Mania VI

There’s a certain kind of beauty within the concept of insanity. The undeniable traumas society has inflicted [on the Deviants] affected us to the point where we stray farther and farther from whatever the hell “normal” is. I yearn to implode, to stay huddled in fetal position while whispering hidden truths to the red-eyed shadows that I am blessed enough to see. I want so badly to throw things across the room and to lose myself to a fit of rage and despair. I envision a world where my actions have no consequences. A world where the voices in my head can be expressed aloud! Morality wouldn’t exist without others potentially witnessing and judging the release of all my unkempt emotion. I can scream until my voice escapes the confines of my vessel. I can cry my eyes out to the heavens. I demand to be understood by the cosmos. I will lay my pain bare for everyone to see until I’m empty enough to pass the point of no return. Stare at me in awe as I relinquish this hold on myself and to strip off what makes me able to function in reality. Ahhhhh help me!!!!!!!! As if anyone could!!!!!! Loneliness is the best way to live. Defy the physical plane! Tear through space and time with The Subtle Knife. Free the slaves of justice! Reign havoc and destruction upon anyone who can’t even begin to fathom the frustrations my kind has dealt with since the beginning of time. We are The Deviants. We speak answers to questions you never thought of asking. We do things that you can’t bring yourself to do. We are The Deviants.

The Thorns We Forget

It is the rose she remembers, 

The thorns she forgot,

She’s dying from an anorexic heart,

Can never tell the right and the wrong ones apart,

It is the rose she recalls,

The thorns she has suppressed,

She lies upon a Venus night,

In lament of Persephone’s plight,

It is the rose she looks back on,

The thorns she turns her back on,

Leave the coffin open when she goes,

Leave her lipstick on so that he knows,

It is the rose she will always remember,

The thorns that killed her to forget

Rock Bottom

I was a lonely stone in your beaten path,

You kicked me across the pond for the win,

I thought I lost the vessel I was living in,

Now I am the rock in which you rock me in your arms tonight,

Give me more this time,

Spin me around again,

Like this frilly dress I’m wearin’,

Make me feel dizzy and disoriented,

Show me the ground again,

It’s always where we first annointed,

I sire the fire 

pressed against another,

You hear it beckoning?

It’s the flame’s light that reminds me of you,

Toss me out of rock bottom again…

“…Stupid Sun,

I thought you were my friend.”

Dear Sufian

Dear Sufian,

Don’t love so easily and so intensely too soon. Embrace who you are and all the mistakes you have made, as well as the ones you will make, because those things aren’t your downfall. They will build your resilience and make you a much stronger person. It is okay that you’re hypersensitive, because someday, you’ll realize that that is your superpower. You will have the power to sense how people are feeling, heal them, relate to them, and to be able to steer them away from negativity. It is okay that some people won’t cooperate. They simply just aren’t ready yet. Everyone is walking their own path. Don’t force others to see things the way you do. Don’t make people stay in your life if they don’t want to. You may even have to let go of the ones closest to you in order to live a happy life. You are safe. You are loved. You are wise.

Sincerely, 

The One-Eyed Angel

Landscape

“I would pin you down 

like a father does

and have my way with you 

whether you like it or not, 

and I’m not going to stop 

until I’m empty inside.”

I can’t see the landscape anymore.

It’s all obscured in my grief.

You have Jesus on your breath,

And He dances in my lies.

Pink serpents brawl to the death,

A sensation so divine.
Lovely intermission of a loner’s descent.

You have faith that I’m giving you what you want,

A faith misplaced keeping this addiction satisfied,

I pull away to prevent

Sin to be committed 

On these many acres of longing.
To spare you a visit to the landscape,

Trekking through mountains of tenderness,

This drunken stupor in the Garden

Is not enough to not care,

To not make you tainted

By the landscape I painted.