I’m seated by myself tonight, dead within at this terrible time.
My mind needs its final end
And it must come from you inside, the accursed bottle on the countertop,
Calling through this hellish night.
I’ve seen the corpses of many men, strewn around my dreams.
I know each name, I know each face for near to me they seem.
I want salvation from the dark, so those I love can all be dead!
Some drink, some salve, some potion please, make true the wants inside my head.
There is another person, living inside my heart so darkened red,
I need his love, his venom touch,
So my mind will, at last, be dead! Sweet shot of blackness, save me now, pull me from mediocrity.
Help me lose what binds me to God’s so-called plan and supremacy.
Into my dry and begging throat, please drain this cup of insanity.
Let my hands take a life this once to end this inferiority!
I want to cast into oblivion, this foolishness, and sobriety,
The mind inside me needs to rot, to feel that sweet depravity,
Allow me to kill at last this damned insecurity,
For nowhere is there better peace than murdering your sanity.
I’ve prayed just for a drop at first, I only want a taste.
Our affair shall be secret now, dear darkness, please make haste.
To you my mind, I shall surrender,
My precious sanity I will render
Helpless as I feed from you, my cursed life’s beautiful ender.
But a new voice speaks, tells me no! Oh, but what are you friend, are you my muse? No, get away from me! Among writers, I’m the weakest! Stay your hand, she says, don’t touch the insanity’s drink! Why must I not listen-No! No! I want this drink, I want this poison for my last salvation! I want to slip into the skin of the other person, feel the world through his hazed senses. I fear him but I need him, my love for him’s the deepest. Will the world truly mourn my passing into shadowy mental oblivion? But you…someone cares, someone told me, someone wants me sane…should I follow my failing mind? Should I truly lose myself, leave my cursed self behind?
No no, my inspiration, listen: I must tell you a tale,
Of a man who thought he’d change the world and when he failed, the world he’d blame!
An artist he had called himself, but the world laughed at his art.
Creations spanning a million years, but nothing true came from his heart.
He had no soul; it was mere technique, all paintings done by number
He picked this drink and told himself, his talents will now slumber.
Was he a master of the written word or an ass that dwelled in shame?
How could he speak of the world’s truths with no experience to claim?
Was obscurity to be his path or did life have another aim?
Could he keep writing about the world when he had no skill or brain?
He’s seen many men dead in his dreams, and come upon some near success,
Though something in him stops his hands from stealing away their breaths.
His own life he tried to take, but peers rushed in to halt it; not much good would therapy do, he still wanted to assault him. His traitor-father never knew the truth of his inner wrath; his mother twice or thrice has felt the weight of his attack. The man left his mother alone to suffer, running after a new romance.
So why didn’t he kill the cheating fuck right when he had the chance?
Were his arms held by divine chains that he couldn’t use in the deadly dance?
A small question about his work she asked one fateful night last year,
Yet her voice inside his head he would no longer want to hear!
The fucker thought he wanted privacy,
To live and work in secrecy,
But the innocence of her strangled voice
To him sounded like dead, white noise.
Speeches and arguments by the many his wretched heart still remember.
Waves of sorrow flood his system and fire his poor heart’s embers,
For hers was the blood he would have spilled the most, yet she still survives. To this day within him, the sinful wannabe cries. But the other man inside of him still delights in taking human lives.
But should I listen? Should I stop? Must I hold my hands back?
Should my deep mind rule me now before my thoughts I ransack?
Why do you want to know me as I am? I am not a writer or artist, am I?
No, I can really murder me, bury at once what’s inside!
I shall take the madness, swallow it down and finally kill my mind,
Leave my wretched past-oh…oh no!
No, no I won’t drag my sanity behind!
Your eyes are clear, long and sad, face lost in your glossy hair.
The register in which you whispered to me was lighter than clean air.
A good friend you are, one I never knew till days of late,
You told me just a few sweet words; the deciders of my fate.
I want to know you better, friend, a sentence wouldn’t slake
My thirst and curiosity that still keep me awake. What would become of a
Mindless me, though you my hand did take.
You told me, you read my work, and saw and felt my indignation
On papers, or even on the net, three years after their creation.
My dear friend, don’t lose your hold,
The glass is on the ground!
No more drinks! I shall have none, for in you, my salvation I have found.
No sanity shall leave me now; my hands won’t be stained in red,
No, you won’t find a rotting corpse, a man who by my hands is dead.
I have one more poetic draft,
A middling taste of my true craft,
Of the man I used to be but alas-can my suicidal mind be saved?
And saved by my pathetic art?
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