percent of the time. If I say a hundred things maybe none of them will be good, but maybe one will be. As smart as I think I might be, I find out everyday that I"m not even wher I should be; instead of tearing you down, I should be trying to listen and trying to learn.

Fomr soneone who flaps their gums so much about "Who do you think you are?" "You can't talk to me like that." You sure don't have a problem running your mouth. Stop and think fo ra minute, think about what you are syaing. There's a world of difference between standing up for yourself and taking things the wrong way. and bitching to the wrong person. Nobody claps for that, nobody loves a fucking drama queen. WHo the fuck do you think you are?

He's been forcing the barrel into your mouth for years (or so it seems). I know how hard it is to take that gun out of your mouth when you've spent so long holding it there. SO much has been built up in your head that it's like there's a weight hanging on the trigger and it feels like you're not even in control anymore. It's so fucking hard to cut that weight, so hard to keep that trigger from snapping and losing it all.

Getting to the point of not caring was the best moment of my life. Reaching that moment where I lived fo rmyself and no one else was the best feeling int he world. It's not selfishness, it's freedom. Free from criticism, free from insults. I know who I am. Getting to the point of not caring was breaking down a door that kept me from living, living for myself. Not for you. Not for them. For me. Living for myself.

It's always tough to make a flat decision, yes or no. It's tough to remove someone, anyone, completely from your life. I've never been very good at it, I don't know if it's obligation or regret, but I know it feels shitty. Whether it's a friend or something more, it's never easy and it never should be. The easier cutting someone out becomes, the easier it gets to stop caring. I wish it were easier sometimes, I wish it were easier to just ditch things. I wish I didn't wish that. Holding that hardship close keeps things real, keeps things from becoming cut and dry, yes or no.

I might come off as sound like I think I'm better, but I just can't help that I couldn't be much worse than you if I tired. Don't you realize what you're doing? I think you must. I know you do, you've said as much. I don't see any effort to change., I don't see anything in you that really wants to change. You're full of bullshit and bluster and that'll take you far, but only as far as the next excuse you need to fuck off. Leave no one behind. You wouldn't understand in a million years. The only way you'll get it is when you're in the trenches by yourself and no one's around to clean up after you. When you're down for the count you'll wish that you had at least made an effort to change.

Well, that was fun.

lastmanofgondor @ 2005-01-24T22:44:00

2005-01-25T04:03:52Z

"Isiah"

He told you not to fear. He told you not to be afraid of your enemies, of those that would have your head.
that's fine, but it was my heart that told me the same thing. It was my heart that told me to fear no one.
It sure as fuck wasn't my heart that told me my foes would be nothing. No little voice has ever told me that my enemies would be struck down for who they are. He's the only way? Yeah right. If he's the only way than I'm James Dean. I don't mind you talking to me, I don't mind listening to you. But we're different people, you and I. My heart doesn't beat the same as yours. I fear no one, but that's because I have no fear in my heart. Sorry, Isiah, but you're talking to the wrong guy.

There's no secrets right now. Change is on the way, and it's not going to be change in a good way. I've never been hopeless or faithless, but sometimes it's real fucking hard to keep your head up, to have a spine and face the day head on. We've just come out of a four year hell and for a second our hands were above water. For a second we almost had a fresh chance, a clear breath of air. But instead we've got the chance to drown. We have the chance to become hopeless men and faithless women. We've got the chance to die, to drown like fucking rats. Let's not. Let's survive. Four more years? Fuck four more years. We're not fucking calendars.

Draw a line in the sand? There's a line of bodies drawn already for us. There's a line of bodies telling us ho wrong things are. Fuel your SUV with a widow's tears and with a child's blood. Draw a line int he sand? We don't need to, we've never needed to. From day one we've known this fucking crusade is fucking wrong. Widow's tears and the blood of children. It's a line that keeps drawing itself. It's that fucking line that keeps us where we are.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-11-26T13:49:00

2004-11-26T19:38:01Z

Minutes to hours, and hours to days
Our lives have become dominated by a clock.

Work at 3:00
Home at 11:00
Sleep at 1:00
Wake at 10:00

As the clock turns, so do our lives repeat.
As time's wheel spins, we become further mired in this myth of time.
We need not fret over machines, they can be destroyed.
We need not fret over computers, they can be re-programmed.
What we need worry about is Time, Time is our greatest foe.

Time is the enemy.
Smash the hour, destroy the week.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-10-05T20:51:00

2004-10-06T03:51:48Z

I gave you a shout to see what you were up to, but you were too busy feeling sorry for yourself.
No problem really, because we all have bad days.
but you’ve made it seem like you’ve had a bad life,
writing epics in black ink on black paper about whatever your latest failure might be.

I wondered if you spent too much time by yourself, but you’ve got melodrama to keep you company.
If It wasn’t one thing it was another, and if it wasn’t another, it was something else,
and you always added it in as another chapter in your novel of disappointment.
Too bad there’s nothing novel about your never-ending pit of despair.

