"obscurities" poems
Born into a world of deception,
Embraced in a life of abuse,
Tormented by a state of abandonment,
Betrayed by parents of youth.
Destroyed by words of profanities,
Tortured without excuse,
Alone in a house of misery:
Torn, battered, and confused.
Compelled to a life of insignificance
With their endeavors never seen,
Their family — a false reality,
Alone with only their dreams.
Assaulted with no explanation
By parents who destroy with their hands;
A child bruised and broken
Can only dream of oceans and sands.
Alone in a world with no one,
Their voice never heard nor seen,
Locked in a room of obscurities,
Waiting for death to set them free.
Violence speaks to this child
With no escape to be seen.
Alone in this house of tragedy:
Withdrawn, suicidal, and unseen.
© 2020, K. Saitta
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 4:01 PM UTC
It's like that time the windows blew open,
And the gust carried snow in towards us,
Us huddled on the couch under that calico crocheted blanket,
And I looked at you, corners of my mouth pulled down,
And you,
You sighed, and shrugged,
Removed your arm from around my comfortable shoulders,
Struggled up and over to wrestle the pane
And lock the shutters,
And when you sat back down, you looked at me,
And all I had to do was smile.
It's like that time when we packed a picnic to the park,
And we only made it so far as the lake
Before our stomachs rumbled and your grumbling gave us an early lunch,
And then after, lay in the grass, pointing out
All the obscurities of our imaginations in the clouds.
It's like that time I came home,
So tired and worn out,
Hair askew with a smudge of dirt on my cheek,
And the lights were out, but you had lined the hall
To the bathroom with candles,
And as I made my way through their soft, whispering light
Towards the escaping tendrils of steam,
You jumped from the dark,
Stifling my shriek with a hug.
It's like that time I realized that I loved you,
It's like that time right now.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
This time I'm going to do the hermit thing right
Inner-work and self-love from morning to night
Awareness of all my woes and insecurities
Connecting with universal flows and obscurities
Going into my depths, no human interference
Focusing on my soul, not my appearance
Transmuting all my deep pain into sweet pleasure
While turning these dark coals into beautiful treasure
This focus and expansion is serving me well
Returning to my inner heaven, away from this hell
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 10:58 PM UTC
Past thick briers and dense thickets
Beyond inconsolable oceans and insufferable lakes
Amidst the roar of obstreperous winds
Within the abyss of calamity
I've let you past my obscurities into the forest of my heart
In return you promised your own so our forests would grow
Instead you left the seeds of hatred that grew amongst my trees
You used me as an exploit for your own selfish endeavors
Our love was made of rot and mold
The passion expired and you were gone
You left me to swim my way back
To climb past my briers and thickets
To bear the violent winds
To climb out of the dark abyss
So that I may find myself once again in clutters of debris
Spread out across the shores of what remains of me
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 7:35 PM UTC
Unravel slow, lush
dew of flesh and fill
beyond the madness of desire
breathless, tangled
to become enraptured
in dreams hazel gleam
Crawl beneath skin
ripe, raw, dripping
trailing the arch of fragment with
divine tongues languid dagger
piercing luscious petals
'till bloom engulfs unyielding stem
singing hymnals of glory and ******
wiping away blasphemous obscurities
To birth nectar tears
brittle, full bodied
trickling paths to succulent lustre
conceived in parted thighs
spread open, and content
poised for immaculate rapture
of heated breaths, strung tight
Slick, prayed willing
for stretch and sting
to mark on fold and crevice
love's first gasp
spilled, infinite
blazed in merge
of clinging limbs
unwinding the woven...
