Stained Monochrome Wings

Two-Faced Facade

04-29-13 (revised 01-07-16)

Would you look past and see

my savior complex is

all about me.

Saving you so you can

bring me to

a world of cyan.

I'm joshing you all,

this facade,

this dangerous downfall.

The loud, carefree facade:

an excuse for the pain

and the

cover-up.

The silent, suicide angel:

who no one cares to know,

or notices.

or even wants to wander

inside my skull.

In Anarchy and Conspiracies

04-19-13

The world's gone to shit,

sitting in wonder,

are we next?

Will we get caught up

in the thick of it?

The ultimate anarchy,

much more chaotic

than the overthrow imagined,

than the peaceful termination

and relapse

wanted by us.

Is it conspired by a higher power?

Is it the will of a God?

What's the difference,

how are we handling this,

when will it stop?

Why do the sick

feel all needs to spread

their ill disease.

The government,

likewise, we wish to break down,

but to reform, to begin a new.

Conceivable Attachment

04-14-13

Arranged a date with Death,

and dying;

a contemplated

felo-de-se;

The day

we went drinking

was barely concrete,

then gray

like the stains on

white pants.

Symbolizing revival

a rebirth and awakening.

Seemingly.

But an attachment conceived

Savior Complex

04-12-13

I feel ready

not presumptuous,

feeling risky and reckless

but ready nonetheless.

Even more ready

to quit,

to start

living again.

Though it's hazardous

to move from the insecurities

that keep me so secure.

The norm way of life that

contain my sanity

in the detonation of insanity.

I will break from my comfort zone

for you

but more for me.

For my own welfare,

endorsed by you.

Every moment of life,

all of my life

I wanted to run.

Run from

only myself,

the nagging fears of

anxieties that never existed,

the pain,

the vexation of your desecration.

I was tearing myself apart!

in an stolid world.

I deemed it excusable.

Pitiable it was,

it worked, and I was contented

for a year plus span,

after so many years of

withstanding harrowing events.

It all bleed out in colors

on paper;

In words,

also on paper;

and on agony-riddled,

rust-stained

computer keys.

My wanting to routine a God

came into play.

when I was okay,

I was more than such.

Harmonious. I was moving mountains

and promoting peace.

A flourishing figure, with a bright skull,

a silken future, though a green Dreamer.

It became my fallback,

fairly fortuitous at that,

then my fallout.

I overly scrutinized and fostered,

smothering all akin without

really ever hearkening.

“It was okay,” I read,

“to be this way.”

I continued,

“We all become robust

and bloom in the spring.”

I felt omniscient;

it worked for a God,

why not for mortals too?

A very blasphemous thing to preach

without the all-knowing

without the comprehension craft.

It's not okay, and we don't always florish.

And it's time to break the cycle,

cut the cords with the Devil.

Even now, I play God.

(You – read the robotic lines above!)

Through my scriptures, I play God.

Even when I try not to,

I revert back,

and I play God,

but not quite as bitter

nor demanding I beckon.

Things I deem problematic,

my self-un-admitted God Tier being one,

maybe they aren't faults

of a lacking character.

It may be perception

of those who've told me

it was wrong all along.

Poked at by doctors

who said it was a disorder,

one disorder too many;

by therapists

who said I needed correction

and further counseling;

by my parents

who've I disillusioned

with rebellion and no fucks given;

by my peers

who I've fooled with my flaws

and hurt without enlightenment

while soliciting empathy.

Or the illicities and vices:

Screaming orange pills

or singing, agile white of others

and bleeding chalky reds,

the entheogen of a legally-rolled plant;

all allure my chemical components.

Even God has his share of sins,

in the sanctimonious acumen of man.

I'm the companion-appointed God,

and you are my radiance,

He who defies this genus God,

dear Atheist,

the speck of luster on this rust.

I can't express enough my gratitude

for you defeating the omniscient farce,

so I brusquely write the last words

upon my scripture:

“Thank You”

With these precedings,

the entities introduced on set,

and everything eventful and noteworthy

I lay my scene

and speak for myself,

stepping down as a God of these people

with the expectation of

having sharpened themselves.

Without this enlightenment

after so many supposed cultivations,

these sophistications and complexities,

would be void forevermore

Invisible Monster

04-14-13

I need you to

look at me and see

the Invisible Monster exists.

Make me feel needed,

please need me.

Breathe adoration into

my pathetic, shallow

existence.

Love me, hate me,

either,

recognize me and

put meaning into myself.

Too weak-willed

to make an alteration,

faineant and abjected.

I cannot endeavor,

with all the effort

and will

in a self-centered world.

Me, me, me.

Putting off this fabrication

that it's all for you, you, you.

