The Dread of Ye

Dirty mirror

I hate this feeling:
The dread—
This fucking dread—
Knowing the anguish to come
Now that this void I tried so hard to fill—
That was filled with your goddamn voice—
Is a void once more.
The ennui is so real,
And I abhor it so much,
I find myself raking at my skin
Just for a moment’s reprieve.
I’ve become a masochist,
Delighting in my own torture
As I stand in a room face-to-face
With the one face I never wanted to see again;
But my faith in myself is shaken—
Motherfucker, you moved me when no one else could—
And now I treat this void as a vat:
I pour anything and everything I can into it,
Even knowing most of it is poison,
And with each drop I become less myself
And more what I always saw in that filthy mirror.
I know they see it, too:
All those eyes on the street.
Their whispers somehow reach my ears,
As loud as jet engines that block out all else,
So I’m forced to stand trial,
Listening to all their ridicule;
And I, only ever asking how I fell this far,
While recognizing the one strand of hope in my life—
Yes, I’m talking about your goddamn voice again—
Is now broken, never to be repaired.

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A Perversion of Human Will

black-angel

I take my seat at the mistake of the century,
A willing bystander, discomfited,
But curious of my own prophesying—
Heralded eons ago but never heeded—
To challenge my own prescience,
Even though I acknowledge the futility
In humoring such an action.
Never one for disguise,
I’ve laid bare every feeling,
Every thought to illuminate your transcendence,
So imagine my shock when,
Like a pollution of my sentiments
And a mockery of my adoration,
You stole the words from my mouth
And offered them to another.
As though a progeny of the debased,
You have settled for the undeserving,
Squandering your radiance,
Your gifts;
And very soon, I fear,
Your body will be forfeit
And something alien and unconsented
Will take hold of you, dragging you further
Into the abyss you yourself acknowledge
But plunge into headfirst,
Because fear—
Fear is a potent drug,
And you have not the power
To break free from it.

Immovable Objects

metal-statue-love-story-ali-nino-tamara-kvesitadze-georgia-1

Congratulations!
You’ve pushed me to the fringe of sanity,
Where I grasp desperately at the precipice
In hopes that you’ll reach out your hand—
Exuding inappropriate grace—
And pull me to safety.
I have no expectations, rest assured,
As, like me, you remain motionless
While the tide within rises,
Drowning your reason and eroding your strength;
And I, too self-absorbed
To answer your ear-shattering pleas,
Remain just as stoic, watching this tragedy play out.

Frozen in time, we are two monoliths,
Statues standing as a monument to failure,
Beacons of insecurity and repression,
Each one hoping the sun will crack the other.
Until such time—
The end of time, I’m convinced—
We’ll continue to convince ourselves
Of this prodigious idea:
Staring at one another as silence devours us
Until, on that blissful day, inertia slays us,
And we can repeat the cycle in death.

Hypnic Jerk

Distress

Fear laces my heart,
Pumping faster now—
Faster, faster!
This is insanity;
My mind’s an absurdity.
Of all that death’s threatened in this episodic nightmare,
Lucidity may be the first to fall from the periphery.

Scratching these memories from the surface of consciousness
Only to have the remnants vacillate into my stream of thought,
I urge myself deeper into this tunnel without an end:
No light, no conclusion, to bring clarity to the terror.

I’m running, running,
Trying to escape this pageant of torture,
But the path before me is a circle,
And I end up where I started:
A ring of horror looping immemorial.

What started as determined resolve
Has relapsed into an ill-conceived outreach for acceptance:
An Everest that cannot be climbed,
A marathon that has no finish line.

When at last this half-existence throttles,
Bringing the night’s pallid wonder to the precipice of reality—
The one I am forced to face—
I will have none other than myself to blame;
And blaming me: the rest of the world, my antagonist.