Unfiltered Vent (Sorry folks!)

So shuddering cold and with the stinging self resentment strangling any ability to even vaguely consider the purpose of living I lie foetal style on a freezing floor

Fresh marks on my arm and the consideration that if my skin wasn’t as tough as it was I would have the ability to leave more bloodied marks on my arm!

Guilt rampantly slaughtering my very soul for the fact that trigger I never wanted in my hand was pulled again, the old rage burning hot in the chamber until I found myself verbally terrifying a room full of people (oddly fun in terms of feelings of having power over others)

The fact that I feel quite good after letting loose… worrying to say the least!

And the term ‘wraith of god’ I have replaced with ‘Unholy Wraith’, in case the big guy gets offended! (referring to myself with ‘I am a merciful god’ still sneaks in on occasion but I’m working on that)

 And why?

After I’ve made myself suffer for my sins it dawns on me, a crushing realisation that I’ve known for years (yes I said years!), I’m not guilty by means of life been an arsehole

Yes your honour I will make my plea; Not Guilty

It was life your honour, giving me nothing but dark corners and demons to turn to and no faint trace even of a glimmer of anything on the positive side of the deal

Yes; I know we should all be positive and shit about the warm fuzzy side of live, love and happiness but…

Happiness gutter punches you, love holds a dagger behind its back and the warm fuzzy stuff turns into a hell hound and mauls you without warning

Depression tells you straight it wants to kill you, rage is no mystery with its intentions and hatred plain old just hates stuff… no mystery, lies or deception

So yes I want love, happiness and all that positive bullshit in my life but I’ll never fully trust it (don’t know what trust is nowadays anyway!), so I’m condemned to live with demons and dark corners whatever I do!!

Fuck you life, with bells on it to boot!!!

 

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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

 

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

From whence it crawled, the fated Keep

​So to whence souls sink we sight a jaded keep, all a chorus of screams seduction to what better tempered hath mercilessly bleed to seal what slithers deeper within

Sanities lingering presence hauntingly cackles a fractured melody to take cold to newly icy depths, where within that creature sealed greedily mauls those foolish enough to wish to see thier reflected sins

All sins a flesh of twistedly framed corrupting bed, as into her sheets seethes damnations very most disturbing grin, the corners so turned of that hell reflecting smile as to say ‘come in’
A man’s remorseful yelp at the painfully consuming sting of a tail so insidiously severing his heart filled joy and happy will

Love now done with a discarding ruthless kick of coldly bone cracking heels into a shattered form of flesh, the hopeless scream of that mortal wetch a seductive siren, so subsinctly pitched as to draw in those foolish  enough to wish to see reflected in her emotionless pits thier dreamily conjured notions of what tempts lesser men

As all who crawl away broken desperately warn others not to sample the dark arts of love

How a Man Leans

“A person’s posture can sell an entire library of insight into their character, chapters so subtly implied in the slightest of actions”

I lean, not slouch, slump or support myself against but lean on surfaces. When I’m leaning it’s a sign that I’m safe in an environment and at work it’s a sign of control, the ability to control a room from one key location with a singular tone of authority. The action also implies a safety about my mood, an inherit security for those surrounding me as the trigger finger is resting idle at the side of my readily unfriendly temper.

The very activity of letting every muscle falter into relaxation is a thing to spread the warming calmness through my body; an equally important activity is how I resume upright motion. Too quick and assertive and I could be on the verge of a volatile reaction, slower motion an indication of mellowed resistance and a composed disposition.

The best photo of me that I can recall is me leaning against a pillar, unaware there are even cameras slyly pointing lenses in my vicinity!

So what about you:

     Do you hunch in a repressed posture of stress or frustration?

     Do you spring from one arena of action to another in energetic pose?

     Do you shape yourself into those dark corners of the room in shaded insecurity?

However your body naturally accustoms itself, I say make it yours and do it right