My First Unpoetical Thoughts

Don’t you dare pretend for a moment that you know the truth” of how I feel. Don’t bother psychoanalyzing me by the supposed precepts of your clinical textbooks. The rationale described in such is predominantly applicable to those who are unable to identify, and abandon such foolishness within themselves. Don’t be afraid to tell me I “seem better,” for I am not quite enough of a stubborn, closed-minded idiot to actually desire to stay sick, or to hinder my own progress for the sake of pity and stuckness. Your telling me such- while I hope you wouldn’t be arrogant enough to dismiss my own qualification to confirm or disagree with your observation- would serve as encouragement to me, as it gives me tangible evidence of my own improvement regarding how is suitable to behave in the presence of others. It confirms my success in attempting to further separate my emotions from my visible life.
Do not forget the small detail that you’ve limited or no knowledge of what truly has happened or is brooding behind closed doors- those of my house and those of my eyes.
And do not mistake any such evident improvements for being of a pure, positive, or freeing nature. For all such was only born from nothing more than the sad surrender of hope, and the violent suppression of the expressing of that same consequential despair- of which its end is indiscernible. So yes, I am doing better for all visibly evident purposes, and If I could be glad- I would be glad for your infintismally increased peace of mind. But for all functional, spiritual, emotional, and genuine purposes- I see and feel my inner state to be still deteriorating and rapidly crumbling away in my now desperate hands.
Don’t bother cheapening my sorrow by attempting to measure it by your observation of my current composure- which was slowly and painfully built upon the realization of futility, the surrender of hope, and the hard-earned aptitude for “sucking it up.” Please don’t pretend to know the extent of the hopes and securities that I have lost in between that time ago and today.
For there truly is a most painful, profoundly demoralizing difference


Death Colored Possession

A torment beyond the measure of my speech

So vexing, tongue bound

I cannot say anything

Day and night without cease, my soul weeps

Yet I shove it back underneath

For it is not fitting that one should do nothing

Though I care for as much clearly…

I try to guide my thoughts’ eyes

Yet it relentlessly tears and at my miseries, pries

To ensure that it destroys the very last of me

Burning my throat

Crushing my chest

Cutting off cleansing air

So my mind may find no rest

Insane insane insane with pain…

A torment beyond such idle fantasies

As a favor through the skull

Beyond a silver wrist set at ease

Or a hundred pills sedating lull

Every minute of the hour

Of the days blurred into years

It’s pain is fresh as the first time it demanded it’s share of tears

The light at time’s end grew more and more dim-

And now it’s simply gone out.

Tonight I relent, yet once again

And am engulfed by my confirmed doubts

And it feels so horrific

Yet so very appropriate

To let myself sink underneath all I feign to ignore

This is all that I’m looking for anymore:

This black nightmare

This grey oppression

The ever flowng circle

Of a death colored possession

And such is my mind and all that runs across

Limitless thoughts of desperation

And the haunting things forever lost