Stained Monochrome Wings

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