Tag Archives: POV

Wrong Weekend

03.10.18. Saturday, 3:02 AM. Manhattan, New York.


He woke up from dreaming and put on his shoes
Started making his way past 2 in the morning
He hasn’t been sober for days
Leaning now into the breeze
Remembering Sunday, he falls to his knees…


It’s three in the morning when I lock my heart behind the closet doors

And then I take another drink so I could forget what it was fighting for

Everything is louder when the sounds of a life once held are long gone

I’m crashing and cresting like the tidal waves of this bathroom tantrum

I’m looking for someone that has disappeared from newspaper tragedies

Hey mister, have you seen this person in the photo that was never taken?

It’s another hazy day wasted, but I guess I’ll go home just to burn it down

Write a song on my six-stringed guitar, and I wonder where you are again.


Forgive me, I’m trying to find
My calling, I’m calling at night
I don’t mean to be a bother
But have you seen this girl?
She’s been running through my dreams
And it’s driving me crazy, it seems…



07.16.18. Saturday, 3:57 AM. Manchester, England.


I’m not coming back (forgive me)
I’ve done something so terrible
I’m terrified to speak (I’m not calling, I’m not calling)
But you’d expect that from me
I’m mixed up, I’ll be blunt, now the rain is just…


It’s three in the morning when I put on my coat and slipped past the doors

After an evening of drinks so I could forget that I’m even fighting anymore

Everything is louder when the sounds of a life once held begins to fall apart

I’m collapsing and colliding just trying to get you out of that bathroom stunt

I’m losing myself and slowly disappearing under a pile of newspaper eulogies

Hey miss, can we delete ourselves, to pretend that this photo was never taken?

It’s another hazy day spent, so I guess I’ll go home in a place where I don’t burn

Right by the six-windowed room, and I won’t ever wonder where you are again.


You’re driving me crazy, I’m—
Washing you out of my hair and out of my mind
Keeping an eye on the world, from so many thousands
Of feet off the ground, I’m over you now
I’m at home in the clouds, and towering over your head
Well I guess I’ll go home now. I guess I’ll go home…


 

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Inconceivable

What haven’t I done? What have I done?
What haven’t I done to deserve a cold war
On all sides? It’s so bleak all the time
“Stay with me. You’re alone in the center of hell. Just be.”
The longest winter I have ever seen
From hospital to hospital, repeat…

~*~

Her eyes won’t open up anymore

As the flower in her womb began to wilt tonight

Petals sifting into her nervous system

And she looks so good in bandaged white

.

Won’t you stay with me, please?!

The traffic lights won’t amount to the hell

That I’m driving myself straight into

Hoping to find her broken body at the end of the well

.

For a while, she was beginning to blossom

Delicate heliotrope blots dotting her pallid cheeks

But the intruding scarlet painted her open lips

She looks so beautiful, please let this be a trick…

.

Hold on, please hold on, I’ll be there with you

If only you’d take a breath if I held mine as long as I do

I could kill god for all the wrongs I’ve committed

But that doesn’t give him the right to take it out on you

.

Her pulsating shallow beat is slowly going thud thud thud

Like my fist on the hospital doors, I arrived in time for the flatline

As the thorns rage around her heart, the flower begins to decay

If she loses, then I’ve lost, I wouldn’t have it any other way

.

I can’t…I can’t believe this…why did you—why did you leave me?

My foot won’t ease on the pedal, and the carbon monoxide is choking

‘Cause there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and I can see her face

Calling out to me, the headlights blind me as I fall into her embrace…

.

C R A S H.

~*~

First I need to save the life of god
So that god can come and save me from myself
If I have to walk alone I’m giving up
I can’t stay here knowing love is not enough…

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Adventures in Counseling

(Disclaimer: All accounts are purely fictional, highly dramatised, and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the author. And anyone who says and believes otherwise is an idiot.)

~*~

It’s so exhausting, having to play pretend and act normal. Having to pretend to be mentally stable and mimic the actions of someone who’s having a ball of a time, as the smiling fucker, oh sorry, you meant counselor—honest mistake—grins as she dissects your brain with your fallible lies and a razor glint of her diabetes sweet teeth, faker than fucking plastic surgery. The wall clock ticks softly in excoriation, and with each tick you die a little inside, bit by bit, nerve by nerve, line for line.

