To Become Death; In The Pursuit Of Life

Love; the great saviour

Love; the great deceiver

We pursue the sacred feeling through every blackened, burnt out and hellish landscape we know but is it really a cure?

The blindly devout follower of positive instinct in me craves it, lusts for a safely redeeming hint of that sweet escape from reality’s damnation

The passionately dark Sharman of truth casts the word as a curse, a dangerously infectious idea that blinds it’s prey with merciless efficiency before the strike

I want to believe it will remedy my ills with a soothing malaise of healing calm, the ice to violently supress the volcano of negatively emotive feelings that burn my very skin with depressive pain

But the devoutly truthful Sharman’s words strike with as much painful regret as love’s own dagger, each a kindred in terms of purest power and impact upon my fractured state

Where the blade ends and my flesh starts twistedly merges into unholy mess, wilful offering of my body into the trap the most bitterly felt betrayal as poison metal makes it’s home amongst the other daggers protruding from my back

How I long to see the reassuringly red flecks of life proudly interrupting the black oily substance flowing through my veins, such endless nothing now so strong as to take physical form, and the truly disturbing reality that stems from this bleak realisation…

When the venomous black ooze spills from my wounded flesh, acidic smoke as it eats into the most hardened veneer of honest innocence; that I am the cause of the very much resented suffering that I have vowed to never cause

Love; the great saviour

Love; the great deceiver

In my broken, fractured and blackened state how would I even know how to tell which statement is truth, and which verse is merely a self-protecting lie

The Reality

And there it is, the glaring cliff of realisation threateningly looking up into your cold dead eyes

A morbidly experienced activity of counting those who you trust draws on a grimly found zero, old friends drifted into the void of time as close family are there but ever drawn into their own increasingly busy lives, then you; the keeper of secrets, betrayer of self and ultimately in that damning realm of depressive pain; the only one walking by your side

A massed horde of faces crowding you every day only sees the illusive front stonily protecting whatever it is you have become, their idea of your reality pathetically just a myriad of features you clinically cut into shapes and appropriate size to appease their simple preconceptions enforced over time

Now secured in the prison safe facility that is the toxic refuge you bitterly call home, a sole chair facing the barred windows and a single glass cast idle in the sink, now swigging straight from the bottle labelled life with not so much as an attempt at feigning concern you see the only two options which cursedly remain; which side of the head to rest the barrel of the gun and when to shoot

The ghostly whisper of a thought hanging in the gun smoke; will they see the next fatal events as a mercy killing or self-inflicted wounds, will anyone care!

The View from the Shadows

It’s when happiness hurts you more than despair
That you have fallen into the shadows of where the world rejoices
And are beyond the reach of those who live in the light of happiness
Becoming alien to even those you once called friend
The biggest disappointment felt when lost in that black ocean…
…that death has yet to find you and it hurts more to live than to accept death

Dark Ramblings

A demon’s own hand silences its own torture

The reach of chaos from where best intentions turned hope to soured pain

Screams never hold volume when only the one in pain hears their own cries

Oceans of ash to stamp into history all the bridges burnt in quest for companies hand

A demon’s blood as red as a mortal’s own life giving liquid

Dust and poison in viens carry forth the continuation of dismay as no knife can pierce the skin of stone bound to sin

When all the above begin to burn words uttered by crowds of tainted spirits into the very air you breathe out

And all the words waiting to be cast as judgement below scorn with venom a name as simple as the one I own

No matter the will to carry torches of honesty and better cause if only the mob’s quiet stares ever want your presence

So a demon’s own hand once more is required to mark the flesh to which it is attached

And pain forever more falls silent to the lies of illusion you show the world

Farewell humanity

You never did fit in me and all my own hand will end

Endeavour to find a vessel worthy as mine decays from within

The idiots guide to avoiding death at the hands of a depressive

Never sell a positive you can’t guarantee, never reassure someone when there is no hope to repair a situation

Idiot: It’ll get better, you’ll meet someone one day

Depressive: I’ve been single for double digit years and that’s the third person to reject me this month

Idiot: Plenty more fish in the sea

Depressive: I’m going to die alone

Idiot: Never give up hope, there’s someone for everyone

Depressive: (lifting heavy object)

Idiot: (no longer conscience and now bleeding from a head wound)

Selling false hope to a depressive is the equivalent of telling a terminally ill patient they will have a long and healthy life, que the lack of a positive response and some heavy sighs from the nearest intelligent person!

Don’t offer pointless and useless help, advise or assistances

Idiot: Here; have this cuddle, and you know you can tell me anything

Depressive: Don’t touch me, or I’ll hurt you

Idiot: Don’t be like that, I am here to help you and listen

Depressive: I don’t want to talk to you, go away

Idiot: I want to help you with my love and caring attitude

Depressive: Ok; so I offended a co-worker because they were a whiny bitch, lost my job and the boss told me I was ‘too morbid’ and should ‘care more about others’ like the person who couldn’t take a little joke about suicide that wasn’t even that bad and just because I was holding a knife to my wrist I am a ‘risk to the business’….. (etc etc)

Idiot: (Endless screaming as the mental health nurse sedates them)

Pointless and useless help is not useful, blindly damning and is it bound to cause aggravation and stress; yes!

