Lonely travels down the forlorn path.
 |
| .dying.(dream). |
Antecedents reminding me of how I could have done it BETTER.
I resist, but they persist
(the.demons.are.powerful.&.i.am.weak.);
The Dark Tenants within have infinity.
I have only the precious time wasted searching for happiness(???) in lost and fool's old, dried up treasure,
like a vague dream that drifts aimlessly in ethereal consciousness;
like smoke and never returns;
.on.my.own.phsychic.vomit.bleeding.from.every orifice.BLEEDING.bleeding.bleeding.BLEEDING.BLOOD.BLEEDING.OUT.
FOR the only way out is up and the only way up is through the fire.
REDwood trees and granite lead the way though it hardly seems real, (the.heart).
Watching,
confiding,
hiding,
misguiding (the.innocents);
listlessly listening to the maddening sound of their voices,
singing through the stale unmoveable, thick blanket of air, shrill and hollow (muffled by cold-fog-layer-blankets).
If you listen closely, you take note that they sing a … ((∞))
melodic,
melancholic,
anhedonic,
.song.about.me.
Dancing naked,
knee-deep in (my!) Blood.
 |
| PHOBIA: Drowning.because.drowning.equals.asphyxiation. |
Ruthless Black Empties in my stomach, deep, deep down, where the cold dark room of fear resides, (a satellite to the fucked- up-mind-organ), instill deeper than few have ever been allowed to go within the recesses of the dark room inside the psyche, the dank, worn, wooden box lies, solitary, in the farthest reaches of the longest corner of the blackest reaches of the coldest room. Hippocampused mysteries lie in wait but no one ever gets that far inside, for if they did . . .
THEY WOULD GO MAD WITH HORROR AND DISGUST AT THE CONTENTS OF THEIR OWN MOLDY, WOODEN BOX.
Psychopathy is simply a matter of want (fuck.the.neighbor's.matter.of.need.).
Human devours human.
Life on the Borderline,
Bi-polar malfunction,
Too many to see:
PTSD, ADHD, BPD, MPD, OCD,
Bloody-Broken-Dee (that's me),
now claimed by all by various degree.
Schitzophrenogincs,
paranoid delusions shamefully confessed like sins, in the clinic.
take your number and get in line;
degenerate, broken, unloved, and placated one at a time.
at the useless and dangerously outnumbered clinics,
all just a symptom of .what.is.in.the.box.
Biting helplessly at the heels of contentment, resentment . . , all things lovely that are denied to me. Energy made manifest.
As though matter itself has betrayed;
*The Universal Law*
Probably nothing of consequence; (I tell myself in vain - I am doomed, and I know this).
… Generations,
lamentations,
devastations,
indications, indicating of
fantastic
enigmatic,
spastic
.earth.ever.changing.
Rearranging;
Decks of cards strewn out of order;
Chaotic battles are fought (bloodY) without thought, while each soldier holds within them a secret horror in deep within their chest, forbidding any solace of regenerative soul-rest.
They know the truth lies in the dark decay that has infiltrated their minds, they know that demons do exist, not outside, but inside they reside, content to hide, brushing hope effortlessly aside,
they have no purpose but to feed on the darkness in the gut of each fighter.
Each sad, gloomy creature unfortunate enough to be self aware,
because all all other creatures live unaware,
the demons,
they avoid the true possessors of this land,
because they have mastered the ulimate weapon
- living only moment to moment
- linear lines lending no care,
they are perfect in their own right,
because they are simply unaware.
fighting against an invisible enemy.
Steadily march forward, never looking back.
Steady streams of malcontent effortlessly winding down the forlorn path.
Thieves and un-doers writhe under the pressure of time;
• their withering bloody corpses ~ victims of linear thinkings •
. . . (our.own.creative.way.to.stay.collectively.sane.). . .
Yesterday, today, tomorrow.
Existence as we know it ceases without warning,
followed by unseen evolutions,
orbiting and patiently waiting
revolutions,
(.the.new.species.in.waiting.).
.doomed.to.repeat.our.past.
