The Timeline Of Inexistence
Writing:
a boy finds closure in poetry shrouded with bits of real events,
he paints demons with rainbow hues
whip angels for flawlessness and make man moan 'mortality merely mean nothing,
we gods! we gods! gods we are!
the world applauds his pen mastery, crowns him muse of muses and anoint his alter ego with encomiums
but none could see the dark clouds that hang like eye bags beneath his glossy eyes:
these clouds, the free verse that screamed his pain;
these clouds seventh verse that beckoned on you to read in between lines;
these clouds, the punchline that dropped your jaw;
they were his 'Macedonian Call'
Reading:
he craves salvation, but he loves solitude
he craves closure, but he loves his demons too,
his quest for illumination grow wild wings of much curiosity,
so he lures his low self esteem to fornicate with his insecurity
on the matrimonial pages of religion's holy writs, until doubts come again, and again, and again, and again, and...he gains entry into ocean dept of conflicting philosophies, alternate deities, divine mediums, conspiracy theories and a roomful of divers other dark pages that would turn his mind into a wine press of vinegar
the books he reads takes his breathe away, but he cannot let go,
"perhaps one more read", he thinks, "and that which clouds my mind would disperse",
so he reads books that afflict than heal,
he devours more that celebrates his demons, feeding them to prey on him,
he begins to question the essence of divinity and doubt the existence of same
he argues that one man could be fat and thin and that a rose flower can make mangoes,
he tries to make light appear a little dark, attempts to stick his head in his anus, frees his freewill of all caution and drags the later in the mud
he writes more, beautifully so, and commands letters to take deep forms
and commands the applause of the great and small,
he masks his battles beneath a scary mask and exalts everything not expedient
through this all, he finds no peace
Depression:
he tends to be more in tune with his imagination
but that’s just a guess,
he loses will, he loses self,
he loses peace, he loses sanity
he loves to think he's become a sea
so he roars like a raging sea and consumes even the voluminous of books,
gulping the good, the bad, the ugly too, and with every belch of satisfaction, they trigger a constipation of depressions, which ripples weeklong, month long, year long; it lingers on, to become his only source of inspiration:
a never ending ripples of rehearsed hurting memories births dark poems that starts with a sigh and ends with a dirge
poetry is not the demon,
his intense craving, albeit reasonable, to be well versed in that which his forbears could not to grasp - in life nor in death - becomes his greatest undoing
and another depressed soul, too weak to hang on will lose it tomorrow and mock God
Atheism:
he makes ready his epitaph, the last line of it.
Suicide:
fake heroism comes calling on him to show the others how to end pain,
he begins to see answers in the liquid allure of a river
he begins to bid goodbye to all that's true
he begins to ruminate on options to life
he reviews his options to life affixes another:
he marks out 'life'
he marks out 'love'
he marks out 'light'
he marks out 'law'
he marks out 'laughter'
he marks out 'listening' to the cacophonies of hope
he tunes to a frequency of metallic melodies
feeds his lonely heart with eerie symphonies
howls at the moon like a lone wolf
until his admiration for grave silence lures his trembling fingers to check an option not to be chosen
Requiem:
option checked,
he scribbled the following and checked out...
may we now hum his epitaph:
#WeShallFindJoy, maybe not.
#Pengician
Writing:
"I write to let out the deafening voices in my head"
a boy finds closure in poetry shrouded with bits of real events,
he paints demons with rainbow hues
whip angels for flawlessness and make man moan 'mortality merely mean nothing,
we gods! we gods! gods we are!
the world applauds his pen mastery, crowns him muse of muses and anoint his alter ego with encomiums
but none could see the dark clouds that hang like eye bags beneath his glossy eyes:
these clouds, the free verse that screamed his pain;
these clouds seventh verse that beckoned on you to read in between lines;
these clouds, the punchline that dropped your jaw;
they were his 'Macedonian Call'
Reading:
"be careful what you read, you might die of a misprint"
he craves salvation, but he loves solitude
he craves closure, but he loves his demons too,
his quest for illumination grow wild wings of much curiosity,
so he lures his low self esteem to fornicate with his insecurity
on the matrimonial pages of religion's holy writs, until doubts come again, and again, and again, and again, and...he gains entry into ocean dept of conflicting philosophies, alternate deities, divine mediums, conspiracy theories and a roomful of divers other dark pages that would turn his mind into a wine press of vinegar
Agnosticism:
"I am without knowledge. I don't want to believe. I want to know."
the books he reads takes his breathe away, but he cannot let go,
"perhaps one more read", he thinks, "and that which clouds my mind would disperse",
so he reads books that afflict than heal,
he devours more that celebrates his demons, feeding them to prey on him,
he begins to question the essence of divinity and doubt the existence of same
he argues that one man could be fat and thin and that a rose flower can make mangoes,
he tries to make light appear a little dark, attempts to stick his head in his anus, frees his freewill of all caution and drags the later in the mud
he writes more, beautifully so, and commands letters to take deep forms
and commands the applause of the great and small,
he masks his battles beneath a scary mask and exalts everything not expedient
through this all, he finds no peace
Depression:
"Silent scars are the hardest to heal"
he tends to be more in tune with his imagination
but that’s just a guess,
he loses will, he loses self,
he loses peace, he loses sanity
he loves to think he's become a sea
so he roars like a raging sea and consumes even the voluminous of books,
gulping the good, the bad, the ugly too, and with every belch of satisfaction, they trigger a constipation of depressions, which ripples weeklong, month long, year long; it lingers on, to become his only source of inspiration:
a never ending ripples of rehearsed hurting memories births dark poems that starts with a sigh and ends with a dirge
poetry is not the demon,
his intense craving, albeit reasonable, to be well versed in that which his forbears could not to grasp - in life nor in death - becomes his greatest undoing
and another depressed soul, too weak to hang on will lose it tomorrow and mock God
Atheism:
"it is i who do not in exist"
he makes ready his epitaph, the last line of it.
Suicide:
"the cold face of a river asked me for a kiss, I will. She'll drown my pain..."
fake heroism comes calling on him to show the others how to end pain,
he begins to see answers in the liquid allure of a river
he begins to bid goodbye to all that's true
he begins to ruminate on options to life
he reviews his options to life affixes another:
he marks out 'life'
he marks out 'love'
he marks out 'light'
he marks out 'law'
he marks out 'laughter'
he marks out 'listening' to the cacophonies of hope
he tunes to a frequency of metallic melodies
feeds his lonely heart with eerie symphonies
howls at the moon like a lone wolf
until his admiration for grave silence lures his trembling fingers to check an option not to be chosen
Requiem:
option checked,
he scribbled the following and checked out...
may we now hum his epitaph:
"here ends an awkward journey that began from nowhere, for it is I who do not exist"
#WeShallFindJoy, maybe not.
#Pengician
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Thanks for your comments. I appreciate.