Lonely Tombstones and Dark Storms

A lonely tombstone on the edge of the abyss brings a deathly air to tediously dragging ceremonial events

A solitary figure casts a creeping shadow over the grave as the days light is corrupted by nights threatening presence slinking across the grey skies above, bleak words spoken in monochrome tones blandly tell the span of a life lived in best intentions, unintended sins heavily evident in the lacking numbers present to send off the mortally expired person; six foot deep with no tears shed and not even the falsely redeeming whisper of a mournful cry

Grave diggers idle wait in slumped pose as leaning on muddied shovels they take long drags on cigarettes, their grunting conversation and blank faces as much emotion as the grimly played out celebration of a life will know

Rain falling with shattering force upon the lone soul there to take note of another merc fatally felled in battle upon distance shores, having fought for empirical reasons viewed scornfully by the mass public such wars are meant to serve, a mass public protected from horrors and nightmarish mental scars such faceless soldiers are sent to far places to endure

The following wake somehow an even more condemning show of depressions worth as that lone soul hunches over a bar, a bottle of vodka tightly gripped as its poison is splashed messily into a shot glass, the fifth refill in as many minutes of a shameful display that draws indignant sneers from passing observers and merry revellers who know not of/care not for the reason or the cause

Every happy laugh, sincere demonstration of abundant love and smiling verbal exchange a stinging reminder of all life’s bounty the hunched figure desperately wishes they could feel again, no more even a faded ghost of hope that they will find such things as horrors and nightmares jaggedly cut through the illusion this world is so kind

A lonely tombstone on the edge of the abyss

An empty coffin rests six feet under

Its supposed occupant mercifully granted freedom from irredeemable acts with the illusion of death, now without name or history in the endlessly crushing tide of life

A bottle of vodka and a shot glass the only way peace will ever again be found

 

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Running a Fated Race

To run a thousand miles a wild pace of unabated pace is as pointless as the knowledge of death a mere second before the fated event, equal if not cruelly on that same torturous level as when every fibre of hope leaves with not so much as a coldly scribbled note.

From which do we run?

Even if we know the futility of trying to escape in desperate fashion the most unavoidable damning fate, so should the questioning logic not insidiously twist into the question of; why do we bother to run?

See all happiness flaunted brazen and boldly large in everyday places we are forcible dragged into on a daily basis of painful survival, every happiness festering person unknowing in the war that life wages on the condemned, as with grossly spewed platitudes the acidic burn of well intentioned words erode further to the fatalistic core of broken forms.

“I am not of the living, nor the resting dead but in that place where all a demons cries will not bring pain as it would to my betters, to me and the broken legions such demonic choirs inspire quieting storms of world ending fury”

To stare deeply dark faces down which go by the taunting names which are the same as our names, till it reveals the darker still truths all who see those faces grudgingly know; it is the mirrors jagged edge into which we look.

“An open wound bleeds all of my soul’s most positive self to the ending flames of everything I hate of my nature, now the gravely clung to warmth that keeps the razor from my wrist as fresh promises of hope now lure me to the edge of the cliff”

So run we will and make speed on bleeding feet, make worthless haste in haze ridden dens of poisonous fields of depressions fruits and turn coldly from formerly warm places where old friends hath turned to symbols of all the painfully lacking pits branded with hollow happiness’s promises lost, those pits we hazardously step around for survivals fated sources of a declining will to live.

 

Sledgehammer Subtlety

Sledgehammer subtlety a luxury to wish for as the metaphorical slam job condemns with the physical force of a runaway freight train; it’s been that kind of a week!

Holding hellion tight every lucidly horrendous tendril of my nervous state with but a jaded (to put to shame any depressive arsehole) sense of positivity, waving so carelessly into the face of the coming storm front akin to the scaled destruction to any heavy metal festival on acid.

That is the dose of prickly punctuating due I hath earned through the mortally damning sin of hard work, the thing so demanded but rarely rewarded in glittering ribbons and wrapped with human warmth for the lonely single man. All endured so I may wastefully pay the price in illness through the hallowed free time so given the name of ‘Weekend’, which even then I work!

And so where does the condemned turn; The arms of a good woman? The merrily greeting arms of friends? The warming hues of a functional family?.. NO

I see only a bar so hauntingly inhabited by the corrupting patrons of a demonic curse, as so prescribed in mournful jest by the unholy trilogy, a place so praised in everlasting screaming that beckons forth in attempts of resistance these three horsemen; Anxiety, Depression and Stress

The demons do drown a bottle or two as my glass overflows with outpourings of acidic hate towards those red horned bar stewards providing the drinks, alas the unforgiving state a man may find his fractured self drowning in when those demons are all which keep the fires burning at night. Even less forgiving the disdainfully tormenting embers of that fire; the result of purest rage rampantly consuming with reddened flames, each licking of these so elatedly heated daggers no longer drawing a scream of pain but in loud acclaim a royally coated ‘Fuck you’ in full literary regalia.