You don’t know why you were called here in the first place, but shit, somehow it’s inevitable, and here you are now, caught up in the viscous web, sitting in the red plush couch of a pastel-drunk room with pleasant hues, looking at a hulking woman that looks like she’s going to bite your head off if you dare even move as much as twitch your eyeball to the left. This sucks bollocks. Now you have to have to act, smile, play nice, calculate your answers, and take precaution in every word and letter, because a single minor slip-up and congratulations, you’re fucking insane! You win an all-expenses paid trip to the asylum, and please take a complimentary straitjacket on your way out! Them’s the breaks, you mentally incompetent loser.

But despite everything else, you’re still trying to be as truthful as you can be, giving her a predisposed glimpse of your personality without showing the grotesque, starving, slobbering, hideous monsters that are itching to unsheathe its fatal claws and spring on her. Surreptitiously hiding and suppressing all the possible yet cunningly undiagnosed anxiety, depression, bipolar tendencies, borderline symptoms, insomnia, paranoia, apathy, psychopathy, insanity, and the mixed-up mental maelstrom that’s rampaging and crashing internal systems within you as you forcefully laugh along with her and lock your glassy dead eyes upon her taunting stare; judging, scrutinising, analysing, like a blinded omniscient deity, all-knowing but never truly seeing.

So, how are you today? I’m fine, thank you. How’s school? It’s okay. How’s life? I’m doing great. How about your family? Four siblings, one parent, we’re all good. You are? I am completely fan-fucking normal. You’re supposed to fill in the blanks but it’s all multiple choice. Nothing but lost question marks, rising intonations, spat inflections, blah, blah, blah, and all the other prompted scripted questions, cliche and well-practised, disgustingly clean. The interrogation is designed to intimidate, blasting and shot off like machine gun rounds, jarring your senses, making you duck, tattering you with bullet holes. The professional iciness sending shudders down your spine, chills through your nerves, and profanities ricocheting off the back of your gritted teeth and lips. It’s nothing but insipid, asinine, fatuous inquiries that make you want to answer badly with a mockingly loud tonsil-performance yawn and a crooked middle finger raised proudly like your personal country flag.

But no. That’s unacceptable. And frankly, doing what you believe to be right at this point will get your foot sinking further in the shit you stepped upon. So you smile, faker than the reality you’re facing right now. Flash, flash, flash, smiles colliding against smiles, expert lies rolling smoothly off your numbed tongue like honey, and she’s the childish bumblebee suckling on the pistils and unwittingly getting corrupted by the words, your parasite infestation transferring under her skin without her consent. It’s hilarious, almost enough for you to drop your charade, but you fumble, fix your mask, and regain aplomb and composure, continuing to answer her with a placid expression that tells all but gives away none.

You know you’re a fantastic fucking actor, but somehow you still can’t help occasionally avoiding gazes and being at a loss for words and substituting lame sceptical replies for rational answers that never present itself in your mind. You try in vain to stop yourself from impulsively raising your jumper’s sleeves in trepidation of the idiot in front of you spotting the crisscrossed scars on your arms that cover your skin like a sculpture design and declare you a threat to yourself and legally wacko. You nervously making frenetic titchy motions and fiddling with your hands in order to prevent an oncoming thermonuclear meltdown from dislodging itself out of your suffocating throat. Suck it up, you can get through this. Stay calm, and countdown. One, two, three…

After what seems like an eternity of awkward silence and a gazillion fucking questions and omitted details and convoluted conversations, she finally sets down her pen and her scribble-filled paper and ends it. That will be all for today, thank you. No, thank you, you reply automatically like the perfect little demon you are. You amble away and let the door hit your ass on your way out, but before you carry on, you come to a halt at the doorway, grip the doorknob into a crushed metal lump, crane your stiff neck backwards a-la Exorcist, and ironically grin back at her just one last time, shockingly faker than your fucking will to live, a derisive leer that screams a silent “fuck you bitch, I’ll see you in hell”, and you finally saunter out, feeling no better, feeling even worse.

So you slowly walk back to class, half an hour late, plagued with clashing negative emotions and cynical thoughts, feeling more vindictive, more depressed, more fucked-up than usual, and ultimately wishing badly to slit the throat of the tattletale asshole who ratted you out. You’re hating yourself for no particular reason again and at the same time congratulating yourself victoriously because you successfully managed to deceive and manipulate someone who deserved no less and even more. You smile, but this time a twisted, deranged, maniacal one, undecipherable as either a smile of jubilance or a grimace of agony, but unsurprisingly realer than all the smiles you’ve ever outputted combined. You can breathe easy now. you can breathe now. You fucking did it.