Recently though, you’ve made strides. I thought you had anyway.
At first there was a newfound sense of humour. Your jokes might not all have been funny, but hey, whose are?
Then you kind of developed some balls. It was really nice seeing you not let people walk all over you.
But when you’ve been friends as long as we have been, you can tell when something’s legit or not.

The middle ages kind of reminded me of this circumstance:
Spices covering up rancid meat.
You hadn’t addressed the situation at all.
It seems as though Cliche (who else would it be?) Had invaded your life.
Cover up the problem by the problem by being posi.
Yeah, real clever. Another novel and innovative chapter in your intensely original and creative story.

And in the final few chapters you had planned a grand and luxurious exit.
This ending would be different though.
You were determined not to be mired in mediocrity or cliche.
Your magnum opus was almost finished,
Your grave fucking work of lifelong tragedy was at a head:
One part pills, one part booze.
One winning combination, and one you’d be remembered for.

Here’s the epilogue for that particular edition:
In a life that was one mistake after another, and missed opportunity after missed opportunity,
You couldn’t even do this right.
Fuck you.
Fuck you for trying.

But now it looks like you’ve started to turn things around, and this time you really have come up with a novel idea: living and learning.
I can’t wait to read this story through.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-09-25T20:40:00

2004-09-26T00:44:29Z

From waking moments to fluttering eyes,
what you want from me (for me) is just too much.
As oppressive as staring down the barrel of a shotgun, oppressive as the slaveowner's whip.
My love, my heart,
it feels like you'veb een killing me for years.
It feels like you've butchered me and left me for the vultures.
Brokenhearted? You could only wish that's what I was talking about.
No, my dear, I'm not brokenhearted. I'm no sobbing fool who's been crushed by unrequited love.
My love, my heart,
you and I are two sides of the same coin.
You and I are two halves of the phoenix. You are burned out, broken, and falling from the sky. I am blazing brightly, reborn and soaring to the heavens.
Too bad that we will never see each other.
Too bad that we will never be together, but that might be for the best.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-09-21T02:36:00

2004-09-21T06:47:32Z

"We don't have much of a chance."
"I know. This really does look like the end."
And boy, did it ever?
When things are this fucking bad we really have to take a step back and ask one another:
"Did we do everything we could?"
"Did I give everything I have?"

Storms

2004-09-21T06:34:38Z

We act so surprised, like this snuck up on us.
So shocked and so stunned that things could actually be this bad.
I wish I could say that I had an idea, an inkling about this, but I'm through with lying.
I had no clue we were this far along.
"Let's turn around."
Turn around? It's too late to turn around.
Too fucking little and too fucking late.
We've all shown up here a day late and a dollar short,
and for the longest time we've steaded ourselves upon myth and steeled our minds with cliches.
No, there's no turning back. We can't kiss and make up.
Look ahead, you can see it coming, there's not much gas left in the tank. We've come out for for wear and on the wrong end of this deal.
Heaven for Hell.
Even the worst gambler is laughing.
Even Judas wouldn't have made that trade.
Heaven for Hell.

Landmark

2004-09-21T06:30:49Z

I saw you.
I was ankle deep in water, bailing for my life.
You never really understand how heavy water is until you're fighting it.
But you were there. You never faltered, you never wavered. You were my rock, my north star.
"The ebb and flow of tides is just as constant."
It feels like I'm swimming against the current.
"Don't worry, not too much longer."
Oh my dear, my love. If only I could make some headway. If only I could keep this water from rising.
You're there, so that in itself is a consolation of sorts, but I can't tell if that is a coy smile on your face or if it is a smirk on the verge of laughter.
"You can't fight Newton and really expect to win, can you?"
That's the sort of question that makes me wish you were here instead of there.
That's the sort of question that makes me wish we were both here bailing out water.
You had to go and bring in physics to show me just how futile my situation really is.
Despite all your flaws, you were right about one thing; at this rate it won't be too much longer.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-09-15T12:48:00

2004-09-15T16:58:04Z

"I love you," she says.
"My heart is yours," she says.
Gritting teeth and clenching fists.
"This ring signifies our bond," she said.
"This oath binds us till the end," she said.
Deadset eyes and whispered words.
"I'm sorry," she'll say.
"I didn't mean this to happen," she'll say.
Pallid features, ice cold skin.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-09-15T12:45:00

2004-09-15T16:55:24Z

Your jaws snap like the hungry wolf's.
Your eyes gleam like the rabid dog's.
Bark, dog, bark.
Make us tremble in fear,
gnash your jaws
bare your fangs.
You are a dime a dozen.
Wild animals like you are forgotten,
your bite easily cured.
A bullet between your fucking eyes.
My bite is no bark. My bite is death.
Bark, dog.
Fucking bark.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-07-06T01:48:00

2004-07-06T05:53:09Z

My tongue has grown sharp as of late.
My words have cut like scythes.
The keener my tongue becomes, the duller my heart grows.
What I say is right.
What I say is true.
What I say is just.
You deserve this. The one who took my heart.
You deserve this. The harlot who stole my soul.
You deserve this. The whore who spurs me on.
My words are swords and they cry out for blood.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-07-03T21:21:00

2004-07-04T01:27:51Z

I've seen it in your eyes
You're wlaking to the narrow path, the Golden Path.
Yours is the path of the humble, the path of the saintly.
You follow in the footsteps of the divine.
Yours is the road of self-sacrifice
The road of the Righteous, of hte sacrosanct.

