Disgured and Breathing.

There is an arm which is gripping tightly on my neck. It is choking me and I am barely breathing. It is the arm of humanity. The intensity of the suffocation that I feel must be the weight of all my sins. My nerves tingle with a voice I never had, that voice says that I have to run. Run far away from all of existence. There is another voice that says that I am an alien, an alien in the most grotesque form possible. Ugly, ungodly, profoundly disgusting and nauseating. 

A long sword pierces different parts of my body, it sticks out throughout, displaying all my vulnerable insides. My liver hanging off at the edge, my heart near the hilt and my lungs in the middle. My eye balls pop out because a kitchen knife has penetrated through my thick skull from the back.

I feel that there is a physical obstacle wedging the insides of my brain. Probably a book of some sort. This is prohibiting me from focusing and I feel all my thoughts instead of diverging into another set of thoughts is hitting a wall and hurting itself to an endless stream of pain. There is just one consistent thought : Death of the idea of existence itself.

Word-Ache.

I: "The world is fraught with useless words."
- So many each day, so much.

You: "It is a horror that has to be lived by force."
- A wicked euphoric win for meaning's course as such.

Triggers.

The dead are never
truly dead.

You look around
see and observe

Then melancholy
rises with just a look
from a stranger

Who bears a striking
resemblance to
someone who was dead.

Now alive. Ah, the memory of family. It is so spotless. 

A Musical Fall

It was a musical fall.

The green turned red,
he and she gazed
together with curious eyes
and searching for answers
If you look close,
there are only more questions

It was a musical fall.

The red turned yellow,
they touched
together with sensitive skin
and allured with each other
If you look for love,
will you find more love?

It was a musical fall.

They walked together toward winter
not knowing if they would see spring
to live

When the note of the last song played
they stirred, connected and laughed.
This was their last laugh,
for the coming had everything flawed.

Kindness to Death and Time.

A boy had walked in to a scene of murder. The murder was between himself and his soul. The boy was too young to be this man.

The soul was defending it's necessity in sustaining the man's faith in the world. The soul was shaped very meagerly, triangular at it's tail ends and was blowing like a baloon every minute it showed itself. A triangle, a square and a circle. It was encircled in a dodecahedron which was a transparent geometric shape. 

The mad man was well built, a muscular appearance. His head was ironically, funnily small. It was almost bean-like and was charred on the back sides.The man had no more conviction left in him. An ounce of a effort required a canyon of hope. A gram of happiness required an ocean of optimism. He had neither of the two. There was no abundance left in him. Nothing good perhaps. 

But then -

The axe had risen quickly, and it was sharp. The man was about to axe himself at which moment he saw the gleaming reflection of his own eyes in the side of the blade. The eye was golden and had been reduced to just a speck. The eyes had nothing left in them except the eye itself. It symbolized nothing but it's own existence. Why should there be a reason for something to exist? This he pondered and stopped just before the edge of the axe was a centimeter from his eye.

The soul now smiled in all it's geometric awkardness. In all its eccentric appearance, in all the soul's conviction was a tiny part of the man himself.

The boy triumphantly smiled and jumped ecstatically. The soul and his future self turned and piercingly stared at their past, almost as if they were transferring a necessary piece of wisdom to him. A piece of themselves in time, before time to someone that was and that should not will to be. 

The three now smiled exactly the same way and merged to one. 

The old man was happy that he was able to recall such a surreal dream from his depths. He opened his eyes in the ICU, just a blink. He closed it as soon as he saw his mother smiling, and passed away to another glorious world waiting for him. 

The young boy was on the ground, fallen from a height, a long pillar from which he had dived to the ground. He was too energetic to have this fall stop him. He went around and started to climb again, an arduous task in itself.

The soul was silent in both, confused in time. But then, it belonged to both and none. It just was. He just always was.

Self-Kill.

Maybe self-torment is a process that should be inflicted upon oneself to achieve tranquility and apathy. Failure gives one clarity to see through sentences and words. In most cases failure to understand maybe a window to hope.

My head hurts 

this comprehension

that never comes

is a pain that stays

within and plants

roots of apathy.

With no meter

nor poignancy

a poem is born

without a meaning

to it's name.

Hours of Need

From so far away,

you descend your ways

and that is for now

enough

in a lost sea, to find those

few moments to be.

Your eyes

speak of the glint

in your soul

once lit

would never be diminished.

The envelope of the desire to write envelopes me entirely, covering my existence and making it perfunctory. I wish to seek aid in writing, but my mind is distracted due to the layers of waste that exists inside the envelope. 

I must write and I must live and live according to a set of rules that are unwritten. This bothers my soul and tears it apart. Does this enable me to write? Yes, as I am doing now, but not sufficient for the resurrection that I am looking for. To be born out of your own creation is to assign a purpose to your own creation. To commit hours of writing is what I need, but hours I do not have right now. I need them. I need them. I have to make them, to manufacture time out of time. As you read through this, it seems like a ranting of a broken and lost man. But a broken and lost man will come to be a man through the circumstances unseen to him. Unpredictability to achieve a goal lends a kind of beauty to life which cannot be seen without a set purpose.

So my goal is to write, but that isn't something I do enough. Hence my existence becomes beautiful in a disorderly manner. I exalt the nature of who I am right now because I haven't come to be. But I know for sure that I will be.