Traumatic Hypocrite

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…just to be able to avoid acknowledging the hurt of others, to in return have a built-in excuse that allows me to ignore my own. A clever little trick that makes it appear as though the reason I’d be a hypocrite is because of talking about it, but in reality, I’m a hypocrite for pretending we aren’t all scarred and broken. Scared and chokin’ on the thoughts unspoken.

I tell people to open up, speak their truths, acknowledge their pain and work through it by exposing themselves to the trauma head-on. Meanwhile, I speak to no one about the demons I face. Quiet internal battles. I’m so well versed at the art of misdirection that I’ve trained myself to store backup smaller traumas to disclose the moment I’m questioned on the subject. Practical, tactical…

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Schizo Youth

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Emotionally abusive parents of schizophrenic children should be sterilized.

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Draped of silhouettes and contorted figures a dim light barely saves the room from the void. Whispers, maddened by guilt claw at strands of sanity to shred and devour. Fetus on the sheets tightly squeezes its life away, hoping the malicious tones drain out. Louder they get when resisted. Sense of self is ever more vague. Creeping away without hope of return if lost. Angry voices across the door weaken the spirit and give way to the whimpering soul that lay broken while innocent. Confused of cause and with no reason to justify loathe. A burning hatred grows for the sun and the shelter. Welcoming becomes the fade across the shadows with no faces. Simplistic the illusion of nothing. Peacefully resting on the other side of action. Long enough assures bravery for cowardice and silence be witness to the collapsed towers of rage and wrath. Forgotten or at least desired to be the whither phase to the ether. And the river of tears run streams of screams and intention.

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Rage Fueled Blindness

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We all have demons we struggle with. Fear of them taking control. And sometimes they do. And sometimes it feels good after we’re done with our fear.

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Pained finger. Cracks and snaps. Deep breaths to get over it. Get it over with. Nausea at the pit of my stomach. Monstrous transformation I’ve undergone. Malice I begun with. Could use a gun, but the pop would make it too real. I don’t want to run. Craving the numbness.
Tight grip, I squeeze. Thought bubbles surface. Words in silence. Boiling water hides the violence. Struggles to keep inside. Hopes to hide. Hopes to die. Tears roll down red eyes. Lingering moments that don’t go by. Branded images. Back of the mind. Persistent twists of liquid mist obscuring things. Rage filled. Caged and ill. Killed will power. Standing still, towers, tall build. Showers of blood ripple. Screaming “enough.” Chilled spine. Raised hairs. Tunnel vision. Blinded sight. Regrets but no want to fight. Sensations that feel right to relieve the pint up aggression. Repression released in the middle of…

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Staying Alive IV

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Survival and starvation breed insanity in the minds of the weak willed.
The weak don’t last long.
Here’s Alex.

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The voices scramble in my head. Fighting. Striking all the cords. Lighting sparking up my neurons. Causing pain. So on. And so on.

The scent of sulfur squeezes in under the crack of the door. Seductive. Alluring. It could all be over if I give in. A doorknob away.

Pitch black footsteps on the other side. Some drag. Others pace.

A scent which promotes a familiar taste. Iron. Strong. It lingers in this place.

Greed lead the curious cat to Death’s door. Whether or not I want to remain here anymore is no longer a choice I get to make. Best case scenario is to endure.

It’s been days and the daze is setting in. Not many ways this could end. I’ve already debated running outside. And I hate it, knowing I might die. But there’s no other way to…

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Conflicting Thoughts

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Close to the edge
Dragged to battle with reflections
Cattle of thought
Tryin’ to rattle the pot
Turn the heat up, they’re not
Just shadows gettin’ nearer
I’m thinkin’ clearer
Glass sight
It’s been years
Their vision blurs up, they’re sinkin’
Turns up still drinkin’
So high they get stuck
In the middle of blinks
With a knives at a gun fight, they might die
That’s alright, just try to get by
Fire words thinkin’ they’ll hurt
Churn my stomach
Ahh, the burn
They never learn
Squirmy, whiny…

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Cancer

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Some cancers are unstoppable and shall consume until here is nothing left.

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Curious this parasitic creature living on the skin.  It eats and destroys the flesh, turning it black in its wake. A web reaching out further and tightly gripping the fertile life surrounding it. The host is drained gray. Slowly consumed until its internal sustainability commences to fall apart. Until the structure necessary for the host to be considered alive begins to collapse. Then and only then does this plague begin to search for its next victim. A fresh host capable of sustaining the parasite until sucked dry.

This corrosive cancer multiplies and grows under most conditions. Although hosts classified ‘M Class’ are at highest risk for they produce the nutrients necessary for the parasite to feed.

The human infection migrating from planet to planet, sucking them dry of life and moving on to the next thing. Destruction. Consumption.

Killing off life as it spreads. As is reproduces.

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Desperate Thinking

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Many of the major struggles we deal with as adults are internal. And they surround the perpetual identity crisis the “adult experience” turns out to be. Some of our worst demons reveal themselves to be a major part of our identity.

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In the back of my mind the grind stays in line
Shows up on time
Thick sludge slime drips off ass it goes by
Slow drive
No life, it chases faceless cries
Whines stalking hated ties through crooked lies
It takes or it dries
Created illusions for desperate tries
Feeling asleep still hoping to die
Never real, but always alive
Never bad, but always a crime
Chiming the rhymes of evil
Slides off the tongue perceiving
Fires burn the homes
Screeching iron melting down
Reaching into hollow grounds
Spinning, churning, twisting round
Molten lava leaking out
The creaking shack is splintered, brown
No sneaking in without a sound
The bleak still ring it sings resound
Trapped inside with screams and shouts
Rotted corpses stand about
Mules and horses on propaganda routs
Burnt alive behind the eyes
To all the rest I stand here fine

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