Inharmonious

We’re both musicians in this world of silence.

We’re both artists in this world of black.

We’re both humans in this world of beasts.

It would seem we match perfectly;

like a match to a fire, like a wave to an ocean,  like a ray to a sun, like a note to a harmony.

Well then, why can’t we harmonize?

We see notes as they fly by,

Yet why can’t we play them right?

Why can’t we play them right?

Why can’t we play them right?

Why?

We never play the same song.

Welcome

Welcome to my inconsistent personality.

Welcome to my chaotic compositions.

Welcome to my perverse sentiments.

Welcome to my literary haven.

Welcome to the tale of my demise.

In My Mind

In the mind of the normal:

A razor is meant to shave with.

A bottle of pills is meant to be stored up high.

A bridge is meant to be walked across.

A bathtub full of water is meant to be jumped into.

A full plate is meant to be eaten.

A passing train in meant to be waved at.

A rope is meant to hold a piñata.

In the mind of the empty:

A razor is meant to numb the pain.

A bottle of pills is meant to be swallowed.

A bridge is meant to be jumped off of.

A bathtub full of water is meant to hold a breathless body.

A full plate is meant to be thrown away.

A passing train in meant to be walked in front of.

A rope is meant to become a noose.

In the mind of the artist:

A razor is meant to intrigue.

A bottle of pills is meant to numb the mind.

A bridge is meant to be over water.

A bathtub full of water is meant to be still.

A full plate is meant to be overwhelming.

A passing train in meant to be lit up.

A rope is meant to hold up my hope.

I sulk. I sit. I wait.

I sulk. I sit. I wait.

For a day without pain, without regret, without  fear.

For the day when I am no longer isolated within in my own mind.

For that day when my war has been won.

I sulk. I sit. I wait. 

I hope to one day greet this day, for my bleeding heart yearns for this reunion.

The day has still yet to show, and my strength is growing thin.

I sulk. I sit. I wait.

This hope I still hold looks an awful lot like fear. 

                                        When will this day come?

For it looks like that day to never come.

I sulk. I sit. I wait.

For I realize that day is not too far away. 

Mori Art Ti

To die was an art,
So let me paint.

It's Funny, Isn't It?

It's funny isn't it

How effortlessly one can take a blade

Run it across their skin

Puncture the very thing that keeps them whole

Over and over again 

Until all pain is gone

  Until all the blood is drained

               Until they are numb

                             Until the next time.

It's funny how such a simple action can become

         a dangerous addition

                     A ravenous craving

    An unconscious compulsion;

                                                                                                                 An addiction not easily overcome.

It's funny how such a simple act on oneself can hurt so many others

Cause so much pain to their friends

                To their boyfriend or girlfriend

                                                                                To their family.

It's funny how all of the pain it releases is brought back

not long afterwards.

Funny isn't it.

But I ask,

Is all of this worth it?

They say no.

I say…

I'm sorry.

Oh, Precious Pain

Oh, precious pain,

How you force me down with your everlasting chain.

How I never cease to try to escape your grasp in vain.

How I find your allure ironically addictive;  ‘tis only you I hope to gain.

Oh, precious pain,
How you are surely my bane.

How you will forever be my biggest blood-red stain.

How you are the cause for my lesser hope, ‘tis now on the wane.

How you have surely driven me insane.

Oh, precious pain,

How I beseech you to rid me from my mortal duties, do not refrain.

Just promptly carry me to His anodyne domain.

Oh, precious pain.