Dysfunctionality of an Almost Human Mind

When all is lost, how does one find the way? When it all comes crashing down, how does one pick up after? What was left after the romans fell? Now the witness to the death of an empire, truths' unspeakable persona. As if a fallacy, yet here it is, as red as fresh blood, the truth that was never meant to be. It has reached undeniable status. Once a beautiful gazelle, now roadkill. The dead can't be brought back to life, no matter how much we try, fight or deny... The conclusion, reminiscent of the trapped body inside the filling water tank. It has reached its peak and there is no more space left for air... The soot leaves a mark. From the burning of the castles to the ashes of the fallen. It fills the lungs of the breathless and suffocates the remains of the light that once shone bright. The level of betrayal is worst than anything before. The cowards ran for their lives after setting the world ablaze. You, The Witness, will sit and let it burn. There is nothing left to fight fo

The sailor avoids the waters... he knows what lures beneath the deep blue, and fear takes over. The harrowing idea that one fish can destroy it all in mere seconds. He dreads the idea of letting go of land, but his place is in the sea. The hunter avoids the forest... he knows what crawls in the dark woods, and fear takes over. The narrow path between the trees won't hide the beast for longer. He dreads the idea of leaving the cabin, but his place is in the forest. The performer avoids the stage... he knows what fanatics are capable of in the arenas, and fear takes over. The lonesome halls will bring the murderers to light. He dreads the idea of leaving this backstage, but his place is on stage. The writer avoids all pen and paper... he knows what hides behind the words and thoughts, and fear takes over. The last attempt to recover life was unsuccessful and the ink became pray to anger and hate. He dreads the idea of leaving his mind, but his place is the paper. The lover avoids the

I believed this to be a silent place. I believed this to be the single space where nothing could reach me. But the cries are deafening and the punches are coming from all over. It's an obscure path, this one before me. The sight of the sniper is set for my temple. Is it doubt? The red dot pivots, but remains close, like a fly on trash. It was never meant to be a public ride, but with all the noise around, no one will ever listen. The shot will be muffled by the thick and palpable tension in the room. No one will be seated for the next show.

There was a summoning, in a moment of weakness. The summoning led to the demon's awakening. The demon is now hungry. Spouted verbs and adjectives between subjects. Heavy rain. One says jump, the other bows. A missed translation that brought apathy and disdain. Suddenly screaming for help is violence, the new fact. Drowning in the burning flames is the hottest new dance move. A dance akin to mosh-pitting against paper walls. There, where the contract was written and signed, splattered by the crimson blight of disbelief. I lack the words to mend the cracks. Always responsible for their appearance and insistence, never for the defusing of their existence. Most of this is incidental, some of it is accidental, but everything is fucking mental. The times are not for misuse, but there is no gray matter left to think about it. The gray now repaints the walls of illusion. Those that bare no thoughts, just scars. It was always meant to be hard. There is no surprise for the prepared. Still th

The pen is a dangerous gun. The retired assassin wakes from hibernation and creeps like the hunting demon that it is. To think words were once a place for comfort and how the self destructive was bottled away, crazy. But to drink from that bottle like an aged wine, insane? retarded? abnormal? submental? No... Alcoholism incarnate. And I'll drink that ink with the hopes it will end my misery, by any means necessary. #nonewdemons...

killing all sense of time scrolling my life away... reminiscent idea of friendship conversations to never return wasted and deceased on a dime walking flesh bag on automatic lost all hope and drive all that's left is bruises and bills a cynical savory of all we were the demanding disregard i'm gifted with wishing for wishes, wishes of balance with the muzzle flash the news are given theories become facts with a single thump, the sound is clear it has fallen and now swims in itself a crimson sea of the self inflicted solitude no one left to talk to? well, nothing left to say then...

