Poem for the lost and found

[why am i alive?]

Playing around the table like a dog, hiding what cuts and showing what works. Glueing cracks like porcelain, of this mask that is my doom. Laughing while wanting to cry. Laughing while my world crumbles, while the desire to live fades with each word. Each word that is spoken in these thick white walls, in this room without air. While I suffocate from my own desice, no one see's. No one wants to see my crumbling facade, I hide my face under the one of a clown. A face of disaster. A face amusing and scary at the same time. Overdoing what was suppost to blend in. Overdoing what was suppost to be love into hate.
They laugh at me. At the animal, desperate to seem like their sort. To seem healthy. Scared of being put down. Scared of being forgotten, alone. The eyes stare holes deeper than bullet wound, hurt like the fresh cut of a blade. The blade of punishment I swing myself. I made it myself, carefully crafted, under all those lies that define me. That define the person only my guts know. Only this scared child, cowering on between a clown and a ghost. A ghost of the past, a ghost I wish I was. Because my facade is breaking everyday, and the porcelain shatters, but they can't see, can't see my suffering. I won't allow myself to appear week. I need this facade. Because it separates the real me. Its okay that they hate it. I hate it too.

 

[why am i alive?]

A cage for destruction. A cage that is too tight to move. To change. It closes in on me, on my mind. It stops me from evolving, from growing. Every turn hurts, every breath feels like it's the last. Waiting to cough the blood that I swallow. Waiting to Bury my mind in the fog of existence. Stick my head in the sand and don't come out. Feeling the comfort of nearing death. Of feeling relieve. But someone forces me out, no matter how much I fight, scratch and pull. No matter if the sand helps my head stop hurting. No matter if it stops the voice telling me, reminding me, that Death is all for me. That I deserve it more. But still, others fall into its arms, without wanting. Why not me? Why do the arms of death close in front of me? When I'm so close to them. When all I want is the cold embrace. The embrace of freedom, of love. The passion that leads the embrace, and the thought of disaster. Of tears from my loved ones, that I can't care for. That I leave in this mess. But the voice says that it's OK. The voice says no one loves me. And the voice doesn't lie. Never lied. It always protects me, like a barrier. It keeps me grounded like gravity, pulling my knees to the ground, forcing me to swallow my tears down. Swallow what could help, and walk toward what does not. Because the voice is my only friend. And I will follow It into death. Even if it won't help, the voice is the only one trying. And I love the voice, the thought of ending my suffering. To stop the wheels that keep me alive. To not experience the next heartbeat. To seace. To feel peace.
But I will never. No matter how hard the voice tries. No matter how hard I try. Death is a present, that is refused to give to me. -27.3.2024

 

[Tears in Rain]

You write beautiful, raw poetry.

 

[why am i alive?]

Is this fate or destiny? Is it time or decay? When the world crumbles around a number, around the word of a person. A concept. But is that concept acceptable? Or is it a timer to death, a countdown pushing us to the ledge, making us fear the solid ground. The stable life without death one step away. Because I would do anything to avoid the stable life, the life of pretension. To be something your not. The mulitatet beings, that close around the demon of not being perfect. The demon of all angels, because is there a difference? Angels aren't real, they don't have wings and fly. They Don't know the mass murderer we praise.
But Demons are. Hell is. Because what differs Demons from humans? What makes us better? The will to die. The clinging onto life. What is it that separates us? But in the end, the world falls, evaporates under all the numbers and words, stories and illusions. And standing will be no more. We Demons will fall for eternity. We will toss and turn, trying to find the angel, the good. Trying to find what we thought we are, but were not. Because all there is is darkness, no human, no angle or god can save us. Demons fall, for their sins and guilts. Their pain and sorrow. Their self, that was constructed carefully. And then, only then, in the darkness that swallows us whole will we truly look into the mirror, and see our horns, our scars and flaws, will the desperate attempts at happiness show their true face, their existence that you tried to fight. All your enemies will come to life and you will see that the enemie was never a demon or satan. It was the angles and the god, that you desired to be, that you idolised, only to see that they are not holy, just illusions of what was suppost to be.

 

[why am i alive?]