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 4:28 PM UTC
I'm sure the obscurities of the lenses clouding my vision
Are nothing more than a hologram of the world I never knew
But always thought existed in the window panes of my brain
The outside world my thoughts are too afraid to venture
For the warmth in the home of my realistic perception
Is the safe haven of who I am and what I know
And going outside my homestead into the dark forest of the things
That are undiscovered to my left but known all too well by my right
Are what excels my lenses to constantly change when the room is the same tint of light
Transitions from one thing to the next don't necessarily need to have a change one can see
I feel the forest calling me as if I'm some bewitched prophecy
But the foreboding dank blackness that thickens my view
Has always stopped me from entering into the unknown of my own self
These hazy retractions of light may cast dark shadows
However right now my mind is a whirlwind of calamities that can only be tranquilized
By venturing into the unknown darkness inside of me
This time these obscured lenses draped over my glass orbs
Create a tint similar to what is within the forest
My transitions are nonexistent but all the more in constant motion behind closed curtains
So my first steps out of my safe haven are slow
The door creaks like an old mans rusted weathered body
And I feel the pang of hysteria hit me as the outside air tests out my foreign skin
When I enter the blackened forest I begin running into what I have never known to my left but know so well in my right
The nightmare-conjuring mysteries of this realm are ready to be battled.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
In the midst of nothingness
Searching through darkness
Embracing loneliness
Comprehending vagueness
Befriending uncertainties
Playing with vulnerabilities
Absorbing obscurities
Appreciating difficulties
Drudging malfunctions
Living with illusions
Addicted to intrusions
Slave of temptations
Colors of dark grey and black fill the world in which I live
No other feeling could possibly be worse than this
Where once was a room filled with laughter & Cheer
Now stands loneliness, emptiness and despair.
Memories of you seem to creep around the corners of my mind
Endless haunting images of your face that won't decline
An overwhelming of emotion that my body can't contain
Fills my soul with unbearable grief, sorrow, and pain
Oh, How I long to hold you in my arms just once more
And tell you that things will be again, as they were before
But, as reality sinks in, I know that will never be
For the choices that I've made in my life have sealed our destiny
No one could ever fathom how wretchedly my heart aches
And how I greatly regret that you've had to pay for my mistakes
If I could go back in time, and change only one wrong that I've done
I'd go back to the Hour, to the second, on the day I lost you.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,
And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,
Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,
Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.
A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.
But a poet, a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt
To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.
And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,
Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile
Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet, a poet will spend lifetimes trying
To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.
And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others
That the poet will feel only rage,
And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,
For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
I get tired of it
The guys who write "poems" just to try to pick up on women
Cliche ridden hunks of text depending upon abstractions to seem deep
Yes I know this work is subjective, yes I know I'm not one to judge
But I can smell the real thing brother, and it doesn't smell like you
You don't HAVE to do this **** sitting up late juggling concepts too broad to pin down
You don't HAVE to sit down and pour it out before it erupts into a case of bad attitude.
You're far more interested in seeming deep, while the deep are far more interested in surviving
You want to front like you're a cool guy, like you've gotten in touch with all of the rally calls, and you're up on all the obscurities that anyone in the know should have a handle on
I don't give a **** what music you think is superior, or what author you feel your style most closely resembles, because you don't have a voice of your own
When you've got some **** to say, say it, own it, and put a real voice behind it, otherwise don't waste my time.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
My laptop reads 13%
And oddly enough I relate to that
It’s a staple of our generation to relate to others obscure references.
With agreements such as “same” being used to reference themselves to a cup lying on the side of the road.
I don’t quite understand and yet I find myself relating to these obscurities rather frequently.
I’m stuck.
Truly a dead end of the creative kind.
And sincerely it’s been literal months since I’ve created something I’m even mildly okay with.
Why? Is it because I’m depressed?
Is it because I am empty inside?
What can I find to blame my inactiveness on this time?
There are so many things I want to do.
I want to sing
I want to act
I want to fall in love
I want to make videos
I want to lose 30 pounds
I want to travel the world.
I want to come out to my family
I want to die but usually only at night, which is an improvement
I want be a lawyer, a doctor, a writer, a zoologist, an actor.
There are multitudes of things that I want, enough to fill up all of the oceans. Simultaneously
There is one that is noticeably more prominent than others and that is that
I want to be happy.
And yet here I am it’s 3 am and I’m nothing but empty
And even now, more than ever now, I need to have a voice.
