They want me to be a plane.
Lifted by the fresh winds that they themselves create.

Hoping this flight would never end.
They made me believe instead of pretend.
I didn't mind as they dictated my life.
As long as they didn't **** me with their knife.

Then the plane comes crashing down,
Into the deep dark ocean, leaving me to drown.
I resisted the cold at first,
but soon felt comfort in the worst.

I was reminded of their stain that they have left in my brain.

set me to airplane mode,
I feel like I'm going to implode...

my thoughts, they're spiraling,
there's a short-circuit in my wiring

this world beneath me has gone ablaze
& I cannot escape this fiery haze

I'm soaring toward a sea of flames
from our world without a trace

falling
fast

here
comes
the:
             crash

Thoughts like streams,
jokes on you.
The energy will consumer,
the customs you have made.
Jokes on the one with dreams,
the one who brings fear and envy.
All I am is the messenger,
of thought to power.
This isn’t agony.
This is grand.
Something will strike me down,
but in the end,
I will return to this place of solace.

Mania. Everything was good when you were with me.

I felt normal. The chains bolted to my eyelids where magically gone, like the money in your bank account after a heavy, drunken, stupor & forthright gambling spree.

The spear in my side that your twin brother, depression, threw inside me was no longer twisting up my insides. Thank you.

This feels like a goodbye letter but I'm actually trying to hold on to you. You give me life. Your twin takes it away and he rash-burns my face in it.

I was accomplishing all the things; skipping from one stone to the next without feat. "Flutter your wings and dance," is your motto.

But like all good things, you drive me away, knowing that I'll see you again.

Try as I might, I remain faithful to you, but you commit adultery every week.

Sometimes you demand my time, even when I'm low. I cry for hours with your natural dichotomy, not because I can't decide--I can--but because you and your twin rip me apart in twain, changing my reality as sure as the rain falls in the Amazon.

The demons call out to me, whispering evil into my mind. I believe every evil thing when I am not armed with your brilliance. I lose that perspective, every time, and sometimes immediately.

Your twin brother and cousin visit me early in the morning right before bed time. If my doubts and fears are real, then my mind's eye is experiencing a real reality, and thus I am as I feel, like a plastic bag tumbling in the wind.

Yet, everyone reminds me that I am but a joke and a comic, one which not even you can trust.

The biggest asset I lose when you choose to cheat on me is your energy--that precious flow that bears my creative passion.

But now I am barren, an unfit conduit that is incapable of maintaining that flow. The demon upon me powerfully weaves its tapestry of sludge that encases my mind.

My mind, it's the only thing I have left. And yet, I can never trust it.

You've lied to me before and you'll lie to me in the future.

But for now, I'll have to make do with your half-truths.

Until next time.

Endless ropes tangle and grab
each individual omnipotent thought
of pleasure, denied gravity.
Slowed down, brought to frivolous
thoughts of relapse.
Speeding through the flimsy nature
of the ropes final stance.
A noose of the future.
A pivotal moment in comprehending,
all of this temporary fixation of
tragic dead-weight.
I am nothing but god’s will, contrary
to the greater good.
The ropes rip through themselves and idealize
Mistakes.
Pleasures.
Fixations themselves, alone and without
a viewable malice.
Distance is a deliberate blemish.
I don’t need to view myself.
I am falling through the ground and reaching
a turning point. Again. And again.
Faces and voices alike mean nothing until
I beg for forgiveness of myself.
Drifting between pressure tantamount to
torture in solitude.
Anyway, anytime,
I am succeeding in being alone.
Where is the recognition?
This pleasure, is it faux?
Grandiose indeed, a desperate attempt
at reaching a point where days
that exist and have existed are
superficial.
This recovery is relapse.
I will fall back, the ropes
still begging to hold me.
They speak my name.
My name is everything to them.
They are in abundance, but
I am obsequious.
It is all fake.
It is a testament to the reality of it all.
I will grab myself,
pulling as hard as I can until the ropes
snap and I return to a brooding state.
I ruminate.
The rumination expands and breaks my body.
Will I ever return to bliss?
Or was I never there?
Blemished and weak,
always there. I bloom.
Grandiosity returns,
the ropes rekindle their romance in twos.
It all ends.
I have failed my reckoning.
This is reality.
A twist of fate that can only be seen,
by god himself.
Whomever he may be.
I would like to meet him.
He sounds like I would like him.
I love him.
He is eternity, is he not?
The journey is dreadful,
but the return is remorse.
Nothing is right and nothing is wrong.
Either way, I am hanged by ropes I
have obliterated in a haste.