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Like lightning striking --
this is how it feels today.

I will see you in my dreams
and always feel your presence.
You are not here anymore
and the pain will not fade
easily.

If they say not to cry,
who's to say how to feel.
You were there,
when others were willingly absent.


I hope you knew you were loved.
And you will always be loved.
..
No matter what I write down
or think or feel,
reality cannot reverse itself.
Neither will the holes drilled permanently
inside my soul.


RIP
I scream, inside the tomb
--
they placed the bomb
---

that used to beat and left it rot
----

wondering what was the cause
----

of such a breakdown.
Denial is great, when people  refuse to blink into reality and admit permanent damage done to souls that have survived incomplete wreckage of spirit. Denial as a mechanism of spiritual stagnation, impedes possible progress and progression into acceptance and resolution of problems; forgiveness. Denial morphed into a coping mechanism for the weak, covering mental instability.  Inevitably, those who have been let down, rejected;  in darkness their insides that has been unwillingly painted by others. Some still suffer mentally inside their little box, accepting what has been done, the past that has been and the current battles to overcome.  The blackness is there in a present term, and  hope as well for the ones who scream silently, but carry no sign of it in the morning. The scream of the child buried and the smile and promise of the grown up to itself, never to become an example of the ones who are in denial. Never to cause physical or mental harm that is untreatable, to bring light to those who have been through the same. To never forget, but learn to expect everything from people; not imitate sources of malice, be vigilant and learn that denial and not taking responsibility can only lead to a progressive spiritual Disintegration.
All his senses
hyperactive.
Eyes open, fixed on a light, blue chair.
The black-coated people, silent companions to him
in the office.
He is half inside
full of flesh on the outside,
believes he is indestructible.

The words, that fly out of his mouth
chewed up, broken  like his soul,
broken down to mgs of clozapine.

Lack of sleep, the benzos failed to work.
REM cycles are out of stock
and alternatives are unavailable.

The living nightmares are his companions;
in his eyes a blank stare of someone
lost.

He looks around for a couple of
seconds as if he does not listen to
the questions, he is being asked.
He open-closes his orbits
rapidly in a mors-code fashion
to someone out of sight.

The family he never had,
he created in his mind.
From loneliness they protect him,
the voices never leave his
side.

Phone rings, the alienist answers.
I leave my notes to the side and
observe his movements.
For a moment
he turns towards me,
appearing emotionless,
then looks back.


Rain pouring on thirsty soil,
cats meowing free
outside the white-walled cages.
'The building (opposite this white hole we are in)
is it a new build?' he asked looking through the
window.

Flight of unlinked thoughts;
from electromagnetic fields
to dealthlessness.
No gun can **** him,
no family there for him.
The brother, he forgot
and no recollection of
the court order that put him
behind bars.

The TV box inside his head
always on, playing a movie on repeat.
A medicated, anhedonic protagonist
on a road of no return.
melinoe immortal Dec 2018
One's remembered self;
the clash within one's present
self.
Christmas mournings,
childhood memories
of ripped apart years.

Those life pages
full of thorns
that never seem
to burn.

Circulus vitiosus
linked mental inhibitions
inability to construct
current ability to destruct and reconstruct.


The unwritten soul letters
from the heart sent to the brain.
The thoughts that still wake you up
on days of heavy thunder and rain
inside your head.
They will never rest.

The days you hide from the sun's rays.
The days you walk into complete blackness
to the other side of silence
with the only compass your own will to heal.

Your own will to heal.
melinoe immortal Dec 2018
The lies they want to shove deep in your throat,
the stories they create in their little, sick minds,
to later satisfy their sadistic needs and feed their bastardised
souls.

Left sided hemiparesis of  insides,
right sided psychic  death.
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