I don’t want to be heard I need to be. But the words they just don’t come like they used to.
How am I supposed to pursue my dreams if I can’t even take a shower?
I’m falling. Again.
Life is messy. Life is a ******* **** show.
I’m trying to make the most of it. And honestly, it’s ******* difficult.
I want to write. I say that about every three hours and yet nothing.
More than anything, I want to live lives other than my own,
Not because of self-hatred but because of my desire to explore and to experience.
I want to fall in love with characters who help me to love myself.
I want to be more than a 16-year-old typing her life away hoping, praying to live other lives.
And just because I don’t know how to get there right now.
Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying.
I want to live for myself, I want to stop apologizing and go for what I want.
My laptop reads 2% and as it is powering off so am I.
I’m going to sleep in hopes of inspiration striking me while I’m floating between consciousness.
It’s unreasonable to ask for. But please.
I miss creating. I just want to live.
I just want to be happy.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
Crackling. Rocking. Crackling. Creaking and oscillating, a century old Mahogany Wood seceded to the paSsage of time.
Particles of sand, confounded by the Peninsula’s chaotic, blasting breeze now revealed a shade of burnt tar.
Outside of the second floor Maissonette, sways the rocking chair once warmed by Grandpa.
A Tactless, impatient, rhythmic Requiem Bashes near the wiNdow pane as the sunset falls Under the frame.
Empty Folklore presides like the Residue of a once lambent effigy… SwOosh. Hush!
Cocktails were a Preamble to lunch like diabetes to Nephropathy.
Corrosive Rhetoric seeped in to expose the ego of a Sommelier.
A smile would Parachute down when you needed it like Nicotine to remind that no Precedent had been set, just an Anomaly.
Cutthroat beginnings, this was no Analog man.
In grade school his Cosmos found Zion and “The world to come”.
This baby’s Cradle, abandoned High atop a mountain was blown by a Chinook towards the Atlantic.
“I was found swallowed in a stained Table cloth by Balkan children on a treasure hunt, with no Guarantee and no resignatIon. "
The boTtle narrates these chronicles and a smile parachutes down when you need it like nicotine.
Dionysus Crafted his accounts while most Garnered his spiels with Snide. As they witnessed dream remembrance; he thought his memory was Presumably accurate, and although his tales were triFling to the gathering audience, they became his Heliocentric history.
Calling me a young Galleon and handing me a map, Grandpa scanned his hand across the vast land
guaranteeing trEasure would be found if I had no resignation.
This Asinine assertion to my teenage sister Symbolized the Barring of her unheeding imagination by time and then a smile parachuted down just when she needed it like nicotine.
_TRF
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
Deranged and misplaced in a world of deceit Morals fade as hypocrisy defeats your belief Profound thoughts pleading for sanity die at the words of those around me Deprived of sleep and affection in an apathetic state of depression Drenched in hate and separated from truth I hid in my mind The darkest place I’ve ever been was my own mind Light abandoned in the background died down and I fell in the shadows
Obscurities in desolate caverns tortured my sanity Drained of life my soul found comfort with demons I created in my heart Alone in nostalgia I created beliefs that made sense to a mad man and accepted them gladly An immense loathing for happiness and a mind fixated on destroying all things pure The light was murdered never to be seen again gone forever and drowning in sin Filled with blood blacker than night and a mind too sadistic for the world My body was armour filled with a demon
Placidly screaming for freedom chaos followed me as night does the day The mind is gone and the body is a shell weaker than self-control I teased myself with I was a plaything for evil sitting in the depths of my own Hell Constructing complications that have never even seen life my mind was deceived I took pleasure in hate and anarchy and perceived love to be a lie The outside seemed dejected and the inside was infected with insanity conjured from demons My soul fled to recess formed by blades of hate
Chains forged in the lake of fire bound me to my own pathetic sub conscious Lost in the dark, searching for intellectual reasoning I quit…. All was dull… Hate and Evil became boring... Love and compassion was long extinct There was nothing left, my soul remained but as purposeless as the body it inhabited Incoherent and abandoned, forsaken by none yet all in my judgment I was below mankind and became prey for the living dead My soul altered into physical animosity The pleasures of the world were miserable Light avoided me and persons overlooked me My body lay, rotting, praying for an escape but death would be an imprisonment of solitude The concept of Hell was ravishing and the indication of pain was tempting Blood of my body paints the earth from crawling towards an end.. Would there be an end? Surely none are as wretched as I… I say cremate the wretched. Praying for Hell from the Almighty God who knows all perspectives yet offers a choice
God creates us with a voice to be heard yet he knows the outcome Therefore wouldn’t be crafting souls to be hurt?