But inside, your acidic guts still churn like a heavy washing machine load, and you’re unable to pull the plug, so you short circuit and burn out, and you head straight to the bathroom to try to put out the fire that’s threatening to spread in your body. You grasp the porcelain sink, splash water in your face, heave once, twice, thrice, but nothing comes out, only spit and empty tears, but not from sorrow, rather only from triggering and abusing your gag reflex. Within the furthest reaches of your mentality, you’re still rational, but it’s all discordant, damaged, deranged. It will take a miracle and another universe to salvage what’s left in that chaos. “Guidance counseling”, yeah fucking right. More like 30 minutes stuck in purgatory, sleeping with your worst nightmare screwing you against your goddamn will.

Your heartbeat finally slows after a while, and ragged breaths resonate from the tiled walls of the solitary room that you’ve confined yourself in as a temporary solace. You raise your head, touch the cold glass of the mirror, and shut your eyes once to blink away the fear, before you finally have the courage to look at yourself in the stained mirror. What returns your stare is a hollow vessel, all skin and bones and muscle and no soul, devoid of life, nullified of any joy, pessimistic, sunken, washed-out, sleepless, depleted, useless, tired as all fucking hell, uncaring, pathetic, apathetic, lost, cliche, inhuman. You know you’re fucked-up, too far gone, you’re not and you’ll never be o-fucking-kay, you get that, and that’s exactly why you hate being psychoanalysed. You sigh in defeat. It’s exhausting, pretending to be human.

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metal & skin (viii.)

i’m no longer a liar

seeing it from other

people’s point of view

this bleeding wound

i have created makes

me feel brand new.

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On Account of Accounting

Accounting lessons; 1:00 PM. There’s a dull humming invading every comatosed whim of my numbed-down senses, as my wandering stare loses its attention from the blackboard and stays to the harshly glaring rays of the stupor-inducing sunshine. Perspiration trickles solemnly down my neck, a steady saline river of liquid ennui, scribbling fluid retrospections on my scoliosis-slouch back. Nothing else makes much sense but senselessness. The discussion goes on, and the teacher, god bless her, but her voice is beginning to melt into the sound of the faceless grownups in a classic Peanuts movie, and I’m the exasperated Charlie Brown looking comically tired and uttering my disappointed interjection of ″Good grief.″ I sigh inwardly at the depressing thought. A speck of dirt flies past my jaded drooping eyes, almost taunting me as it basks in all its glorious and dignified freedom, and I can hear a squeaky voice at the back of my head blowing raspberries and chanting ″You’re stuck and forced to endure this torture and I’m not, suck it loser!″. I send it away with an aloof glare and a whiff of carbon dioxide from my dry cracked lips, and the high pitched voice trails away with an indignant Darth Vader yell of NOOOOOO, as the dirt speck finally disappears from my line of vision. Yes, I am seriously picking quarrels with infinitesimal matter. I am either very much insane, or have transcended all the limits of human boundaries and am, in fact, an omniscient god who can communicate with inanimate objects. An audible laugh accidentally escapes my throat in a choked hiss at such ludicrousness, and I hastily attempt to cover it up with a weak and pathetic cough. I clamped one heavily-doodled hand to my mouth to prevent any further unfortunate situations, as the teacher’s pupils (well, the ones on her eyes anyways, not the students) twitch in suspicion and scan the tepidly simmering room, ears perked up and nostrils slightly flared in alarm. I duck, scratch on my soaked neck awkwardly, and feint nonchalance by pretending to copy down notes in order to avoid her accusing eye contact, earnest visage etched on my face as I am actually writing this down. The sunlight tears against the glass panes more invasively than before. The room grows stuffier and unbearably hot, the students sliding into a gregarious and palpable grudge, the teacher’s voice sounding more and more like a drone of disturbed angry wasps, buzzing and incoherent. There is nothing else to do but further degringolade into the void of boredom as my neurone flickers off and commits suicide one by one. I hang my head back and absentmindedly gape at my besmirched hands, the vantablack Sharpie ink on my tanned skin shimmering as it separated itself from the dermis and began to float upwards like helium balloons, calligraphic band member names and splintered song lyrics dancing and fusing in an amalgamation of odd letters and incomprehensible symbols, right before my delirious hallucinating eyes. The sky grows temporarily dislimned as the vicious sun gets blocked off and hides behind a passing temperamental cloud. The students become a caricature tableaux of a cautionary cry for help, melting into human puddles along with their creaking plastic armchairs. The unknowing teacher rambles on, lost and deafened by her own static white noise. The cycle continues. It’s official: I am clearly very much insane.

