The Weight Of Melancholy

The melancholy burden that I’m bearing

Like the nihilists famous heavy stone

Struggling arduously up every day’s mountain

And every night clinging to the point where I fall

Romanticized masochism  is a strange comfort

It only works outside the moment of pain

Inside the laborious hours of my punishment

My greatest strength is to appear numb and vain

Disguising every feeling but my vile contempt

Hiding every weakness but for the fact I’m weak

Clinging to attachments but never hold them down

Never allowed outside me, but pining for release

Stoic, like a martyr without any good cause

Proud, as if shame were not prides real cloak

Damaged, un-admittedly as though it weren’t obvious

Sad, for everyone to see and for no one to know

If the hills were hollow I could sleep in them

Instead of tumbling down every jagged plateau

If madness and the void were reconcilable

I could easily have done what I’d supposed

I cannot feel glad for Sisyphus

It seems stupidity is an inherent fate

And I cannot lament my tragedy

Not while I continue to dig my grave

I could easily suffer better for forever

And hope that someone feels for me and sings

But could I relinquish struggling and just show you?

Would you survive through all my secret dreams?

 

 

 

 

Places Where Nothing Matters

The desire to escape drives me towards the places where people do not gather.

In the remote and desolate deserts where the sun is still a master,

To the damp and foggy forests where the soil traps in moisture.

My sub-conscious needs pulling towards where people do not matter.

 

Every place with roads and rules implies a tacit social consent.

Mobility, morality, and my mask are part of that.

Society is life always in a partial state of restraint.

That’s why they taught the meek that they should be content.

 

For those who do not thrive, they say adaptation is the key.

Learn to see yourself as something you should be.

Intelligence and deviations combine into misery,

But you can’t escape yourself, so you’ll end up in therapy.

 

Or, you might escape somewhere in so far as you can imagine.

If remote and desolate landscapes please your palette,

Making you wish there were more spaces like it,

Even if objective reality will never make it happen.

 

Day dream illusions, substitutions, the unfulfilled hollow.

Placate and sedate if you need the escape.

The best places are where nothing even matters.

Swallow the pills and forget about your fate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lust and Loathing

Lust and Loathing

Mellow-dramatic pouting inside of my room, lonely

Teen-angst phase never outgrown, but still growing

Manic depressive, self obsessed and self abhorring

Wallow in contemplation and satanic children’s stories

Look,

It’s not as if I want to be like this

I’m honestly sick of writing this kind of shit

I don’t like it, I’m bored with it, but it just always seems to fit

Me.

Words like “Lament” and “Depression” come so freely to my lips

Without effort, without thought, and mostly without context

My subconscious expects them to be useful I guess

I guess,

I still have issues left, unresolved

Things that I’ve repressed

Holding back my progress

Because, I’m trying to tell a better story.

It’s not that I’m upset, I’m just tired,

and bored.

 

 

 

Hold me,…

 

Daydream Addiction

My brain stained with nicotine, restraining my dopamine, sustaining my hunger for more stimulation.

My pastimes are clarified, and leaving me pacified,  weak with desire to embrace simulation.

My daydream is perpetual, absurdly conceptual, and substantially  real from my perception.

An Ego in in fantasy, cradled in infancy, constantly feeding my selfish pretension.

Useless but exciting, dangerous and inviting, a handy device as life substitution.

While leaving me pitiful, actions are critical, time doesn’t stop to embrace my illusions.