I Am At War With Good And Evil Inside Of Me
The precursor to my current subversive relentless darkness was a blinding rapturous starlight.
I ponder if I have manifested this hell, then again maybe not, maybe this is a type of systematic self-destruction written in the stars, a poison long overdue in running its course.
I drown in the line between worlds, the grey consumes me, I grasp frantically, manically pulling and tearing, fraying the edges of the respective sides into this nothingness.
in times every facet of me degenerates, I deteriorate and succumb to a fictitious momentary disillusionment of where I belong.
Desensitized to my own devices, numb to my own self-inflicted damage I can no longer effectively fight the monsters that take sanctuary inside me, yet I am plagued by sacrilegious horrors, a blasphemous hope undermining my otherwise devout self-doubts
my heart, once believed to be an empty placeholder is now seen to be an overbearing superfluous nuisance to everyone who has had the displeasure to see it.
dead thoughts that refused to die quietly are reanimated and re-forged in the fires of their own hells to form emotion, detestable ethereal infectious little specs of feeling that I can’t rid myself of, nestled snuggly in my bleeding bite marks as I attempt to chew away my lost causes that have haunted me since birth.
I used to cursorily revel in my stoic ability, yet after my decent into this madness I have a unshakable, worrisome mistrust in my porcelain fr<x>ame.
With all the voices in my mind my mental cohesion is lacking, and I sink further down into this abyss.
A prisoner of my mind and A slave to my heart.
To feel disdain for my love’s motivations is a scornful thing. To loath my reprehensible actions is vulgar,
to look upon the grotesque abomination, the putrid mass of their culminations fusing together to create the eyes that stare back at me from my mirror.
Here time is but another dying thing, its life fleeting, it demise near immanent. its swan song halted by the hourly respites of truths that change every 59 minutes.
My makeshift sanity swirls with chaos and self-questioning bouts of whether or not I myself am an extraneous piece of this puzzle.
what to do?
I ponder if I have manifested this hell, then again maybe not, maybe this is a type of systematic self-destruction written in the stars, a poison long overdue in running its course.
I drown in the line between worlds, the grey consumes me, I grasp frantically, manically pulling and tearing, fraying the edges of the respective sides into this nothingness.
in times every facet of me degenerates, I deteriorate and succumb to a fictitious momentary disillusionment of where I belong.
Desensitized to my own devices, numb to my own self-inflicted damage I can no longer effectively fight the monsters that take sanctuary inside me, yet I am plagued by sacrilegious horrors, a blasphemous hope undermining my otherwise devout self-doubts
my heart, once believed to be an empty placeholder is now seen to be an overbearing superfluous nuisance to everyone who has had the displeasure to see it.
dead thoughts that refused to die quietly are reanimated and re-forged in the fires of their own hells to form emotion, detestable ethereal infectious little specs of feeling that I can’t rid myself of, nestled snuggly in my bleeding bite marks as I attempt to chew away my lost causes that have haunted me since birth.
I used to cursorily revel in my stoic ability, yet after my decent into this madness I have a unshakable, worrisome mistrust in my porcelain fr<x>ame.
With all the voices in my mind my mental cohesion is lacking, and I sink further down into this abyss.
A prisoner of my mind and A slave to my heart.
To feel disdain for my love’s motivations is a scornful thing. To loath my reprehensible actions is vulgar,
to look upon the grotesque abomination, the putrid mass of their culminations fusing together to create the eyes that stare back at me from my mirror.
Here time is but another dying thing, its life fleeting, it demise near immanent. its swan song halted by the hourly respites of truths that change every 59 minutes.
My makeshift sanity swirls with chaos and self-questioning bouts of whether or not I myself am an extraneous piece of this puzzle.
what to do?
31-35, M