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Break-up, Fall-out, All-in

Fragile butterfly lips, it landed against mine

But then it shriveled up like a staling bad lie

Damaged and demented on a storm of time

Was it a sin to promise a rose for you, not I?

.

You showed me within blue kaleidoscope eyes

Woe is me with fractal illusions of tinted glass

Yet I replaced my fogged-up periscoped lenses

And saw trickery, how fractured it all truly was

.

I saw reason where you saw empty quotations

Wrongful purpose of irrational miscalculation

I pray to angels only the devils will understand

‘Cause you don’t seem to talk an innocent stand

.

I can’t be intoxicated by your diamond breath

Resentment of sharp knives and callous regret

I can’t join another party for the recently blind

I’ve got fun house mirrors pierced in my mind

.

Tumbling upsidedown in carousels of confusion

I can’t fool myself onto believing such delusions

I’m a funambulist tiptoeing delicately on a scale

I might make it if I tried, but if one side tips I fail

.

If there was another sorry, I lost it on the way home

As you dissolved into the fork and I ended up alone

But maybe this melancholy, it will be my new clarity

The road goes on as the light onwards beckons me

.

Prideful glass hearts will only fall hard and shatter

And the gossamer bridges we built shall barely last

My concern scalds me like sunlight on guilty water

Tell me, was it a sin to pick my future, not your past?

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Of Detestable Desires and Despicable Devotions

This isn’t fair, no
Don’t you try to blame this on me
My love for you is bulletproof
But you’re the one who shot me…

~*~

I don’t understand any of this.

All this opposite similarity, juxtaposed like faded victorian photos in a chromolithograph pendant, an elegant display of memory destruction. Your perfect contradictions. Your earnest sarcasm. Your subtle noticeability. Your intellectual nonsense. How I fell down towards the sky for you. It’s so confusing.

You’re so confusing.

You were the aspirating medicine that poisoned me into debilitation. You were the rusty nail that pierced my discoloured skin and cured my tetanus. You were the hypodermic injection of the drug that made me so high I began to hit the ground.

You were the disease that saved my life.

You were the shadows that kept me comforted as you beckoned the monsters on. You were the darkness that provided me with light at the end of the hopeless tunnel. You were the lingering dawn that never allows me to catch the faintest glimpse of sunrise.

You were black and white, respectively.

You played the professional doctor while you tore experiments down my wrists and carved notches in my backbones. You stitched my wounds shut as you proceeded to open fresh ones. You were my ravelled bandages, and you left me to bleed out.

You were the death cure that nearly killed me.

I was invincibly bulletproof until you shot me with a guillotine. You were a modern day Midas and you turned my stone heart to gold, but you stubbornly refused to touch your own coalfield chest. You were the concentrated oxygen that asphyxiated me as I inhaled your fumes to breathe suffocation.

You were the safest dangerous thrill.

You were fire, burning empires in angry hate and providing towns incandescence in softest hope. You were water, drowning cold lungs and circulating warm blood. You were earth, burying emaciated corpses underneath with moonlight requiems as efflorescent verdancy pushes upwards to greet the ode of the sun.

You were an element that can build and destroy at the same time.

You were the ministerial soldier in a war who offered me the white flag and bayoneted me in the head as I reached for it. You were the scholarly literature that emptied my mind of all knowledge. You were the coronary-inducing suspense that never left me hanging resolutely.

You were the worst kind of poetry.

You were so singularly ironic that you could cure anaemia. I wanted to explore and extricate your simple complexities, so I can finally solve it and leave your unending mystery alone. You were killing me ever so slowly, making me crave for eternal sleep, so that when I die, I can awake to life.

You were the gravity that made me float, and I can’t pull away.

You were never a singular personality. You were murderer who cries over his victims, a mad scientist reviving the patients she killed, a lunatic lover looking for some sanity in the moon. You were a compassionate sociopath, a sinful saint, a lying candour, an innocent hatred. You were a grotesque beauty, you were eternally ephemeral, you were a cruel god.

You were an impossibility.

