Hyddeous

grain shadow

I crave destruction;
It’s not some romanticized fiction
Or noble venture brimming with sentiment.
Because of everything that’s conspired against me—
Governments, family, a chastised world—
I pine for the end.
Within this sanctuary I have etched
There exists no morality,
Only a rage beget by injustice;
And on this altar of ire
I sacrifice in no one’s name,
Because sacrifice—
The artistic method of suffering—
Needs no purpose beyond its own existence.
With that hideous strength I wield,
Surprising even to myself,
I cast dominion over the puerile
And advance my personal army
Until grass turns to dirt under boot.
Even should there be no nation left to conquer
I will wage war still,
Whether upon myself or the gods above,
To prove my own liberation
From all but bloodlust,
A carnal craving for penance,
An unyielding covet for destruction.

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A Discussion of “Rage and Penance”

Note: this delves into the meaning behind my latest piece, “Rage and Penance.” If you have not yet read it, I highly recommend reading it first and then revisiting this explanation. You can find that piece here.

Hello, all. I want to start by thanking you for your continued support and occasional kind words. The greatest compliment is to know others are impacted by my writing, and I  don’t take that for granted.

I’m not typically one to dissect my work and leave it on the table for everyone to examine. I believe thoroughly in allowing audiences to decipher their own meaning from my work. However, on extreme occasion I will pen something of particular significance and feel the audience is best served knowing the story behind the work.

My latest post, “Rage and Penance,” is one of those works.

While the prose is far less eloquent and sophisticated than I typically strive for, I received feedback that it was raw and powerful—two traits I was shooting for. I decided to leave it as is for a couple of weeks so that readers who stumbled across it could draw their own conclusions. It does, after all, seem to tell a pretty frank story.

In this case, there is much more to it beyond personal emotions. While certainly I drew from personal experience to craft this particular piece, it involves a common tale (at least among the Western world) that virtually everyone knows, at least to some extent.

My first goal, of course, was for the reader to find some connection to the piece, to be able to relate to it and take something away from it (which is a goal for everything I write). Beyond that, however, I wanted to offer a fresh and alternative perspective to a well-known tale, painting the antagonist of this tale as the sympathetic victim.

This piece, in truth, is a retelling of Satan’s ejection from heaven, told through the lens of Lucifer. One of two core frustrations in the piece is his struggle with having been evicted from God’s love over one mistake, and furthermore is forced to watch as humanity sins against him again and again, and yet has an infinite number of chances for salvation (at least until death). The other, of course, is that of the scorned ex-lover, lashing out when he realizes there is no manner in which forgiveness can be bestowed and the love he had restored.

As a closer, I would like to clarify (despite hating feeling the need to) this piece is in no way meant to render a religious statement or elucidate a personal belief. As I am not a  Christian and don’t subscribe to the beliefs of God or Satan, this is merely taking a mythological tale and reversing the roles, as one might do with Prometheus, the Trojan War, Loki, or any other number of mythological figures.

Thank you all for your continued support. Please feel free to share your thoughts with this piece and its meaning. I appreciate all manner of feedback, provided its constructive.

Worthless

frustrasion

You’re not worth my time,
With your insecurities, profligacy, and secrecy;
Not worth the hours I could waste
Conjuring all possibilities in which I could make you smile.

You’re not worth the breaths I could take,
Striving to subsist just to keep you happy—
The doses of oxygen you would never cherish,
The dedication you would never fathom.

You’re not worth these words I write you
Or the obsession I will pore over this piece
To ensure its immaculacy—
A measure you can never parallel.

You’re not worth anything, for you see in me my flaws,
My impotence, my impuissance, my failures, my deprivations;
Measured against your muse, I’m a portrait of imperfection.
But a secret I will impart to you, my dear:
No one in this world is perfect,
And that includes you.