You walk the path of irony.
You sing your own praises and declare yourself a martyr for your choices
Your songs cloud your ears, your vanity blinds your eyes.
Many have walked your path before
Many will walk your path after
Many share it with you
Continue on your golden way
March to Pandaemonium.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-07-02T16:02:00

2004-07-02T20:06:42Z

You did this for yourself
It was teh fair thing to do
It was the easy way out
Fuck integrity and fuck respect
This is what's best for you
You think that I'm bitter?
I'm not pining over you
You weren't the be all and end all
You weren't the first to bow out
You sure as fuck won't be the last
I won't miss you. No one will.
You came and you left
if you think you conquered, you're fucking wrong.
You took the coward's path.
I might be stupid, but I'll sleep well at night,

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-07-02T15:58:00

2004-07-02T20:04:47Z

Repent. Come clean.
The end is nigh.
We're seeing dark days and darker nights
We're seeing black hearts and blacker souls.
The naive and innocent are gone. We lost them first
It's only us left; the crude, the godless.
We can smell that stench.
Fire. Ash.
The False Prophet is here, and he sings to us.
Let our hearts beat with what little strength they have left.
Our days are few, the end times have begun.

Better, I guess.

2004-07-02T07:43:05Z

I won the silent war you waged
I emerged victorious from these fires.
I hardbour no ill will because I know my decisions were just. I do not need facts or figures to stuff my shirt. I do not need tales of heroes or songs of glory. Praise need not be given because none is wanted.
I will not cross that bridge again. It may not be burned but the land on the other side is barren. I have no desire to return.
Now leave me be while I bury my fallen heroes.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-07-02T03:31:00

2004-07-02T07:40:05Z

Look at what we've got here
Look at all we've made
Look at what we're part of
Look at all we need to change
The idea we all used to shar
Has fallen on deaf ears
What we used to hold onto (grasped with everything)
Got throuwn out and pissed on somewhere along the way
Who knows where we went wrong
Who knows what brought the change
I know I hate where we're going
I know shit's got to change

Right now it fucking seems we're all in tow
We've all got fucking collars
We're being pulled where we should go
Let's break these fucking chains
Let's tear these fucking cords
Get up off our fucking knees
Let's make our fucking hearts mean something more

Not all of us will make it, some will fall along the way
But I'd rather die with it in my hands than live while it's torn away

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-06-10T17:42:00

2004-06-10T21:46:37Z

In these darkest of times I sought comfort in your arms.
These blackest of days drove me to lie at your side.
So cliche, but so fucking true.
This infero we live in chars away all signs of hope I had. This era of perpetual frost has frozen my hearts, has driven me to rediscover emotion. When you have suffered as I have then such things cease to mean a thing.
But I suppose there are darker days to come and blacker days to pass.
Into the depths of those days, my love, in the midst of these most grueling times I hope to feel your hand on mine.
But as I said, even cliche itself has become cliche and old. I certainly wouldn't be surprised to your blade in my back.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-05-20T03:28:00

2004-05-20T07:42:44Z

This song is about you.
Fuck the weak.
Fuck the heartless.
This song is about you
But it's sure as fuck not for you.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-04-25T13:37:00

2004-04-25T17:43:09Z

I speak quietly by choice.
My voice is soft until it needs to be loud.
You scoff at this. You think by these words that I am playing tough.
To you and your friends I am the cowardly lion: All bullshit and bluster.
I hope you sincerely believe that.
My voice is quiet, but the vet has not taken my balls.
My claws are still here too.
Pray you never meet them.
Pray that "the cowardly lion" does not stir and have his roar be heard.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-04-25T13:32:00

2004-04-25T17:39:19Z

The cries of the justly damned are always loudest
"I don't deserve this."
"I've done nothing wrong."
"I swear to god it was an accident."
Swear all you want. Pray to whomever you wish.
Your cries will go unnoticed and uncared for.
It is the plight of the righteous which I mourn.
The just do not weep. They do not snivel or beg.
You would do well to take note of their humility, take heed of their glory.
When it is all over, the laughter of the faithful will drown out of the sobbing of the damned.

lastmanofgondor @ 2004-04-25T01:27:00

2004-04-25T05:32:52Z

Fingers around my throat.
Keep squeezing. Keep squeezing.
The dove will stop singing, my eyes will stop seeing.
Smile, girl. Always smile. This is the end of the old and the birth of the new. For every death there is a birth. The cycle must continue.
But I hope your soul is prepared.
Once the doves rae gone, then the vultures come.
And they are hungry. They are always hungry.
And they are never full.