Self-Preservation

Poetry

Blank faces lost, pale like corridor walls
Scarce in self reflections, hammering on doors
Lock combinations forgotten
Rats roam around labyrinth
Thinking with damaged brains, half dead
There is no exit
Imminent isolation incoming
Incomplete for eternity
Their eyes blink senselessly
Life will always end in apathy
Wounded after attacks, miscalculated strategies
Fools thought that killing each other
Will lead to survival and self-preservation
There is no one left standing
Flies circle past the pitiful sight
The weeping walls of the empty corridor
Seen too many desperate attempts
People who were trying to find themselves
Filled with lies
Swamp nesting in their minds
Reality suffocated, useless humans
Relying on blank faces to pretend

 

 

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The Wrong Kind of Medicine

Poetry, Writing

It’s the wrong kind of medicine
Misdiagnosed prescription
The pills swallowed whole
Floating in the toilet bowl
The taste reminds me of regrets
Anxiety induced tongue twister
They said I should despise myself
And be afraid of everything
Become a rotten wooden raft
In the middle of nowhere, shaking
I wear the mask of self-fulfilling prophecy
When the storm hits, I allow it
Thanks to my useless education
Hollow advice from cold hearts
I am part of the cause for this tempest
It’s the wrong kind of medicine
Labels injected deep into skin
Slowly turning into a part of me
I am the church of self hatred
Practice my holy beliefs and hate me
Drink from the goblet of expectations
I have many tears to waste
It’s easy for a walking disgrace
That’s what they said in my head
Those voices are always correct
If I was a painting I would be dripping in red
Thoughts like mine always bleed-
The self destructive taste
Cannibalistic way of living
I pray in my own altar in front of the mirror
And break like glass, silently shattering
It’s the wrong kind of medicine
To think of yourself as a burden
Clinging to the victim status
Has never treated anyone

Burden

Poetry

Inflicted damage through corrupt touch
I am the infected- bearing wounds under the skin
Living lifelessly in the asylum nightmare
My lips were kissed by seductress silence
She turned my tongue into a broken forge
I could not craft any more words
Frozen solace, my only comfort
These solemn routines permanently haunt me
I have dug my own grave with my bare hands
For my head to rest
Bury me slowly, I am nothing but a burden
Blind from the flood of misery and terrified
I must have been allergic to life

Specimen

Poetry

Between two walls
She is framed inside a cedar box
Like a rare insect specimen
Nailed on the edge of the hardboard
Under glass enclosure
For their close inspection
Are her eyes bright enough?
Is the head still intact?
Why is she positioned like a broken orchid?
Never right enough, never good enough
Constantly observed
Tired of having dried up wings
Disintegrated legs made of wooden sticks
Forcing more made up smiles, a trapped fly
Self-destroying parasite
Over-thinking, self-analyzing
Unnecessary introspection turns the faucet on
She chokes on salt-water, if nobody’s watching
When it’s appropriate

On Medication

Poetry

Taking the pill again
To feel how she should
Sweat beads roll down
Like purest pearls
On her back
On her chest
And her hands
Sipping her sins
Drinking her worries
She drowns, gets up and drowns again
It pulls her in with a chain
Around her ankles, around her neck
She swallows the bubbles
Others are fine
They breathe how they should
While she’s on the dry land
A flapping fish
People passing by:
“Why is she so low?”
Taking the pill again
To feel better again
To feel how she should
But man,
We should stop pretending
Or else we will turn into
bridges for people to walk over

Forlorn

Poetry, Writing

I’m nothing and everything at once
Thoughts closed inside a box
Day turning into the night
I see, the moon is suspended
In the sky from a tight rope to hold on to
Or to end your life with
I’m always in the middle of everything
An island made of ice, floating to an unplanned route
without a compass- not for an adventure but for some answers
My mind is torn, after all, I’m forlorn

Cigarette Smoke

Poetry, Writing

Thoughts conjured inside my head
The sharp doubts like a failed acupuncture
Scraping the brain cells into pieces
for consumption of strangers
I don’t know why I think and how I’m supposed to
I allow myself to be forced into patterns of self-destruction
A clown bowing down to lick dirty shoes
Face paint ruined- “I laughed too much” –
Will be a good enough excuse
For all I know the end keeps occurring
It throws us off balance
Into the empty pool of darkness
Where I cannot seem to find anyone
And me- I always feel it
How she’s approaching from a distance
The void hissing her teeth
My conjured thoughts will erase me someday
And I will fade like a cigarette smoke into nothingness

Reptilian Blues

Poetry

The beast within lingers
Like a snake deeply hidden
Somewhere inside my skin
Bones replacing branches of feral amazonian trees
It’s twisted around my ribs
Just an inch to stop me from breathing
If the sun rays were scalpels
I would ask to be cut open
To be reborn again
My blood flows like a river
I’m alive but not living
There’s something in me
And it keeps slithering
Words taste like slime
I don’t say anything
I feel defeated