And surely all this should be so painlessly remunerated but by the hallowed knowledge that all this I will endure again such redemption murkily sinks to where despair reeks a fouler sense of ill intent, even less gratifying is the fact that should I turn to a razor that others will suffer, so in that self accusing knowledge I must live on.

I would consider myself rich in good values but each cursed tome of morality seems only a weight to drag me down to deepened levels of honest intentioned hell.

“If pain is a reminder that we are alive to live in elated merriness

So I should be dead by the overdosing of joy

Or in lack of feeling know that elated merriness is dead

And no longer a taunt in every suffering second of life I must remain”

 

The Fatal Night

It begins oh so serenely on that star laden eve, a cover of light lacking darkness to hide this sinfully damned scene

All strolls along smoothly in a carefully choreographed cascade, till the dagger enters flesh swiftly in a manner that would make the word sabotage silently weep

To the fall a misstep carries the fated form to whence even demons do drunkly scream, a bar on your lonesome to mark as a gravestone happiness’s tomb

The damned do fit the fated bottle an awesome treat, as would a stream of blood from my fatally sliced wrist

To Brake

Pressure over time creates an eternally momentum building black hole of applied condensation of everything that constructs the very warped fibres of a facture ridden collapse of everything we know, have faith in and trust…. when once the release of these primal destructing forces is occurred, hell but beckons as a positive alternative to the reality that crumbles around the distorted windows, those through which every fatally fateful event since further fractures that fragile faith you had in your own ability.

How do you take weakly faltering step in front of potential stumbling step and know that once it was so much more solid before when you strode powerfully through doubts quagmire, little perception of the potentially crumbling reality around distorted windows that now only show the inherently under trodden footsteps of fated failure and despair.

Broken implies a repair to be implemented

Repair implies it is possible to remedy the problem

When considering the lowering tones of a mournful mood that every depressive, doubting and seemingly self-damned soul measures the mournfully lacking success of anything they have accomplished… broken, to brake, holds meaning so much more irreparable.

How does one then fabricate that seemingly easy thing to cognitively conjure when whole; an answer, solution, fix or resolution?

Till that mythical answer has proven worth, so broken will the afflicted remain.

 

All The World Burns

There upon the pinnacle of perfection lies a point of perception so much attuned to what our worlds are within the fractious chasms of flame, that only a singular person may see it within the obsessive focus two fold of what a madman may feel

To take apart with the methodical removal of brick by bloody brick the whole entirety of a person’s world, reason and rhyme a shadow of sanities fading form in the methodical removal of a person’s very foundation in the subversively torturous process required to go through with such a suicidal kill; a process by which all the upheaval achieves is merely to avoid the epically scaled monstrosity of what refuses to be deconstructed at the core of where his troubles began

The prison cell grows no bigger or sizes larger than what the mentality of a life lacking inmate has grown to know; the thankless bounds by which all a horde would enslave never offering the faintest ideal of freedom with each maliciously stinging blow

Endless steps out into the ashen fields with furies pace to evade that particular centre of what draggingly leaches the limping will to breathe, only to push the prison cell this a’ways to the right or left as the central villain of a man’s fate resides where the centre of that seemingly decreasing cell follows; following with as much furies pace as desperation compels him to put foot ahead of foot in endless step

To turn to see the reflective truth of that villains stare as eyes so damningly dark betray every repulsion drenched ideological dagger I hath cast upon my own flesh; all that remains when the very fated fragmented deception falls fatally to the flames and bare only the fractured and hollow form I wear

A wrist a paper thin contract with life

A razor a pen to break the terms of a life sentence

A mesh of loving fibres to sever

Should I ever stop running from the fatal truth

That the lies are less painful than facing the soul of this soulless creature

The soul a twisted representative debt to all the potential I have cast into the cause to stay blissfully numb

Perforated Personality, Humour?

A stable personality

Reason for concern; Did I leave the oven on?

Things not to worry about; Did I leave the casserole out?

Afterthought; I must get something else for diner if the casserole isn’t ok

A joke; At least the cat will have a nice meal!

 

A depressive personality

Reason for concern; Will I have a complete breakdown at this function?

Things not to worry about; Is it safe to use sharp objects whilst I’m mildly suicidal?

Afterthought; This knife is really blunt, must get a new one for next time

A joke; At least I won’t have to worry about making diner!

 

Reason for concern; You’re laughing right now!!

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