I’m sorry, please accept my apologies
since they are all I have left to give to you.
It is really a small price to pay,
once all the fires of hell have grown cold
and the glaciers of ecstasy
melt into their true form of a torrential river,
only to forever lose its identity in the sea.
You loathe my scars and the sound of my voice
and because of this, I’m glad.
But if you want silence to prevail between us,
then let it be fucking silent.
Don’t enjoy humour at my expense,
find hilarity in my ill fate,
because then, my dear, you are not
all the great things you claim to be.
You end up being just a little less than human.
Essentially all humans are animals,
our society a mere fancier version
of a pack, a herd.
Alphas, Betas, Omegas,
puzzle pieces falling into place
neatly, as was meant to be.
I tried to rise in status,
maybe for some time the new pack
even kept up my illusion of
pride, esteem, respect.
But Omega males will remain Omega males.
A ladder where all the rungs disappeared
one fine day, I’m falling.
The pack pushes me back to my place.
“Why are you ganging up on me?”
“Because you are you.”
You are you.
You deserve this.
You deserve this.
Whispers in pitch black,
painted tainted words spoken softly
in absolute invisibility.
I disappeared, you disappeared
words and sentences conveyed coherently
all disappeared into a cloud.
A cloud built on the feeling of nothingness
and the slow crawl
of long lost data trapped in the recesses and corners
showing themselves in a reunion comeback tour.
The past rings hollow, the present a vacuum
the future every moment to the next.
The taunting rhythm of the seconds hand
on the white face of the clock,
softly howling into the night
Sharp breaths shortening by the moment
constriction, restriction, delirium.
Whispers once again in the pitch black
but once you try to whisper back
a bloodcurdling cry leaves your lips.
And then all is silence.
the man I once used to be,
is already on his way to a better place,
my soul has left me,
so there’s no reason to wait,
I listen to the angels sing,
their white wings are calling me home.
I will not kiss you,
’cause the hardest part of this is leaving you.
So turn away,
the shell that’s lying on the bed,
is only a machine that’s breathing for me,
the clock ticks slowly,
when the pain of the cure
tears me apart worse than the affliction
life is no more than fiction now.
I am tired of this battle,
and I hope you know
that if you say
I’d ask you to be true,
’cause the hardest part of this is leaving you.
‘Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you.
This piece is inspired by and written along the lines of the song “Cancer” by My Chemical Romance. It can be sung to the same tune as well.
I need the drugs to keep me insane
lines and lines of ideological cocaine.
Straight lines are twisted paths,
two and two make five,
I’m craving death or salvation
into oblivion I dive.
Shapes, shapes everywhere
like a child’s playing set,
assembled by a professional architect
live and die for the unpaid debt.
Invictus was a lie and a crime
control is only a punishable dream.
We aren’t masters of any fate
unheard go the screams.
For humanity is already known
to have been evil at inception,
we all must pray for forgiveness,
what we believe in doesn’t matter
but someone hallucinated voices
of a superhuman living in the sky,
and now is determined that after we die,
we all pay for our lies,
and lay in coffins our size.
Because who gives a damn about love
when we can hate in the name of the man above.
Reason is not necessary in certain situations
lack of it is an art in itself,
to create and marvel at your creation
as it breathes devastation for all you love
in that lies the true art.
Your poisoned words are blasphemy
at a funeral for my creation you should
show some respect and quieten for once.
Which is the perfect blend, will forever remain
shrouded in mystery, and perhaps
it is meant to be so. In the end there only is
the shadow that engulfs you and me,
as we plunge deeper and deeper into the abyss
of imperfection, of defects, prototypes,
discarded ideas howling for redemption.
I contradict all popular opinion
and say life is a bed of roses.
Some admire the intoxicating aroma,
or the delicate, petite petals.
Some others can feel the thousand thorns
piercing their skin and leaving gaping holes
where once was perfection.
Will the walls cave in under the ground
forever closing off the diamond mine,
and necklaces of gold will wait in vain
to wrap the neck of my bloodstained valentine?
Will the grapes remain sour too high to reach
will they never be brought down for my wine,
for when I sit at a table for two, lonely in company,
opposite my sweetest bloodstained valentine?
Will the lipstick lose its identity, its color,
and the rosy lips never feel so divine,
as the shade slowly, oh so slowly turns blue
too blue to kiss my bloodstained valentine?
Will the words “till death do us part” be our undoing
and the setting sun disentangle our fate entwined,
as it grows dark around the countenance of
my lovely, beautiful bloodstained valentine?
They were all lost in blind search
every corner, nook or cranny.
No stone unturned, no subtle clue
missed or they’d have to start anew.
Every word they say, or thing they do
all for that one single goal,
a single minded search in the dark
with only the senses they don’t know
to guide them through this endeavour,
this whirlwind of events repeating forever.
A never ending loop, never twice the same
a deadly contest, a lively game.
In moving pictures on the screen,
in the victories that have been,
or the successes that could have been,
in horrors or pleasures heard or seen
or all that left un-felt and unseen,
hidden is the warmth of the destination
of their long wound search
for a reason.
We all have had imaginary friends
at times when the real kind were
hard to come by, we made them up.
They were our own creation,
sort of like a work of art, or poetry.
We made them just the way we desired,
and they acted just the way we desired.
We never fought, never argued,
we accepted each other as we were.
They were perfect human beings to us,
ideal, despite not being human at all.
The people who don’t fit our vision
of what an ideal being should be
Yet our imaginary friends taught us long ago
The secret to being a perfect person
is simply accepting another’s imperfections.
It is not worth dreaming of being a superhero,
using superhuman powers for the good of humanity
brings no happiness to you,
especially since the world is so thankless
and will brand you a threat, for diplomatic reasons.
You will be answerable to a hundred commissions,
and you smallest actions will court controversy.
People will go after you for saying and doing the right thing
while vigilantes with their own twisted agendas,
who take life on suspicion of violating their beliefs,
will go scot-free.
You will be shunned for being secular, liberal
saving the lives of people of a particular religion
will get you branded a terrorist.
Might as well keep your powers a secret,
and keep to yourself forever.