Saturday, June 25, 2011

*My mind is a trap *My heart is the bate *I am certain, and here is why*

I never heard the door shut on your way out.

I thought you were in that loathsome room I do not dare approach (there are the ancient whispers of horrors unthinkable in there).
I would delicately navigate as to ensure my safe distance, but it never occured to me to ask about that vile room's origen or purpose.
You would stride down that narrow hall and carelessly saunter through the musty wooden door that groaned in recognition every-time you casually brushed by...

...Leaving only y(our) muffled sighs behind for me to look after....

You would look as though you had walked through a gaping wound and were swallowed up by the thick blanket of foreboding and ceaseless whispers that always forced me to turn away and hope I could concentrate on my Mediocre novel in the other room.
That was where you would watch those sad, sad films that I couldn't look at, because they made me cry.
I cried for the lost souls.

I never heard the door shut on your way out.

Now my stifled voice slides into the blackest box, deep underground, so no one can hear my screams.
I am now addicted to hating my own self.
All that I am.
All that I spit on in the name of Pathology.
Subsistence in the name of the almighty Triplicate;
My false god, masquerading as something called, "happiness."
I've heard that name before....
It sounds nice, but cannot remember such a thing presenting itself by the handful.
All this time, I am the fool.
Staring down the throat of the unspeakable truth.
I Deny. Deny. Deny. (.defy.)
I never look into that dark room where the sadness cries out from the reaper's shadows.
I think that all of those those melancholies are the actors in the films I can't bear to look at because they make me cry.
How can I be so stupid?

THEY were ME all along.

You weren't here to watch,
you only stopped by,
to ensure there that I am sufficiently broken in my ignorance.
Where I belong...(!)
My eyes tear open wide, sweat is dripping, skin is ripping, under the pressure of my death grip, sheets stripped, i am drowning in my own blood.
I cannot breath.
(I swear to god, I never even heard you leave!)

anhedonic frenzied terror state, eyes dilate, my lungs asphyxiate, choking in my own imprisoned memories. You werent here to love me. You were my jailer.... rumination,
Sleepless nights,

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“As a leader... I have always endeavored to listen to what each and every person in a discussion had to say before venturing my own opinion. Oftentimes, my own opinion will simply represent a con-sensus of what I heard in the discussion. I always remember the axiom: a leader is like a shepherd. He stays behind the flock, letting the most nimble go out ahead, whereupon the others follow, not realizing that all along they are being directed from behind.”
~ Nelson Mandela