They say that live is a miracle, but if it is, then what isn't? Life is a creation like any other. Like the trees we cut down, the cows we slaughter or the plants we step upon while walking. So is this miracle special, or is it a faux lurring us into appreciating what is only bad. Lurring us into something worse then all other? Because even death is better than the living. The dead don't hurt or suffer. The living only hurt and suffer. The dead is just a body in a coffin, falsely accused of still being sentient, of having a life. Because that is not true. I pray that it is not, because I can't suffer two times this hell. I cannot bear the thought of an existence without exit, without a certain rout to escape. Like fleeing a prison cell only to realise that the prison has no end, that you will always step into the next cell for your next torture, until you break and give up. But you can't give up. You can't because your soul is bound to the ground, the chain around your throat laid in the hands of your torturer. And this torturer has only one name. He is called Be. To be. The name that humans give every existence, no matter of what value, or if the person can still be called be. One day, this torturer will transform into was. Because that is what I hope. I hope the humans may talk of me as was, as I no longer am. As I achive the goal of death, I will bow to my torturer and take the chain from him. I will break it in two and keep one part with me, as I step into darkness and say my last goodbye. Say goodbye to the ones who cannot hear, wave goodbye to the one who cannot see, and leave the mutes to say goodbye to me. I truly don't want to say goodbye, because I feel as tho they don't know what it means. They don't understand that those tears are happy ones. 29/3/2024

 

[why am i alive?]

Is it a lie? Or is it a spiraling truth, twisted and turned by illusion of humanity? Lie and truth. I don't believe life as to be so simple to there being a pure lie. Neither is there a pure truth.
A lie is when humans utter nonsence wich did not happen that way, or does not occur that way, but everything happens, and everything occurs. If not on earth, than in dreams illusions and fiction. The head is a growing playground, wich is his own world. So who's to say that the lie isn't true for someone?
The same thing happens as I analyse the truth. No human is capable of such a pure act, telling the truth, without lying or messing up. No human will ever utter a single word of truth, because there is no truth in this pained existence we lead.
There is only the ones that believe they are telling the truth, and the ones that know how truthless their existence essentially is. The question is who it will be? Who will be the one humans choose? Because we prefer to be blind. We turn and toss, stab our eyes out as to not experience the shame of realisation. The shame that all those steps we do are for nothing. The things you did to make others happy, loosing yourself, are for nothing. For what are you on earth? You start spiraling. Because at the very end, nothing matters. Not life, not death. It doesn't matter what lie you utter or what truth you believe to tell. The shame for this is irreversible. You will walk the earth in a shell of a smile. It is no longer a stone mask, but a body suit. Caging you. You?. Is there a you? Or did this "you" die during all those pained realisations? Is "you" still protecting their stone cage, as to not shatter? Or is "you" unresponsive, doesn't care about that mask. A walking zombie.
30/3/2024

 

[why am i alive?]

The mask of the clown has taken over, it haunts me down in my room. But who can save me now? If the mask doesn't slip or buckle. If it will never come of, will I be doomed to life the life of a fraud? What now will separate me from the actors? Who is to say if I still exist outside of the Poems, I cry into. The poems I write with a smile, because the mask is on and, no matter how hard I try, I can't rid myself of it. Oh, please if there is a upper being, rid me from my mask of stone. It scratches my face, and pulls my eyes out. It's heavy like 5 elephants, but it won't go. It Pushes me back into this body of blood. And I can't escape the dungen it made of me. Because I am in chains I made myself, but now I've lost the key. I've lost all hope, to ever be in controll of this facade again. To ever turn the lever of emotions and let It flood. Let it pool down my face because I need to rid myself of it. I'm drowning in my sorrow, not able to see the end. Will I survive? Will I be in control again one day?
The body that locked me in is taunting me. It feels like every forced laugh and smile is made to mock me. Because I chose to hide, and this is what I get. I chose the drowning over the depressive state my soul is wanting to present. I chose to drown rather than show the tears to all.
My fault. All my fault.
If I didn't choose the wrong path, didn't let the red of the apple fool me, I could be different. Maybe the green apple tasted better after all. Give me a second chance. I want to taste the sourness of the green apple and the sweet aftertaste. I want to feel content with my choice. 31/3/2024