It's different now.
Depression is an illusion.

It's a place of transmutation.
It's a place of evolution.

It's a place of power.
A place where violent forces
serve the purpose of self transcendence.

So is this going to be

My Final Form?

A path of thorny roses
carved itself unto my skin.
I see her struggle,
her thirst and
desire for sunlight.

A petal falls
and blood trickles down my leg.

She fears that she will wither
before she opens up to bloom.

I gently caress the petal of the rose and whisper
is my pain of no concern to you?
My blood will not quench your thirst for sunlight.

Yet despite that she's nestling deeper
thorns buried
and aching
out of some form of misplaced necessity and desperation.

A desire to live, a desire to grow, a desire to blossom.

By the roots, I rip her out.

I am no means for her survival.
Nor am I afraid of pain.

Digging for treasures,
dusty pits,
shoveling ashes.
Where the dead lie forgotton.
When I put em there
I didn’t bother with caskets.

Old hollow bones
dead men tell no tales
and I sure as Hell can’t remember
what I did to them that got them here.

I dig and dig and dig
with candle light
past lives, flicker and dance in my shadow.
But I’m not here to watch their past amusements

What am I looking for?
In these vast swathes of grey land.
There are no answers in these Ashy oceans.
Waves of dust, skeletons drowned in pitiful regret.
Their last words lie at the bottom
damning those that dare and listen.
The wind howls without whispers.
There’s only silence that has been shed from life.
Meaningless and unimportant.

I need to think!
I shouldn’t doubt! Not here. Not where I am now.
The answer is right in front of me.
So what am I not seeing?

There’s only barren ash
and buried past.
A grey sky, heavy clouds of black thoughts.
I got a parched throat and no water.

I take a deep breath.
And the answer is right there
in front of me.

I stand up. I know what I need to do
to turn this place into Fertile land.

When I don't give a **** then I ain't fair.

I see Gods, wearing masks of self betrayal.

They spawn on a green surface
where they feast on the carcass of Creation.
A worldwide theater opens and their inherited ancestral traumas
play out their parts to perfection on the stage of current events.
Their projections are as clear as a day of light pollution,
muddling the bright night skies.
It is the atmosphere that reflects the ocean
and I see pockets of plastic black float in oily hues.
You drink the poison in your waters and you turn into acidic cynics.

Earths mirror is soiled and broken.
It's shattered fragments reflects distorted voices,
that are making love to your inner critics.
Silent whispers slowly mold you into discordant individuals,
with fragmented autonomies as parts but stitched together woven incompleteness.

With your heritage you've denied your weakness.
I grit my teeth as I part with tears of shame.
A loud laugh comes forth from a defiant heart.
A storm dark yet no clouds pass.
Why do you brandish scars with bitter flames?