Rude Awakening (Original)

I got carried away with my poem, and turned it into an epic. Here's the original version. Both have a different feel, so you could easily like one more than the other. Both tell the story differently.

Despair spreads like a disease of philosophy

I am a secondhand clock, a ticking time bomb

Second-guessing every hourglass

 

Time is my asylum

I sleep to the alarm bells

I awaken to melancholy scythes, Death cries

 

Enlighten me with you damning schizophrenia reanimated ammunition

Take a shot and choke on a bullet, might as well go out with a bang

Reloading necrosis, where the living lie down and die, I’ll take my last stand

 

I wrote over every drop of blood-stained on my memories

I tout only every firearm that stole my livelihood

Sometimes people just put the fire out to burn the witch with shadows

 

Sometimes the darkness scorches and scalds diabolical more than any madness

The Holocaust is a philosophy of despair marinating devastation in the hysteria of caricatures

And it sounds like silence, and whispered oblivion

 

And my armour is so empty of knightshade halo’s malevolent covenant of bloodhound angels

Bound by the anarchistic antithesis of sickness bewitching cataclysmic crucifixion

Decrepit Armageddon this secondhand insanity that was brought from father to son

 

Until it was naught but torn fabric eradication to clothe the fraying of my soul

Until the see-through pieces of the shattered glass I wore became me

Heaven or Hades, this s**t was my gravy salivating megalomania

 

Amputating amalgamations of hatred from the nightmare’s of transparency

Gregorian chants necromancing gladiators of flesh

Who eat at each other’s throats until they speak scripture in ellipsis eviscerated love

 

Through the lips of their victims eclipsing existence above

I do not speak sacrilege through the sign language of my hippocampus hemorrhages

My hands contorting orifices of metamorphosis intercoursing chords of railroads

 

As the sadness abracadabra’s the miasma of shattered dreams

Even my nightmares are a reflection of the beatings, too weak to push through

Reach peaks of butchered views, a piece of music entombing illusions with the fuselage of bruises

 

The war engines of their hearts, the biomechanical animalistic jurisdiction of their words

As I regurgitate the resurgence of hurricanes, alone in my Hell

I used to frolic in the wilderness of a pilgrimage resilient with the wildflower endowed to gallows

 

I used to hang with the maelstroms, and then I sank with the insanctuary’s jailor

Vanquished by the humanity that tore me from the page

And forged me like a blade of glass, blasphemous as rage

 

I only broke because I was meant to

I only spoke because a remnant said to

Of another man who never was

 

Falling short yet came so far

Sleeping in an open grave

Found his death and lost his way

 

Even if I were to change

You still would need a man to blame

Even if you turn the page

 

You burn the book and break the rules

I remember times that weren’t as cruel

If you think I won’t bite back then you’re the fool

 

Your lies are but a baseless tool

Disguised behind a rhyme or two

Designed to take a life for you

 

I’m not so soft to die aloof

Burn brighter than your lighter fuel

Fly higher than a mountain view

 

Deciphering all Chlorophyll

Reborn dirge to soar through burgundy eternity

Flourish before I turn to ash

 

Kill your future before I forget my past

Know your castle is just made of glass

Buried mass of aftermath under the grass choir of graphite black

 

I’m the only soul you had

The rose is always ironclad

The thorns of a travesty, the madness of an avalanche, phantasmagoric oracle

 

Take my life I’ll take my stance

I could not stand to die again

And haunt your memory till the end, beginning to see what got me started?

 

There won’t be a world I’m not a part of

There won’t be a worm without a martyr

There won’t be a bird without a meal

 

There won’t be a heart that hasn’t healed

There won’t be a poem half as real

Bad omens while devils sell their deals, I leave my memories a blemished revenant in the fields

 

Unending till you feel

The sound of dying demons

Screaming as you’re kneeling, knocking at your basement door, the never-ending war

Author's Note

I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.