Unable to deal without you,

you push me

to the edge;

occasionally away from the edge.

I don't know myself,

in solitary I sit

decaying.

To You

04-03-13 (revised 12-29-15)

A suicide-prevention program

in disguise.

From the kids of the Fucked-Up,

the internally, morally corrupted.

The most desperate people,

the ones with

the strongest of

facades.

They die out, and fall.

they hide it all from those

except the

fellow Fucked-Up.

To you, who told me to kill myself,

who said I should die

and waste away to

nothing;

To you, who told me I couldn't do It

whatever "it" happens to be;

To my mother, to my father

who drove me to the attempts;

To you, who died yesterday

of a suicide;

The agony is our common persona.

Fear it not, seize it.

Use it as motivation

rather than an excuse to take

the easy way out.

You need me,

I boldly implore to the Fucked-Up,

and those who fucked up the Fucked-Up,

but I need you too.

You galvanize my writing,

breathing meaning into these words.

Why should I hate the pain?

It gave me something I should set my sights on.

The Bros

03-14-13

All my friends, all my Bros

we all open the scars while

hiding from one another,

afraid of feeling, afraid of being insecure.

Covering insecurities with Brotherhood.

Joining together the social rejects,

the fucked up, the sad, the lonely, the heartbroken,

the abused;

the raped of mind, body or soul

Or all of the above.

We’re a society of alike background, alike feelings.

We band together, a few hours a few times a month

forgive, forget, party, live, fuck.

Being teenagers, hormonal wild things.

Take a walk on the dark side,

we’re on the Highway to Hell and the Stairway to Heaven

just Don’t Stop Believin’.

Blackened

12-31-13

You smelled of cigarettes

and of sick and lonely

teenage boy.

This was anticipated,

this shitty poem,

these reoccurring Gatsby feelings.

Self-harm when the sun comes up,

an overdose during the day.

Suicide by sunset

of a manic depressive.

Cover it up with this façade,

and smother it in your vices

like you've always done.

Put down the cigarette, let’s forget.

Your lungs, black.

Like your hair and heart.

Divine Collaboration of Two Suicide Angels

Written with Dakoda Strack

07-22-13

Both together,

our common feats

of sex had, drugs done and

suicide contemplated;

These are our sins and our crimes against God on high,

Indulgence divine; whatever it takes to die.

Down to the core,

to the root of all problems

ignored and

Inflamed

covered with poor-man's cocaine

and razor blades.

Under Godless black skies

I watched the red sun rise with broken blue eyes...

Exhume my heart and let the incision swell

For the curse of love has brought me a new vision of hell!

So I swore to that dark Idol, divine suicidal,

That never, in my pain,

Would that black venom, love, run coursing

Through my veins, again!

Darkness ensued;

more morbid mistrials and rivers of venomous blood.

Sever this sickness

we've felt and ensepulchred,

like wrists slashed.

To this, we saluted the drugs,

gluttony glorified,

a dramatized death,

attempted but the curtains closed,

lights dimmed, and silence fell.

Let us dance upon the graves, drown beneath the waves

Of a hundred thousand lost souls!

Now we'll indulge these illicit comforts

Just to fill the fucking holes

In a fatally flawed design!

Now this black venom, love, will run through

Your veins and make you mine!

Night's come to close; awake I still be.

Deranged insomnia, up all night

after grave-dancing.

Slicing through silken flesh to bleed away reminders

and move on from this

brand of blistering venom.

These incisions since healed,

reopened not by

the venom of another,

of yours

which bewitched me.

I've been brought all the pain I could ever need

And now I have, no more blood to bleed

So just take my heart instead!

Now we close our eyes to dream the insomniac's dream,

And we know we should already be dead!

Suicide Angels, we, my nymphetamine and me,

Cut our wrists to cut the chains that bind,

Now we do fly, alive and free,

Upon redeemed wings and far above the evil things.

We leave it all, leave it all behind!

These wings of sorrow,

were stained, cracked,

and mutilated like my body of

self-inflicted scars.

Once fallen, now born anew

with paper wings refurbished,

naive to venom.

Flight so foreign for so, so long.

Feeling flighty a time or two,

because it's so hard to aviate

with wings dismantled

you've since repaired.

Lipstick stains over scar tissue,

Like the drugs that once served to dull the pain

Of this life, this masquerade,

So now we sleep without the comfort of flame or razorblade...

Bedding, now;

sheets splattered with venom

of our love

and limbs

freshly acquainted.

Jumper

04-14-13

We're crazily insane,

trying to blast through the pain.

You lying to you,

lying through blood

and teeth.

Me lying to me,

running from my lies,

from my everything.

So powerless during the days

you want to die.

Dependent on this,

dangling on the edge of ropes,

ready to jump,

to jump.