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:02 PM UTC
What are words, but mere images of time,
Leafy similes that tend to rhyme,
Melodies that fade away to memories,
Written abstractions, proof of obscurities?
What are words, except strange tries,
To express emotions made of ice,
Mere tribulations, left unjustified,
Vague articulations that tend to die?
What are words, when I cannot find,
Adjectives, verbs, nouns, and signs,
That reaches the innermost, essential soul,
Of my deepest feelings, our very goal?
What are words, that leave you speechless,
Stunning languages, sounds, scribbled messes,
Answers of diction, silly confabulations,
Stirring tools, to test descriptions?
What are words, which reach the limit,
Text, talk, vibrations that fit,
The pieces missing, the definition,
Lingering in every other exhibition?
What are words, what are morphemes,
Speeches, utterances, lengths of keys,
To the secret reassurance humans need,
Sensations of steady expressions in a mind?
What are words, boundaries of lines,
Vowels, consonants, verbal binds,
A stem, a phoneme, a lexeme, a note,
On which we all deliberately wrote?
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 8:52 PM UTC
I can't get out of bed
my mind is overlapping
overextensions of the body
alert
lethargic
dream state zombie
fire flickers frequently
on pretty rocks next to me
liquid I'm consuming
forgetful
free
and dooming
wind chimes
chiming
ringing
off vibes
singing
lost time
finding
rebuked
meanings
underbite
teeth clenched tight
but I'm smiling
bigger than ever
clever weather
sending me
hurling towards
obscurities
a crying running nose
lights blinding to near pain
shielding myself under feeble covers
till life breathes within me once again
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
- She was a dreamer who lived in
an insomniac world. Nothing came easy…
every time she tried to begin,
she would stumble and fall, but that
didn’t stop her. Although she thought
differently...her will could withstand anything
thrown in her way, just another challenge fought.
The past haunted her days, shadowing almost
every move…every single breath. Time
always promised to make things better,
but she knew better than to find
truth in those words. Truth lay somewhere
far from where she had ever let herself dream,
too heavy from all the weight she carried.
There was only one time she let herself lean…
letting her weight get the best of her, thinking
she could find a way to dream peacefully forever,
but even then she failed to succeed.
She lost the ability to hold her world together.
Indifferent to the world, numb to all
emotion, she lost hope in being set free.
The darkness surrounding so great; faith too small.
So she poured her pent up pain,
into artful master pieces.
She sketched abstract obscurities
that depicted her darkest of secrets.
She painted intangible thoughts and
feelings she longed to be fulfilled with through
majestic words that put anyone who dared
to read, in the footsteps of her soul. Broken and blue
she crafted old warn memories into the
picturesque landscapes of her wildest dreams. She
elegantly danced with the monsters under her bed and
gracefully with the skeletons in her closet… breaking free.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
comfort was a long road that came to a dead
end abruptly. happiness and companionship
left suddenly with the clutch of solace. he
was left standing there in the rain, all senses
disdained. a seeing man now build to ease,
seeing the fellowship of someone that ties
knots in your throat; turns your obscurities
to seize.
distraught
at this very moment the quest for clenches
to console surrounded him with the ignorance
his state of mind was unable to control.