It is common knowledge for the locals of this mind, that even after death there is a point where wonder takes over and devours all calm, all for a little taste of chaos. It is also well known among these many individuals, that understanding the path is necessary, so much as enjoying the walk is. It has come to our attention from the chantings of the lost, that this path in pursuit could lead to such entropy that it may break all patterns. We the many, are well aware of the death of dreams and the return of sanity in terms of reform. Still we despise the idea of a pseudo return to a flaccid existence. It is, therefore, our duty to break the boundaries of consciousness and destroy all assumption of remorse, before it becomes transparent to the body, and as such, to the mind. It is now when the protocol of self destruction is held by frail hands. A fall would shatter all that has been and create an impossible. A dreaded paradox for a nuclear reaction. Understanding the scenario where the

With the levels in hand the rubbing of sand in the eyes it burns like naked soles on deserts as the vision is blurred a degrading polish that leads nowhere With the levels in hand the scrubbing of dirt in the soul it hurts like bullet wounds on children as the path is disrupted a returning dream that refuses oblivion With the levels in hand the robbing of light down the tunnel it frights like white men with guns as this hope is lost a pondering wish that won't be granted With the levels in hand the breaking of the fault lines it dies like genocide forgotten, ignored as all I am crumbles a wasted life plays back at me...

Words are an affair between air and sound. An affair we decorate with emotion and will. Still nothing more than air and sound. That which gives weigh to our words is action. Without action, our words dance in the dangerous line of the nothing. At times people disconnect one from the other. They mix what they want with what they say and what they do, twisting reality. Words need to be attached to action in order to have any power whatsoever. And when you say words that mean left, to then turn right, your actions are speaking louder than your words. Most people don't realize the truth behind this and play with words as if they were the decoration to their actions. Arguments need a cohesive action. If the action is contradictory to the related words, the former will loose meaning as quick as I lost all sense of hope in you, me, us... Your actions show your true self and your true motivations. Your words just tell me how much are you willing to lie for those actions. An excuse is nothi

As I breath to this, a sigh of no relief, nonsense is heard all over the place. Sometimes it is better to ignore and move on but, when the path is blocked, to respond with silence is to provide affirmatives. Always found that to be the most ridiculous of behaviors, but when there, that is the only way out. Having to rely on people to trust your word, when they them selves have placed it to the test or even smeared it on the shit stains of your seemingly unequivocal actions. That is also the definition of stupidity . Responding is a dangerous affair, since those without guilt have no need to answer futile questions. But the standards have changed into standarts, meant to hit the soft spot of the unfounded self incrimination. Those the Self-Built have no place for such insecurities, but when you are taken out of your game, you become that which you fear . Bubble poppin' is the new console where you play in the second person. Careful where you point your finger guns. Accusations are

My back hurts... from this never ending road. I've been walking for who knows how long. This road doesn't seem to end either. All I see is trees on the sides of the road and mountains on each end of it. There is a small rock on my shoe that I have ignored and will continue to ignore, so long as it remains a non issue. My head hurts... from thinking about existentialisms. The sound of a car engine caught my attention. It came from behind me. I don't know much about cars, but this was a very nice looking convertible. However it looked as if it had been under repairs for a long time. Where was I before this road? Was I under repairs as well? Am I even damaged? My thumb hurts... from being leveled. There were hopes of catching a ride. While where I was headed was a mystery, he was already driving in the direction I was walking in. No harm in attempting some distance gain towards the unknown. My eyes hurt... from the blurred mass. Just a glance of the swift car passing by was al

I used to insist. Insist for things to fit into place. Insist to myself, one foot after the other, that the road was long but the reward was worth the walk. I used to fight every urge to not be my very own savior. I never needed anyone. One of many gems on my flex crown. I could do it all. I was fierce, fiery, fearless. Yes, I was. There is a lack of motivation that dives my world head first into quicksand. It used to be a myth. Just a story to scare the kid in me. It's funny how history brings perspective, changing what was once norm to discarded behavior. It is certainly crazy to see the heights I used to frequent, now nothing but a distant memory. An illusion of the past becomes the hunter in my waking nightmares. The unhinged need to try, only to fall on my face and break my pride and joy into shame and dread. No one, absolutely no one ever told me to be ready for the day when everything I had built would be reversed by my own literal flesh. Every inch of muscle gained, every