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 ...