My thickest voids scream into
The toxic visions of reality,
They dwell on the highs and escapes;
As I dive into my consciousness,
And search within the dark waters.
That’s all I need right to describe
My poetic hallucinations.
I am drifted on this island,
where everything I see is controlled by
the puppet master inside my head.
Grey clouds and raging storms,
With swirling letters once thrown away.
I did not choose to envision these disturbing sceneries,
But they happen to be the things that control me.
My insatiable sanity stirs my soul into delusions,
And spins a web of beautiful lies to make suicide seem noble.
I rip the pillow covers of their burden,
of soaking my emotions every night,
The chains break in their efforts
To bar my soul so it doesn’t free itself,
Of the magical metaphors I write to survive.
I maintained hope,
But it consumed me.
My every breath tripped,
Along the crevices of the cliffs
Of high expectations,
I had from myself.
Hope came crashing down
And ghosted itself behind dusty corners,
As I crumbled,
Piece by piece,
Every shred of my sanity,
Being stripped down till nothing but a deep void.
I am told,
Whenever you describe your dark parts in a poem,
And you emerge victorious.
But if I do,
I won’t live to see the party.
Because I am that demon to be erased,
I am the metaphor,
Balancing on my grave.