THE DARKEST STAR

some of that feeling of misfit, of void and everything else which chokes us while being weak and bitter.some of that world we run to when lone. some of that human-like.

 

What makes you swing? What makes you jump? What makes you fly?

What makes you lie?

 

What makes you get? What makes you dream? What makes you smile?

What makes you die?

 

What?

 

He did not know beacuse of the gigantic failure he thought he is.

Beacause of that awful feeling of suffocation. Of poor nature he lived in.

And he lived in…..Fascination street.

 

 

And at first it looks so mad.

And at first it looks so wrong.

 

 

 

 

         …….

 

'So at first it may seem like I'm nothing, but actually I'm eating humble pie. I'm cutting open a vein and letting it bleed for you.

At first I come across as  an rebellious offspring, but actually I’m yours.

Actually I’m sweet.And…’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The walls of his room had an instant pain look, some instant words, painted with blood, words of reality, words so sweet and sore, so 'his' words :

 

 

'She eyes me like a pisces when I am weak
I've been locked inside your Heart-Shaped box for weeks
I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap
I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn back

 

Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on angel's hair and baby's breath
Broken hymen of your highness I'm left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back'

 

 

  Nirvana/heart shaped box

 

 

 

And he was isolated, he was lone. And he did not know of affection, love or light. He passed his days as boomerang, as an ever-coming-back feeling of boredom. Boredom and pain. Mostly pain, really.Closed up…among those shoes in the closet where he…smiled.

 

Well, people say something about a couple of signs that a parent notices in their child's youth, something about the way those signs affect people.If they affect them at all.Some may not notice broken doll parts under the bed and never know their little boy hates woman.

Some may not notice a dead bird or damaged kitty in the back yard their little girl put hands on and never impeach that she is a murder.

Some may not see the amount of tears their son or daughter had turned upon.

Some may not see the fake smile they all offer plenty of times.

Some may not want to be there for their kids when they are afraid of the big bad wolf or ghost behing the wardrobe. Or when they actually need them. For real, not some silly ways of showing you care. Like buying them 20 pairs of shoes or sending them to boarding schools in Germany.

Some kids need to be noticed.

Some kids need to have a live teddy bear which they can hug when scared.

Every kid needs love,

He needed love. He searched it in wrong places. In wrong people. In a wrong way.

 

 

 

Even 10 years later it seemed the same. It was the same in every breath they took for granted, in every cold look he had. He was always an alien. Alone and different. They didn't notice. They did not want to.

He was scared. He was suffering a great deal of misfit. He wanted to belong. He f*****g wanted to smile.And eventually he did, but that wasn't a smile one would wish for.A fake one.

 

Him. A rebellious teen with murder eyes. With cold hazel eyes of the beholder. He saw just fine. He knew what the world had took away from him. He hated it for that.

 

Him. The talented banjo player. The pretty one. The empty one. Like the near garbage can. Like some wasted flower boy in the land of no plants. He died 11 years ago. Emotionally.

Every Nick Drake song he covered in his room sounded divine. Sounded so much more than enything wrong these days. It was a real battle for the sun. No matter how lone he was. That music was able to transform him into the light. Into love. He wasn't awear of it anyhow. Aldough when around music, he flyed. He re-borned.

 

 

'He was whored by the voices in his head plenty of times. He was beaten down by self hate. . It's very painful'.

That's what they said.

 

 

 

                ..,.,.,.,.,..,.,.,..,.,…,.,…,

 

 

 

 

FASCINATION STREET

 

 

 

 

I walk this lonely road, and feel so real.

I walk this street free of all impendences, free of that I now run from. And I hear the sweet melody of a combo.

I run from them…

 

My old and kindda torn yellow snickers step on dirt, on used needles, on something soiling, on grime, on profane ground… with not really stepping on. I fly. My used shoes loosing the ground. Unholy one.

They levitate me through the fascination street. Street of no dismay and terror. Soul-based road where I feel free.

Feel my own.

 

Despite the fact I hate my life. I really do have these moments of…of something fine.

A place where I maintain sweet and innocent. Lily white, as I want to.

 

My life?