seeking and searching began in the
bedsheets. he found loneliness and
regret; mistake after mistake, temporary impassion
chose what risks to take. drowning in seas of
duvets, suffocation on the stench of
frictioned flesh and smothered in the salinity
pasted on each others skin like the warpaint of
ephemeral happiness, he searched down an
unsearchable road and lost his direction in the
******* forever ringing his ears with regret. each kiss
down his neck, each bite to his lip, each face-blanketing
exhale, he repents with the ignorance of finding the
will to live and love between the legs of someone who
feels the same way. the crimson crevices carved in his back
drip with remorse and sullen; hoping for once to life the
bedsheets and find an unawakened bundle of coiffure
and serenity and not calamities of regret and ****** suicide
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
sometimes...
chaos forces us to examine the ghosts
we thought we had banished to the coldness of a casket,
buried deep within cranial cemeteries,
one last time before they disintegrated
into the obscurities of our souls.
souls which have embarked on the journey
of infinite slumber.
it was no coincidence that the date of their departure,
aligned with the evening on which the
last living butterfly was impaled upon a piece of cardboard.
no longer a free being,
but a newly framed monument to a time
where the dead did not dance with the living.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 8:27 PM UTC
As all is wrong, as all is known, you're on your own, your teeth are honed.
It's vengeance's hour, gives hate so dour, how it empow'rs, all to devour.
All remedies, obscurities, benignities, are turned to sin.
As you begin, fear setting in: for only one of you can win.
This lovely dance, this deathly dance, once-in-life chance, you fall in trance,
And call for death, draw your last breath, as all is set, start this duet!
Your final trial, you share a smile, a hateful smile, respectful smile.
Passion is riled, made this worthwhile, all that is left: blood, sweat and bile.
You both are free, you met your peer, now you will see, that death is near.
Without a sound, you leap around, and strike the ground, your screams resound.
All be confound'd, no way around, 'tis fate you found, you're destin'-bound.
One of you falls, and damns it all, more pain enrolls: they've met their goal.
Your life they stole, death takes its toll, you lose your soul: this dance is whole.
Oh, what a strife, with death was rife, grandest celebration of life!
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy
Under watchful eyes
No room for lies
No time for pleasantries
Blast them into obscurities
Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy
Why bother with explaining
It's all too emotionally draining
Once again, it's just not fair
And I'm trying hard not to care
Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy
Just pretend and save face
I've already fallen from grace
Ready, here comes my smile
Even though I'm hurting all the while
Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy
Shh quiet, don't say a word
Sorry just forget what you heard
Don't listen, apparently I'm insane
Driven mad from all this pain
Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy
I sit back and wait
While the puppet master decides my fate
It's a performance with no cause
I'm dying to the sounds of applause
Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy
I could choose to lay it all out
And finally confront the doubt
But out loud, no I couldn't
I want to though I shouldn't
Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy
I'll cut the strings and avoid the gaze
And look beyond the deciteful haze
Surpass that growing abyss
And cannonize all of this
Don't pity me
I'll write you into infamy
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 2:56 AM UTC
Who knew our spirits would be so easily broke? Who knew our past loves would come crawling up our legs to meet us for dinner? who knew the joys of rhythm and melody would stand and stare us down for hours and never lead with the first move. Who knew the catacombs of my fearing mind would desecrate the innards of my only wantings. Who knows why the big ones reel in after dusk. Why did things turn out in the season of so much anger? How can one overcome any proportion of ill intention to an honest living. Where are the street-grit-fighting-fearless godsends of our time. Where are the nights of comfort among the towering plagiarisms of sonic inequities. Why am I stone in my own mirror? And how often shall I have to shave off the transgressive anachronisms of the jesting majority-unjust. Will I ever see a cannon with a name other than "jesus the king" around the barracks of quen anne burrows? I am cold and engrossed with my feelings. I am the youth's catch-all phrase for re-new-all and desperate tendencies. I am the unconscious objection to that censure of my own old crowning. The way i was held like an infant again. I mustered and mangled and derived that only in my free gliding could i roll down the soft hills of my fervent dreams. I can smell and sense the rays of jubilation i reach when drifting in tangent with the innocuous verbiage of my unbridled soul. Bringing the bleak toned honesty I once and always devote my sincerity towards. and alas my mind begins burrowed in the melting tin of bleeding doves. Not to be confused with other obscurities We Speak Wandering. Pleasant by night,
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Traipsing around your own obscurities
A little triangle; you're own trinity
I put a blind eye up to your window of equivocalness
I wasn't positive if you were that in to me
It's not just little crush for you, it's an obsession
Engrossed, hiding behind your false complexion
Everything was familiarly desolating
Who would've known you were enticed by your own progression
Stuck in your game of disturbing affliction
Years and years of built up absorbed addiction
Framed or ashamed of your heartless indulgence
The lies you hide underneath your table, caught fire from excessive friction
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
Your eyes tell a story, down a path
leading to an eternal ocean
of past lives and loved lies
basting in the hopes and dreams
of permanent destruction
Devine perfection
perceived as crippled obscurities
fearful of who's identity is portrayed
keeping signs of divinity at bay
avoiding the love of the guides
covered in humanities tainted prides
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
As we inter-loop,
we tend to find a small group.
