Tag Archives: illness

Andromeda

Can anyone reveal the bloodstains

Hiding underneath my torn lips…

Would anyone kiss it all away?

.

My thoughts are arrested at gunpoint

As if they were guilty of something—

.

But the crimes hanging my crown

Heavy on one side are nothing new

I’ve already paid for them time and time again

But why am I still being punished?

.

I can’t escape the incarceration from

What everyone else calls their brain

Try as I may to scrape off the slivers of light,

A jailbreak only makes for broken bones

And a rather crueler atonement…

.

I’m crossing thin lines inside my head

And all over my skin, precarious and fatal

Until humility becomes my illness

.

And manipulation my only chapel of truth

.

For I am no longer human; rather

I am simply a galaxy of constellated scars

.

But not a single one coruscates any longer

And my flesh becomes just another dead star

Extinguished quietly in the infinite darkness.

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Filed under Poetry

Placebo

These pills are contumelious and tasteless. I can sense the verbatim in each weighted gold, the incorrigible condition of convalescing, the asinine arrogance of it all that flows ever so hotly and heavily, like boiling lead poured down my veins, as I swallow quickly before the unpleasant bitter taste invades my tongue, hard tablets travelling down my throat imperceptibly. It somehow catches midpoint and I cough tentatively, droplets of rusty starched blood staining my silk white gloves. But, I think, it’s only or three drops and a dash of wasted chloride, so never mind that. Grimacing, my eyes narrow into thin slits at the minuscule writing on the sterile label, and I read the dictated instructions ever so carefully—like it even mattered in the slightest—as I shook more of the little pink chalky medical sedition out of its orange prescription bottles, the container vivid and gruesomely bright, tangerine teeth smiling at me as if to say “Your hair is falling out, your organs and viscera are liquefying at an alarming rate that you might as well shit it out, you’ve got a terminal ailment and necrosis is your best friend, it’s good, everything’s okay!”. It continues jeering and mocking and pointing fingers against me silently while simultaneously continuing its purpose of surreptitiously patching and stitching up internally what’s already disintegrated into a causeless irreparable degeneration. I glance at the acerbic prescription bottle, then back at the cherry cheeked cherubic lifesavers resting taciturn in my hand. Letting my irrational dignity get the best of me and sighing in a ludicrous extravagance, I take a hesitant drink of water, room temperature and straight from the tap, and throw the snickering pills away resolutely. They fall somewhere on the pristine linoleum floor with a protesting clatter, indignant and still stabbing invisible excoriations behind my back. I don’t care. This affluent injury, this affirmative debilitation, this coldhearted affliction is futile, I may as well be swallowing coins for all the good that it’s done me. It’s nothing but a feel-good propaganda that manages to make me feel worse; I may as well be choking on my own false hope.

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Filed under Prose

Feeling Sorry

I feel no sympathy
You live inside a cave
You barely get by
The rest of us are trying
There’s no need to apologise
I’ve got no time for feeling sorry…

~*~

I apologise greatly for acquiring onsets of terrible illnesses and ailments

That you simply dismissed as my performance to gain cheap attention

I’m severely sorry for the aches and pains and maladies that’ve stricken

Leaving my heart withering, and my debilitated body stuck in detention

I concur in my remorse, I pay shame and guilt over all my vulnerabilities;

Of dolefulness, exuberance, conquering emotions I’ve often submitted in

I feel sorry, truly, so sorry, yet these sorrows I have goes out to you, I fear

I’ll pay all my pities and needed sympathies, and you know why, my dear?

For whilst I’ve irrefutable evidence of my humanity, from the pains I’ve fought

You, on the other hand, I see, clearly do not.

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Filed under Poetry

Welcome to the Vmbralvm Asylvm

In a cramped room of killers and crimson rust

Empty eyes staring, livid faces mistaken

Creatures haunted by the voices of the gory past

No longer humans, but shambolic souls broken

.

Toxicity, poison, venom, and archaic lies

Whispered, hissed, purred ever so sullenly

Despicable madness and hapless cries

Ringing out, crying, screaming for me

.

Frail squalid hands constantly reaching

Against the tenebrific void of the cells

Cautionary tales desperately begging

To get them out of this version of Hell

.

What is white? What is black?

The lines of love and purity start to crack

Moral compasses spin wildly and weather vanes fly

Veering off in directions that no one dares try

.

Possession, an illness, a disease to society

A plague that should be contained, that’s all they’re perceived

White demons with no wings and halo forcing them a cure

The fallen ones, injections and magic tricks are all they endure

.

Decaying skins and bleached bones exposed so bare

Scarred minds so torn and arcane thoughts so rare

Tongues so sharp yet clockwork hearts so dull

Their reality and universe ever so null

.

Immortal sins, did it taste so good?

Seeing humans as their toys and corruption as their food?

They didn’t know, what else can they blame

Only the friction in their sanity that started the flames

.

Trying to save what they’ve left behind

Traded their senses to peddle endless thoughts unkind

They used to be on thrones, indestructible kings

But their exacerbated ail, only anarchy did it bring

.

Just how soon would they ever know

If not for their pedantic, neurotic minds?

Did they reap what they sow?

Have they lost what they should find?

.

They come here for payment, their chains clanking harsh

For their final judgement, crimes written on stars

Isolation, reclusion, they’re just simply thrown away

Hoping for when they can see the light of the day

.

Now say goodbye to the world that shunned you off

Now you’re part of us misfits that even God has scoffed

The dystopic asylum is demented, no soul here alive anymore

No more than pierrots, jokers, and harlequins with chasmic cores.

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