Yes, you can go near "them"
and talk to "them"
and be nice to "them"
and, god forbid, treat "them" like they're human.
Surely, you aren't stupid enough to think,
that crazy is contagious
and that insanity is catching.
Well if you're not,
why are you acting as though they are plagued?
Why are you calling those people,
who are just like you and me,
"them" as if they're from another planet?
The distance is apparent,
but you cannot see the wall.
Should I even care at all?
Everybody knew I was coming down,
but nobody thought I’d fall
Days are getting vapid
I need something to call
A reason to live
until I’m in a hearse
And when that day comes
On my behalf,
please recite a holy verse.
It all started with a memory.
Pushing its way from the depths of my mind.
Submerging into a thought...
The thought causing my stomach to scream every time I walked past her.
My emo blue haired friend.
Well used to be a friend.
At one point even a little more.
The thought slowly but surely turned into a tear.
Then a storm.
The rain kept falling my mind clouding up completely.
I hurt my girlfriend to much.
It's all unintentional but it's there.
Anyways the storm turned into a lightning strike.
The lightning taking the shape of a silver blade.
The blade I had sworn to put away.
The blade I had hidden ever so well just invade and emergency came about.
I thought this to be an emergency.
So the lightning struck leaving a thick river flowing down my hand and arm.
A river of red warm regret.
I liked watching my own blood make it's way down my arm.
It gave me a sense of peace.
Peace knowing I'm so lost that I rely on self mutilation to get through the day.
Everyone has their choice of destruction...
some choose drugs.
Then there's me and I choose isolation and pain.
Being alone is my worst fear and my number one weakness.
When I'm alone I can act recklessly with no one to stop me.
Not that anyone cares anyways.
That's all I want.
Someone to stop me and hug me and tell me it'll be alright. Still I remain alone.
no lights... this is my life now.
The tears leaving my pillow wet and the river flowing thickly from my arms.
This is my life now.
A door shut was the summary
Of your world
And mine was following you
As your skin unfurled
You didn't take them, anyway.
There was a song the sleep soft fur sang to the pills
"it could've been you, it could've been you. It would've been a dying thrill"
when his smirk turns to a scowl and his booming voice mentions a man named "lee"
I wish it had been me
My inner Trump is building walls;
from 'fugee thoughts
and outside influence
The borders are now closed.
Nothing's coming through,
not even you
Can you dig?
Up for coup?
Click, hum. The phone line dies,
The ghost of rejection tickling one
Ear as it floats across the other. Her
Breath goes with it, a short exhale
Of frustration and grief.
The room is now silent, save for the
Shallow breaths of the aging dame
Grey mascara rivers running down
Thin crevices, inexorable lines of
An inevitable future. No makeup
So fine and polished can mask: she’s fallen
Victim to the times, pushing and straining
As far as the limits of her youth will allow
Cold remnants of an untouched meal
Watch from the corner, stale, unwanted
collecting dust and fleas,
Waiting to be disposed of, bound to be forgotten.
She pauses, blinks. The pit of her stomach
Grumbles in understanding -- two hands
Jump to grasp a cinched waist.
Open bourbon, brought in anticipation of good news
Teases: no cheers for the old hag!
A fist and a table, an empty glass soon
Filled as she pours herself a bitter dose
Of panacea, just a little something to take
The edge of her face, to knock off a few years and
Quiet the pain.
Fifty and forgotten, candle in the wind
A name that once drew the largest of crowds,
Full theatres and a demand in the public eye,
Now brings nonchalance, indifference, or
Worse -- ignorance! Who?
The young starlings, bright, eager doe-eyed
Little things: they are the new pull, the desired
Flavor and choice eye candy. She trembles, but
Blames the alcohol: after all, it whispers,
Who wants to look at you?
Cockroaches skuttle into the night,
at dawn with the return of the light,
disappear, fade away out of sight.
The walls here are all caked
in peeling paint that has been baked
by the suns hot rays, quietly raked.
Sanity lives on the edge of a knife,
the general state, incontinence is rife,
because on the Inside, there is no life.
Beady little eyes watch every movement,
waiting impartial for any improvement,
ready with medication, if over exuberant.
Soft padded walls in cold dark rooms,
an ironic parody of the inner gloom,
a safe place for the surreal to exhume.
The suffocating confinement is so intense,
so nothing any longer makes any sense,
until the pills wear off and the mood relents.
The confined suffocation, hard to breathe,
internal psychedelia in images weave,
an external environment seeks to deceive.
© Pagan Paul (27/01/17)
Anxiety... the bane to my existence
At the opportune time opposing my resistance.
Dragging me into an uncontrollable state of stress,
Where I stand idle, where I'm a mess.
All my insecurities resurface, and
I think that I can't handle this,
That I'm not that great after all.
That I'm not desirable in the eyes of all.
So I stand silent in desolation
In a state of isolation.
Where I wonder who would put up,
With this mishap of creation...
That happens to be me.
I don't wear winter
like a crystalline dress
made of silver sequins and frosted lace
clinging to glittered skin
I wear it like rough abrasive hospital gowns
made of bleached out blood stains
exposing frigid pale flesh
I don't inhale and exhale peppermint
with a candy coated sugar plum pout
sighing swirls of hot cocoa steam
I breathe in razorblade ice shards
with collapsed lungs
choking and gasping for air
I don't walk through fields of fresh fallen snow
leaving crushed diamonds under each footstep
with a chiffon sparkled scarf flowing behind
I lay alone hushed inside myself
shivering soul hidden under a pile of blankets
hoping someday to feel warmth again
you don't like the way I wear winter
neither do I