The new definition of pain you feel as either 1; they take you up on your offer but you are wholly not prepared for the fire storm of crazy, or 2; they are using you as an emotional punching bag to release all that pent up crazy

So ask yourself if you really thought it was a good idea, as the mental health nurses reassure you that you might recover the ability to sleep without nightmares one day

Don’t mollycoddle

Depressive: I don’t need your sympathy

Idiot: You going to be ok, do you feel ok

Depressive: Do you have eyes, I just showed you where I was cutting myself

Idiot: I think you need a hug, lets have a hug and make it all feel better

Depressive: If you do I’ll…

Idiot: You really need a hug don’t you, tell me what’s wrong and get over here

Depressive: No, but you are going to need a medic

Idiot: (flying across the room as a fist hits their face)

Depressive: Well that actually helped

Idiot: Why are there two of you, I can’t hug two of you and the cartoon monkey is telling me…


In the art of dealing with depression you don’t crowd, placate or offer hollow sympathy (unless the last time a depressive punched you it really did damage!) but accept that distance is the best part of wisdom

A beverage, some space and distracting humour are by far wiser strategies


You follow the glittering breadcrumbs of hopeful enlightenment as they beckon nicely “Ask for help, we can help you” drifting into the glimmering den of optimistic décor that lulls naturally suspicious senses into wilful repent of their pessimistic ways

The words leave your mouth with the dry heart pounding anxiety of expectation lingering on each syllable “I need help…” as into the lulled motion you make a humble request

Then the walls shrink into reddened hue, demanding faces form in the cracking surfaces of a formally optimistic décor as the door behind slams shut with a force to push you back towards the now glaring face of that siren called hope “WHY” it shrieks aloud to pierce your eardrums “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING BY WASTING OUR TIME” in response to the humbly small request eked out in now shamefully loaded hushed tones as that demonically figured form says louder “WHAT DO YOU DESERVE”

No help follows you from that place, the echoes of grimly shouted resentment carry each a dagger for the space in your back exposed to those burning words as you doggedly run with panicked pace from that place now beyond dark, only shame is earned in asking for help that day

A stony will expunges the hopeful lightness that elevates the heavy burden of living, the one salvation felt by it sapping mercilessly every positive tinge so daring as to make a note of discord against the consuming hatred of all you thought was true

Shattered truths or positive perception under foot

A figure of one does stare back in deathly colour from the cracking mirror enveloping the crimson emotional liquid shed in angst from your broken fragmented mind, another fragmentation occurring in silent pain for the knowledge that no one wants to hear your screams, or worse; will not reply with kind return as that ideal now fills that place where hope is void

The grim reaper simply informing you as casually as a simple light hearted exchange; of the verdict as damning as a death sentence “You have learned your lesson, now always know that only you are able to be faithful to the fated trust others have destroyed, when trouble calls and you deal with it all alone”

Your crime; to say “I need help” now a brand that will never fade

Inconclusive Resolution Blues

Weeks endured in the grips of an acidic burn cast against the logic that to act is a bad idea, caustic emotions create new worlds of torture at the sight of her as every second spent in proximity is an exercise in anxious exploration of the solely destructive idea that doggedly pursues, the hunters of your sanity’s ghost in the endless bleak void of knowing demise.

The numerous assaults of fear in every putrid sickening form of failure a demon can take and multiple in number so to make sure you know; that escape from your fate is a dream and that fate will seal your doom, each depressive blast a new pain to mask the blackhole sensation that love so viciously casts upon you.

It sits at the twistedly corrupt core of the tangled forest of evil; a heart as poisonous as the nest of vipers stalking you in the blinding daylight that it sent to ensure you feel every cursed bite of love’s corrosive burn, uncertainty the fangs that deliver in the end the rejection to kill all hope.

You ask through the myriad of anxieties flames flickering with the sharpened forks that demon’s minions wield in the face of good favour and luck in the dark arts, a moment framed in hellish pause as she stalls with her surprise; Have you broken her? Did you spoil the months of good will and polite exchanges to failingly pacify the corrupted temptation to ask a singularly bad question?

“Would you like to go out with me” stammers embarrassingly from your mouth pathetically with baited breath, humiliation held in judgement by the waited response she takes forever to voice in that moment you wait; will it be rejection’s merciful let down, acceptance of the offer to release the unknown chaos you haven’t planned for or will all destruction mercilessly rain down as it goes horrifically wrong with public damnation …but it’s not yes or no she says but instead some vague inconclusive

You thought of all the ways it could go bad, but the one variation that happened

Life’s laughter ringing out as the church signalling the day of happiness you damningly only watch from the sidelines, never a hope that your beloved will be standing next to you to redeem all the wounds that eternally bleed every fractured ideal of happiness once whole with belief.

The dark mirror echoing images of the nightmare lands where you find slim salvation in the joy deposing fact that at least the demons there are civilised, looking you in the eye as they deliver the shot of fresh pain into your walking corpse instead of a dagger in the back from angles unseen.

And the most stinging sign of life’s unforgivable betrayal; through writing all this I can’t even be given the release of a single tear, only the subtly creeping death of my ability to feel…

Old lines, new pain

Pain is a fire that burns from the inside, burning structures of logic, trust, humanity and destroying the ability to feel love

You can rebuild the damaged parts of your persona, fill the gaps and rewire broken components of the ghost that has become of your humanity

But you never regain what you lose, that person you were who was like all the others as the people around you grow and develop, as your patchwork attempt at imitation requires constant repairs

But you never fit in, never become whole again as even the ability to feel fades into the ash of the all consuming fire that is the pain

What is a living thing that can’t feel, is it still alive or just an illusion projected to the world as into the shadows retreats all the surviving traits that outshone the blaze, because they were already built of hellish things

And all that huddles in the protective aura of those hellish things become corrupted and unlike the shining gems they were, and from the darkened form you see the world one question glares back from the jaded mirror’s twisted image

What is more real, the shadow or the form?