Blind to Paradise

An older poem.

Abstract magic madness

Diabolical

I’m just a survivor, I’m not an angel

Left dangling strangled in the strawberry monotony of solitude

Made a monster in my name

Made a fortress by this way

Tortured by today, is the person I became

Morbid shade of grey, forefront on your picture frame

Accumulated mayhem, swimming in the lake of all this hatred

Watch me fade away into the flames of tomorrow soaring through an ocean decor

Contorted in abortion; no more

Deteriorating in the interiors of freedoms corridor, waiting for the last season of being at death’s door

Inferior to the hope of the moment

Us humans see reason, but choose to be demons

Human beings are the true demons, seldom slithering through the bottom mellow yellow sweltering hell of our cerebellum, excreted through our semen, waiting in our eggs, like impatient congregated hatred synapse to hatch in the neurological flash, high functioning slumber of a sociopath, the vorpal code in our frontal lobe

The source alone mythical, like a unicorn

The mist of missed opportunities enters my lungs like a gun, electrified cyanide in their connection, an apparition

A glimpse of the angel I witnessed, affection from a different direction, I drown down my discounted confessions

I’ll never remember such heaven, because it never happened

Instead, I’ll collapse with my mishappen dream in detachment, and mould my own euphoria, my own contraption of happiness

The incisions of past decision bring me here, to my nighttime prison, of which I was butchered and risen, then given away in pieces, defeated in the era of clarity, barely awake burning for your sake, created for your hatred, reworded curtesy, fervently murdering me

There’s solace in being alone, captured a masterpiece of my own, the happy ever after rapture, the disaster of my own, the only cadence maintained that I’ve known

My only solace is a cold forest of morbid loneliness, unwholesome full of locusts, blossoming into my esophagus

But there is solace, some hope opens us for a moment, broken apart in your heart, the dark art lonesome, start marks on your body, hobbling on your solitude hobby, discarding arguments for lobotomy, the pain no longer startling, the fear monger no stronger than my thumb

But even a thumb can gouge out reality

Wrongfully donning your own mask of elastic saddening insanity, your own contrasting brand of reactive inhumanity

Patient toymaker forsaken in your isolation

Mental health sentinels

Blind to paradise

Ripe to cypresses, cycles that ride the rolling dice

And decipher riffling the sky

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.