Clinging to who will listen,
Just to seem like we glisten.
But what if you take yourself away,
Find peace of mind to convey.
You may find more in yourself
Then you will in themselves.
While most seem to follow trends
Take some time to make amends
With any obscurities in your head
And break through the unsaid.
Peace can be found in the smallest crack
Just open your eyes and fade out the black.
Once you found you.
Find someone who's not see through,
And live!
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 3:35 PM UTC
I envisioned these days so often,
fearful of the independence soon to come.
Repression has surpassed to grant this favor
of forgetful remembrance –
or perhaps my memory you’ve stripped as well.
Loneliness stalks even the proudest of prey,
probing the crevices stashed deep away
to betray the very promises endemic to your core.
Now do I savor the silence I once abhorred.
I lie and I listen to the serenity all around,
obscurities of the day whispering from my walls
as an auburn Cardinal serenades from outside.
The moon beckons me near, apologetic murmurs
of her needless façade from the past –
a revered box fan underwhelms the silence
and disperses my diffused Siberian fir,
crips notes of pine and aromatic wintergreen
to soothe the comfort of my nightly routine.
Now do I know myself more than ever before.
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 1:40 AM UTC
Hesitation.
Poetic thoughts to merely strangle an
Otherwise undeveloped expression.
Chaos- dripping profusely from an
Endless flow of illusion.
Imagination? Is this real?
But the good is
SO
Good...
Inspiration.
Claw at the temptation to be
Different.
Something else.
Real.
Because maybe then reality
Could actually make some sense.
But still can't get over the thrill
Of existence
Being nonexistent.
Because it's
So ******* good
To feel unreal.
Why should anything matter-
When nothing is affecting
Anything.
But, knowing, knowledge-
That **** is scary.
Because how can anyone know?
Jesus Christ, the "nothingness" just ******* kills me.
The screaming is melting my brain tissues
And inside my head is just
Black, static sick of explaining the
Discomfort in my head.
Sick of rambling cheap obscurities-
Verbally littering on this ****** up planet
One "word" at a time.
Who the hell cares??
Because
No one
Cares.
Ignorance is considered cherrishable
Because we don't have the *****
To accept reality-
At least maybe I'm just weak.
So why does it even matter?
Redundance- it gets so ******* old.
Feel like something fresh-new-breathable
Could expand at least an experience or two.
Yet it gets so catchy to
Rage warfare on one's self.
**** cause the taste
Is exceptionally harsh.
Texture is only an effect based on perception.
Still, everything is in
Retrograde inversion,
Like my old composition homework assignments-
Only less classy,
And without genius direction.
**** the misunderstanding, man.
That **** will mess with your mind.
But I am in love
With hating to feel,
And everything in between and
Opposite that.
And I couldn't explain anything,
To even give you an idea of what its like.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC