I Wish I Could’ve Been Myself

What was personified and what was genuine

Are so terribly mixed, I’m unsure.

That which bewilders is beset

With doubt between what’s real and pure.

Make-believe and masquerade

My many truths beffudled in mystique.

A sample of a splinted soul

Shrouded in saturations oblique.

Deciet drawn with smiles

To distract from fractured truths.

My naked self encased away

In case of breakage or missuse.

Secrets so nobody knows

The depths of misery I contain,

The shame and weakness

I consume and in my fear sustain.

I wish that I had been myself

But being myself, what a mess was made.

A look beneath my stained visage

Betrays the oceans I’ve kept restrained.

It’s coming soon, I must confess,

My will and levies are going to break.

So when I finally be myself

My tears might drown away my aches.

To Never Be Preyed Upon

To never be preyed upon

I learned

Either hunt or be hunted.

Be the breaker or the broken.

Swallow your sentimentallity

Or suffer.

Locked away in vaults

Of cold cruel steel,

Behind bitter dispassionate bars

Biting empathetic hands

I live

Looking out

At everything that’s kept away.

To never be preyed upon

Is to sever all your heartstrings

As each one tugs your veins,

Pushing them away

Before they draw you out,

Exposed, vulnerable,

Easy prey.

And every broken heartstring bleeds

In the buried vaults unseen,

Untouched by any hand

The writhing wounded psyche

I identify as me.

To never be preyed upon

Is to never be free,

Looking out to see pleasures

I wish I could’ve been

Open and tender

In such a way as to be

The delicate flower

I’ve sheltered to keep

From being preyed upon.

I weep

Behind locked steel doors

Ashamed of myself,

Afraid for myself,

In solitudes keeping

Too weak to be anything but

Never preyed upon.

 

 

 

The Sinking Razor

Back and forth

Swings the razor’s edge

Cutting every second

In perpetual rhythm.

Sleeping in distress,

No syllable expressed

Of the grinding apparatus

Against our bosom.

Frivolous in deeds,

Expedient in needs,

As the pendulum swings

Deeper through the chest.

Insouciant appearing,

Lacerations searing,

Tickling tender nerves

And numbing all the rest.

Revelry in laughter

Midst superficial chatter,

Ticking ever onward

And bleeding fibers pale.

Gaiety and madness

In masochistic gladness,

Sinking through the heart,

Defiant shallowness impaled.

 

 

 

 

 

The Bleeding Spot

Thoughts pass

Unfazingly through my consciousness,

Falling ineffectively

Outside my bleeding spot.

The centerpiece,

The open wound from my crown of thorns

Constantly prickling

My most tender aspects.

Soaking out

To infect every fragment of my mind.

Aggravating peace

And re-shaping my disposition.

Never healing,

The abrasion too painful to touch,

Pulsating madly

At the suggestion of sensation.

Reaching in,

Only to tickle it for a moment

Sends it gushing

And pouring down my tear-spout.

Let it out.

Empty this swollen mass of trauma

Little by little

Until it’s finally gone forever.

Necromancy

Deep breaths,

Resurrecting past emotions.

A litany of shit and shame

Deliberately targeted on the present moment.

Tangent upon tangent,

Trauma upon trauma,

Surfacing up to swallow

The security of my bondage.

Like the restless dead

Shrieking as their unearthed,

Naked in the light of day,

Tortured by the slightest sensation.

My life hurts.

All the painful memories replay.

This is My Hell.

This is everything I’ve tried to escape.

Keep breathing.

Wait for everything to bleed away.

Hold onto nothing,

Give it up,

Let it go.

Living With Hell

Reality was harsh

Recognition was worse

Revelation was unbearable.

 

I could find truth

I could accept myself with it

But I couldn’t relate it to anyone.

 

I could argue

And I could explain

But never enough to satisfy.

 

I could relax

And I could let it go

But it couldn’t ever leave me.

 

I want to be real

To be honest and understood

But I’ve learned not to expect it.

 

I learned to stay quiet

To hide behind an empty face

But I can’t always help it.

 

I need to let it out

But I know there’ll be pain.

So much held back for so long,

And I know it’s gonna be Hell.

 

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?