Tiredness.
That common feeling among all people. It reeks in your bones, it
sucks all your marrow. At the end of the day, you no longer feel on
the straight and narrow. You don't feel anything at all. Nothingness.
That's
how it feels to exist, as one merely rots in their bed. My anger for
others builds in disembodied fashion, it lurks behind the shadows on
the wall. It lives, it breaths. It is its own identity, with myself
as a separate identity. We are as one, yet separate. The resentment
for others forming into its own kind of characters, that manifest in
my dreams. It creates stereotypes of images, it creates mocking of my
very core. Little lyrics play inside your mind, little short simple
nursery rhymes. Little girls dancing through the halls of inner
hospitals. Memories of times best forgotten. The old man at the end
of the hall has the power to end all lives. You can here the sounds
of vague projectile slices cutting through flesh and bone.
Then
dripping blood on the floor.
Silence
fills the air. The widow took her children, she consider it mercy for
the young. Her screeching echoing through the halls. Yet the mourning
mother longs for her lost children, as she walks toward the end of
the line. This is no ordinary widow, but one with a blade. The widow
when you "talk to the lady." The lady has achieved a kind
of portability, a new kind of frame. One not easily put to the flame
to end the practice, to spare the young from being to young to be
executed by its sharpness.
It
is 2016, the practice introduced.
The
hick countries people seduced by new measures. New measures against
serial killers despite the EU demands. It had left the member
nations, forced its people into rations. A kind of war hysteria, not
easily solved by doubt. The new Prime Minister, a blond woman
possibly of her late forties, demands absolute obedience.
A
new hero is needed.
A
girl from afar.
Yet
how can you help anyone, when you are always in bed. Deemed to crazy
to die, you are to broken to live. How easy it would be to hang
yourself, if they were not watching from every corner. Yet at times
one says fuck the security cameras, fuck everything in this mortal
coil.
Fuck
the rope that hangs one as Lisa-Marie jumps out the window into
forever.
And
so the shotgun that could fire many rounds, is used instead to shoot
someone's dog, as those security forces storm in to late, as she
dangled from the multiple storied window.
She
didn't die from a neck snap, or a strangle. But from a broken heart,
the yelp of her dog. The security forces new lamb chops.
The
silver platter of giants.
They
serve the hanged ones head on a platter.
Ambiance
of the night.
As
someone prone to night terrors, these are the kind of images I see
all the time. And yet my room mate often dismisses these as racism.
Keep in mind most of the time bigotry against something may be
justified as racism, however in the context it mainly comes down to
political disagreement. My mom was also among the worst at dismissing
such fears as racism. That's how she would try to squelch any and all
political issues aside without really addressing them. With mom it
was one thing, she was a sociopath.
With
my room mate, entirely another thing. I only allowed her to take me
on as it was a chance to mend my broken wings. To late to mend them,
if you've already fallen.
And
you merely stare to the sky.
I
have many political opinions, as I see many tragic narratives unfold
before me. Many images are strange futures I do no understand, no
ever care for anyone to experience. With my brokenness I may seem
hard to understand, understanding me to much of an errand. A chore
for someone like yourself. But there is always an open ear. And yet
no friend has ever lent this.
I
remember many things, many I choose to hide.
And
yet they see a bullet to the brain reveals all secrets. Some of which
one may wish to keep inside their head.
I
once chosen poison, I once chosen hanging.
Yet
now I choose to simply rot.
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