deviantofblades

I’m constantly falling into the fluffiness of pillows, of weeping willows under a dreary sky, wondering why my heart has died, and have had my hands tied. Tied to something strong like rope in the hopes that these old memories would shatter, like the rain on my face in its pittered patter of patterns, and sky scrapers with lights that tower over my soul, in this city I can no longer call home. It’s so so cold. . . I lay in mental distraught at the thought that I may actually exist, and as I clenched my fists I yelled to the sky “THIS IS IT”. As I scream showered in the hour of my dreams, soured by haunted scenes of themes from my past, I can’t look forward while neither going back. . . I think ‘maybe this is all okay’ as I stare at the chalkboard that reads ‘be kind to your container or the heart will bleed’. And the chalk used had screeched where inside my mind and chest something was breached. Liquid pours out of motionless eyes, that tried to see the good in those that froze in something more toxic than a disease, the disguise of kindness that turned out to be the black they would bleed, something that teased at the plague within their eyes, mezmarized was this innocence until this being of sickness was displeased. Agonizing and writhed were now their hands which had been tied, in a pretty string wrapped in bow but it was now their turn to wallow in their soul, of icky black goo that cooed an unnecessary call, and there I wish they’d fall. Fall so far to the depths of madness, with signs of gladness that they’re in despair, in unrepair, as a maniacle laugh can be heard. Over the city that’s now decrepit and turned, into something more desolate than my mind, from which time cannot stop the inner working of my mind. I still lay under the weeping willows, filled with pillows and the disguise of niceness blackens me with its sin, never to win, always to be beckoned and cast out, to be then be rid of this soul that is destroyed, a ploy to tease me with the face of a smile that would undoubtably destroy this inner sanctum of my hearts denial.

I’m deep, so deep in this world of purples and hues of black and blues, with glints of white scribbles, where it cascades off the pages in dribbles, It’s endless walking, tirelessly ending of the nothing that treads on farther than anticipated, farther than my mind could ever wander in the obligatory sense of it all. Ending in my path with drips. I’ve become upset, becoming the flame that burns brightly in the distance where it is barely seen. Noticed only afar, across the sea... it seems separated by mere pebbles. But it’s not that simple you see... I’m happy. I’m working on me, and what I see is a better version of the entire speculation of truth, my truth. The truth that always will and always will be. For this truth is absolute, it is not for anyone else. I cross an ocean of stars waiting to find the nebula that will enrapture me in its gravitational pull, allowing me to dance in its ever delicate rotation. My heart beats and soars rapidly. It gradually slows into a calm twirl. The dance of a solar system. Where there is no end, but a continuous journey of what is to come, to expand into something beautiful beyond the vast regions of space. Into the nothing that eventually becomes renewed into a beauty of the world.

Drips had become like echoes of the water as it fell, Loudly, the sound grew largely hollow and dwelled, To the floor of this vacant space as the air felt stilled and time stood in place, The wind howled softly and the leaves moved at their own pace, A moment of peace, of tranquility swept over me, forgetting my thoughts that once raced, For my attention was focused on the retention of my existence, the more I sought for it, the more I fought, because of its persistence, and it broke out in the screams of the diseased with the face of niceness, leaving my inner self to feel cowardly without displaying my inner emotional crisis, It isn’t the acceptance I am choosing to ignore, but the chaotic happenings of anxieties that I deplore from behind this face I call a door, Of every possible emotion that could ever be felt, beating me selfishly with its whip that feels like a belt, tears stroll and the hope within withers With no trace of its existence in this heart, the feeling no longer hithers, There is but one last resort to restart this within, to wipe out the mental hard drive and forgive myself of my sins.