Boredom Hell

In a room with no doors, only windows; watching the earth outside, filled with empty despair.

There is no presence, there is no purpose. There is only silence.

Where the mind scraps the inside of the skull, and tally marks the spine.

The soul, like water down a hole, falls down to the bottom of the body-prison’s grime.

Like sentencing a man to life in an open-air prison, solitary confinement is upheld as The Great Infinite Decision.

Life unmoving, ladders go unclimbed. The eyes stare a thousand yards, for the boredom hell given by the divines.

Like twirling in circles, and going nowhere, there is no way out. No escape from the madness slowly approaching, come to devour the light, mute the sound, and board up the house.

The Pain Red Heart

A rage at God and Son-
And rage at God and Son in vain.
Abandoned by Elysium, and left without the answer or the light.
Like a begger with severed arms, a cut out tongue, and lame to match the dying insomniac’s night.
A haggard mother chasing away dreams, and wasting time–

What ever did this earthly servant do to be abandoned ever so?

There is a carcass in the morning, noon, and at night-

But there is still this unanswered man’s soul–
The soul is abandoned to darkness, and abandoned by the light–
Like a ribcage cut open, there is only air.
Like a heartache in the midst, there is only despair.
There is no such thing as a ‘captain of your own soul’, for man’s judgement lies in Fate-
There is only the swinging motion of God’s return in wake, and a longing to end an unanswered prayer’s wait–

My Uncle Ronnie passed away—been a bit silent lately (Epitaph poem: The Grey Canvas we call our souls)

Hey buds.

It’s Everybody’s Favorite uncle Gregory Thomas here…

My uncle passed away last week, and I’ve been very depressed.

Sorry I haven’t uploaded anything, its one of those days where I feel my energy lost.

-Sincerely, a very sad Thomas

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A voice, an echo.

Is it a shadow or memory?

The faint waves of movement lost, and there were none–

cold was granted by an old friend;

Death. Like a hand on the shoulder comes to remind us of our mortality.

The Earth behind; a distant fading memory.

The end, is the end, is the end.

And adieu for all who dream–

3 A.M. (When The War Began) (Chronologue Suite Mix)

Hello buds!

Gregory Thomas, Everybody’s Favorite uncle here!

Please enjoy this awesome Chronologue Suite Mix I did of the awesomely talented composer Yu Ya Huang’s 3 A.M.

I edited it to sound like the listener is right in the middle of an intense Avalonic Machine Siege!

Gunfire, and all!

Very emotional tear jerking work indeed, perhaps you will check out my book

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In the year 2257, humanity as we know it is challenged when an AI threat called The Avalon Republic manages to self-replicate itself. By the hand of the insane mechanical overlords, America and the other countries are put to the test as the green eyed apparatus’ hack our AI powered cars and technologies, clone their mechanical militia, and lay siege to our world in their efforts to turn humans into other machines. The Fight War wages as we send forth boots on the ground with our flags swinging through the air in bulk to defend our world. The fate of all existence lies in our hands…Should we fail, all hope will be lost.

Chronologue: Your Invitation into the future!

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Note:
The song is just for creative purposes; the song and effects are not mine, I just mashed them up together.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqC0OQZ02AY
www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQn1Ipz1G…zbFqIN2cmq36BQtVO
www.youtube.com/watch?v=3AXENeFFv…mq36BQtVO&index=2
www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9JMGZPXL…mq36BQtVO&index=3

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I will not give up on my dreams.

The Change of Heart

Two blue eyes of pain, for a delicate flower’s name.

The mind is a cruel game begane, when played on this day.
A warping face of pain, and it is then that you’ll know.
That the beauty before you has let her warm heart, become cold.
Like a meal that turns to stone, so too does the soul.
Like a soldier whose seen innocents die, so too does your mind.
Like when the wine kicks in, into the spirit, and all that’s left is but a drunkard.
The once strong man, now a clumsy oaf.
The same campfire that brought you warmth, is the same that goes cold in the snow.

The Gambling Eyes of the Artist

In an indian’d-styled perch–

I stare at my paintings, and yet they say nothing back.

With a belly held in, to lurch;

The canvas is the coal to turn black.

The absence of the church is very the Absence of God,

The wandering Great I Am; in the Kingdom of Elysium.

I stare at the ceiling, and my very soul folds.

O’ the lonely soul…

Like a gambler of fate out of pocket does my lonely soul yearn.

A shol is a shol, and the body crashes the ground like pavement.

And bones are bones, in the concrete kingdom of enslavement.

Like wandering the day in and out; a thousand and one nights.

The way the heart turns to frost, in the wee waking hours of daylight.

The way the mind wanders, like a fleeting vision, decaying like a wooden canvas.

The way the youth hits the Tree of Life; and the trembling hand panics.

The way the eyes shake, like a thousand eyed-gaze.

The grey is grey, even when the colors present the day.

Cold eyes in the skull, like a missile for the stare–

The nostrils of agony, chained in its despair.

Buildings used as castle walls; and the soul used, for the very last straw–

The bowl sings without speaking. But the soul cries without being.

The bowl sings without speaking. But the soul cries without being.

The sound like a chime and music, flowing in the breeze.

The earth caving in on itself, without a body. The sky unattached to fate, falling up, and past the world unmade.

Like a newborn, free of worry, does the newman soul unleash.

Like a casket lay the dying, does the old man’s soul deceased.

Like a rose growing upward, like a body in motion.

Like a burning fire, torn asunder, lonely, and colder than the pit of an ocean.

The heartache shakes hands with hope.

But hope floats the same as the lonely soul.

The body stands firm as a being upright.

But the heaviness of the soul is the tundra’s ice.

Eyes seeing forward at nothing, and unsure of his future.

The unknowing of this man’s dying here, now, later, or for sooner…

BLACK OUT TUESDAY

The moon goes greyscale on this dystopian day.

I know I come across as a calm, cool, easy going person, but my anger is quite heavy, as I am a passionate person. And as a black man, I find that the racial injustice betweeen whites and blacks is a very difficult topic to discuss, for both me in general, and as those who follow me know, in my writing as well. Today however, I stand in support of Black out Tuesday, and support of justice seeking for George Flyod, and all of the lives of my brothers and sisters taken too soon. Your uncle is here for you, the world is here for you, and the good Lord up above is with us all.

-Sincerely, Everybody’s Favorite Uncle, Gregory Thomas

The Time Machine of Sorrow

Anger spelled backwards, is Regna.
In where there is no going back.
And this is our fellow man’s greatest dystopia.
The art of remorse.
Regna the remorseful.
Temptation was cruel on this day.
Unable to return back, but forever to move forward.
It is the Time Machine, of Sorrow.

—From your Uncle, Gregory Thomas