Most of all, you were hopelessly incomprehensible. I could research the entire world, ascend above human rationale, learn relentlessly for a thousand years, and yet I can still never begin to comprehend the very thought of you. And you are clever, yes, elegantly clever and yet so barbarously sadistic, my love. You knew I wouldn’t ever understand, I was just like the rest of them, so you walked away from me without a second thought and left me. You left me hurting emotionally and physically, you left me for good, and you left me for dead.

You are despicable beyond measure, and I can never leave you.

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Parental Guidance

The dragons you chased

With a battle cry staged

Using a flashlight sword

In your afternoon plays

.

The vitamins you took

When they chased you

Back in your sleep, and

The tantrums you threw

.

The book with the cats

Overalls that you wear

The toys you tossed in

From under the chairs

.

I rest with my cup of tea

And you gargle your juice

Another day, another view

Of being in a child’s shoes.

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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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The Diary of a Schizophrenic in an Asylum

(An attempt to see the world in the eyes of a schizophrenic. I greatly apologize for this mess of a poem I made.)

~*~

I am awake now.

My mind is in a constant state of disarray.

Shambles.

Entropy.

Torn to pieces.

Like pieces of paper in the wind.

I find no other purpose to exist in this world

Besides the Devil and His whims.

Why am I bothering to even write this down?

It won’t even matter at all.

My life is just invalid

My existence is a sham

I was just a terrible accident.

I don’t want to live.

I wasn’t meant to live at all.

But maybe I was?

Did Lucifer just want me to suffer

In this horrible, horrible world?

A mad man, that Morningstar was

Mad, mad, madder than me

But surprisingly a brilliant chap as well

Sent me to this place, yes He did.

Smart man. Smart move.

Where am I?

Am I dreaming? Am I dead already?

Carked it? Rotting off?

Infested with maggots at this very moment?

Where is this place anyways?

It can’t possibly be Hell.

It’s too white. Too clean.

Too clean for an impure man like me.

It needs more red. More black.

More inferno. More darkness.

Heaven?

Pure doesn’t exist in this filthy world.

It’s making my eyes hurt.

My eyes are hurting too much.

Blood. I see blood.

It’s bleeding off the damn walls.

Who’s to clean that up now?

Not I. I have enough blood on my hands.

No. It’s gone now.

It’s been replaced with black butterflies now.

They’re fluttering off into the window.

Goodbye, butterfly.

Who sent you to me?

It’s Asmodeus again, is it?

Oh, he’s the devil, He is.

That blighter is messing with my eyes again.

Or was it the man in white again?

He calls himself a “doctor”.

He says he could “help me recover”.

Ha! Such foreign, made-up words

Diving at the tip of his tongue.

What a sneaky, nosy, pesky pathetic liar.

Asking me questions like I couldn’t see

His true form at all.

He’s a messenger of the angels.

An advocate of the enemy.

He’s always trying to confuse me

With his sharp, sharp tongue

And his metal instruments of torture.

Ha. But he’ll never get me.

Constant vigilance.

He never will.

Who’s that I spot in a corner?

Oh no. It’s her again.

The faerie woman clad in black.

She’s back. No.

She’s the worst deceiver of them all.

I thought I killed her off.

The knife I used is still lodged in her back.

Pus and blood spurting off the wound.

She’s smiling at me with her razor teeth.

And stared with her empty eye sockets.

I feel utter shock.

Confusion.

Then madness.

The woman ripping at the seams

Exploding on my head

Tearing through my mind

Like the starved animal it is.

Faerie, faerie,

Why are you so cold-hearted and cruel?

Don’t hurt me.

I’m just a victim taken by the people in white.

The evil bastard angels.

No!

Not again.

Discord.

Too much discord.

They saw her.

They’re acting up again.

They’re rioting

And shouting

And begging for mercy

The voices in my head are.

Pounding through the walls of my skull

Rather hungrily

Such inconsiderate people

Their endless noise-making

Is giving me a headache

Something terrible.

I want to make them stop already.

I want to make the woman leave.

What should I do?

What could I do?

Nothing.

It’s inevitable.

I can’t do anything at all.

My hands are bound

My soul is shattered clean

My mind is unraveled

Like a fragile spider thread in a spool

Used as a noose.

The faerie woman smiles at me again.

Teeth flashing like fireflies, flash, flash

She whispers delicately “Nunc abire”

And with her bony hands covers my eyes.

I’m done for. Goodbye.

And so I scream and wail

Like a wounded animal in great pain

Though there is no one to hear me fall

And so I cry, like an oncoming storm

Until she envelops me and I can cry no more.

.

.

.

.

.

I am awake now.

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