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Keyed away all the time
Only entrance is a time bomb
Repress and hide without a doubt
But explode with the slightest bump

If your brain is a lock, then ***** is a key
Drink clockwise to keep it shut
But a blade turned left can be used to unlock
The door is always jammed anyways

You’re not a monster
But you drink when you think you are
To forget or repress
Perhaps the habit is the simplest part

I envision the pool of blood
With a bottle dropped by your blue hand
The vein is easier to enter than your mind
Bleeding out with a numbness to accompany

You say you’re not an addict
Just a man with an unhealthy habit
Regardless of that, my friend
This will be guiding you towards your end

I see and know so little
You are mysterious and completely closed
But intuitively it’s obvious
How you are not the **** you think you should hide

I do not know your story
But I do know your expression
I do not know your true self
But I do know your suffering

And no collection of particles
So decent and at worst neutrally charged
Would ever deserve drinking and thinking
Themself to death

You are seen and you are heard
You are validated and assured
You are not a disease or infection
You are not a monster or mutation

Keep the door locked if you wish
But don’t wait until it has to be impounded
You can unlock without the spirits
And open your mouth and mind
My body is a canvas of distress
Perhaps somebody will notice
That the destruction of the inside
Can be expressed from the outside
I use my body to scream from my brain
I can use a fork and a blade as a brush
Both will create different patterns on me
One shows dignity and one shows suffering
Which masterpiece will I let them see
The smaller I get, the louder I can paint
The less I need, the more I can draw
Do not applaud this ever changing art
Burn it, destroy it, and **** it- that’s how it’s made
Creation via destruction is all I know
My plate sculpts words I can’t form
Tangled thoughts get carved into art
Please see beyond the splashes of color
And dare to question and wonder
If the red paint was made from blood
Or the blue from self induced tears
This painted discipline went further
Than the artist ever could expect
It should be stopped when it was put it the Louvre
But the brush is stuck and the painting doesn’t end
It goes on and on because
The more you paint, the more canvas you need to cover
A cry for help and expression
Warps into a never dying obsession
Please wash off the pigment
Erase the pencil marks
Never let me turn my head into art
I pondered killing the one I hated most
The horrifying villain inside of me
I never let it show outside my skin
But if I didn’t disappear it would win

The creature looked just like me
Perhaps why I hated it most
Because it was who I am
But could never let anyone see

I wanted to **** it before it became me
I tried to fight it, yet it engulfed my existence
By trying to ****** the devil inside myself
I ended up destroying the only bits I loved

I am gone. That was me, I miss them.
All I have become is the monster I tried to end
Shrinking my externality would decrease the inside
Or perhaps that’s what I thought would happen

Could I compensate for the nonliteral space
The space and existence I seem to waste
With my voice, my thoughts, my soul
Could I force myself not to exist at all?

In a quest to shed my shell
I shed only the neutrality of myself
The villain still strongly resides
It wears my face and now it shrinks me too

It devours them, the me I love
There is so little left to know
Completely entirely possessed
By the thing I tried to suppress

I am withering away
If you know me, you don’t
Just the devil inside masquerading
Think I can come back? I probably won’t.

— The End —