Hmm…a coffin. Closed one. With a tiny window of steal. There's no air but I breathe. And I don't want to be locked up. I really don't.

No nice colours, no pure sounds, just a smell of… of  roses. F*****g neverdying ones. With their torns of divine and that colour…red. I hate that colour. I hate it too much.

 

No, I can't see them…the roses…I can feel them. And aldough my nose doesn't work, I smell trouble. Fucked up and deceptive roses. And the breath is taken away…

 

 

Only walking , running , only flying….only moving , touches me in the way really unreal to me. Fascination street where I reborn, I shine.

My pixie world of major, almost make-believe, but mine.

Maybe that feeling some call : love.

Yeah, some of it.

Without the roses. Awful stench of red.

Making my time here worth a while.

To levitate and be nothing. To levitate and to, being nothing, … be every little thing worth being.

 

 

 

I'll tell you something old. Something new. I'll tell you about her. About pain and magic. About the trees.

 

 

 

 

      .          .          .

 

 

 

I could tell you how I felt loved and cheerfly, but that would be a lie.

I could tell you how I felt candy and chocolate in my mouth everytime I did something good, but that would be a lie.

I could tell you I was a normal boy with a normal family, but I would lie.

 

 

Hours in the closet wouldn't make me cry. I was way too scared to let a tear loose. Mother would lock those doors so quick. Like a maniac. There was no point in crying, screaming, praying for help… I realised that soon enough. So no crying was involved. I smiled. I always f*****g smiled. And I sang this lullaby I ones heard. Constantly in my ear. Voice so sweet. Voice of a mother I once had. Lost one when I lost my father.

 

Broken family = Broken me

 

…

 

People say it's normal and the way things go … Don't buy it. It ain't f*****g true. It did me so bad. The divorce closed some doors for me, hid some light. I never felt more alone. More bitter. Lost. Played. Void-like.

 

How would you feel in a tiny closet?

With lack of light, with old, smelly coats and shoes. You : a boy who cried. Me : a boy who smiled.I knew no tears would help.And that piercing melody. The original one was sang with the sounds of banjo. Instrument I now play. Melody…joy, sun…life…love. All that I couldn't have. Back then in that fucked up closet.

Mother would lock me every time she felt like killing someone or drinking or just crazy. And that was way too often.

It broke me into little pieces. And I'm still collecting them. Puzzle of million pieces divided in two. Way too many, ha?

 

Ok, that was old thing.

I was molested. I was beaten. I was locked up. I was mistreated. I was ignored. I was misunderstood. I was desolate. I was killed. Emotionally empty…still am.

 

Something new?

Oh, well…I repeat the history. So it isn't too new after all.

Mother is dead. Her job was 'given' to everyone else.

I die.

Everytime I hear an insult. Everytime they hate me. I get beaten. I have sex for money.I instill. Everytime I live the way I do. So awful. Makes me sick. Makes me an alien in the world of gore. Beacause I do not want it. Any of it.

Makes me so little and damaged. So used, so spit on.

Makes me like them.

 

Sometimes I want oceans, and all I get is a glass of dirt in water, some low-prized alcohol.

Sometimes I want clover fields, the smell so fresh, all I get is some cheap weed.

 

I look for right things in wrong places.

I look for love…I get sex.. Poor and awful. Lacks some soul.

I like trees. I reall like trees. Apple, Orchid, Orange…all of them. Somehow make me feel protected.

 

I'm 23 years old and I'm dying.

Looking for a light in a room ful of light. Wrong light.                           

Looking for her. Never-ever finding her.

My magic.

My Amber.

On the other hand…

In this fascination street I find her voice. Her skin. Her penetrating eyes. Her sore lips. Her motion so breathtaking…her gentle and kind hands. Her effulgence.

Only here she lives again, only here we talk again.Only here I feel her.

She went away. She died.

Here I'm able to lift myself higher…to reach her…to taste her lips…to hear her melody.

Here I'm able to love.

Author's Note

do u think it's healthy to run away to our universe of dreams, our make-believe world, place where we can be, do and feel every little thing we can't in reality? sometimes that 'fake' can take us and never let go. sometimes we don't won't to be back. sometimes we levitate.