incredulous.

when i first arrived in this place i was so sure that i was ready,
i laid down maps to plot my path but couldn't keep the pencil steady.
i'm forever grabbed by callous hands when i'm reaching out for guidance,
constantly forced back into the same routines of placating my over-reliance.
i subsist solely off of spite, carried on the backs of friend's sympathy,
another prophecy self-fulfilled from the stunting of an emotional infancy.
i exchange the good-will of others for enough coin to pay my dues
so if my silver tongue is worth anything, well try to rip that out too.
merely a vessel being controlled by the demons clawing through my sobriety
so the significant efforts of my best intentions, rotted away by this anxiety.
my most prolific inactivity amplified through the lens of my stupidity,
the bend that forced the break can be pinned only upon to my rigidity.
i think that i'm so clever, although it's probably pretty obvious that i'm not,
i'm forever analogizing my folklore around the tales that i've forgot.
i'm throw down from my pedestal but my feet never reach the ground;
i swing like some petulant pendulum wearing my noose as a crown.

burden/ruin/callous

cowards and heathens; craft your thrones from your malice,
dress your temples and chapels with depictions of atlas.
burden. oh, burden; bare such an intolerable weight,
bound to become another mimicry of sisyphus' fate.
ruin. oh, ruin. i wear the crown of cancer personified,
focused on the acts and the traits which you've glorified.
callous. so callous. cut throats dressed deep in the shadows,
and reverence in the misery of the dying lamb's throes.

rot.

 i pull the straps to tighten the mask of my human disguise,
while forced to perched; forever balanced, perfectly atop knives.
this self-fulfilling prophecy is an inevitable early, demise
from bleeding dry atop the pulpit upon which i self-aggrandise.
whet the steel of blunted blades against my flaking skin,
follow worms down rabbit holes used to burrow their way in.
break these brittle bones and strip the flesh away from rot
while i recall the things i've learned about properly tying knots.

 

hey dude, i hate everything you do
but i'm trying really hard to not hate you.
hating you won't make you suck any less.

an underwhelming illusionist.

i think this sucks heaps. i'll probably change it a lot. i'ma start putting the original draft(s) into my posts when i edit things now.

draft 2 (8/4/21). -

i've toyed with being honest but it just won't compete with the nonsense i spew or all the shit that i eat.
despite my best efforts, you were never once deceived by any trap that i laid or single web that i've weaved.
its getting difficult to fall for the theatrics i stage because every trick and illusion is showing its age.
my memory's an escape artist with the way it contorts with it's delusions unraveling through psychiatry reports.

i still follow these diagrams etched deep in my hands and i again practice sticking my head into the sand. 
my mind runs in circles some dumb man on fire, that will burn out real bright like a funeral pyre.
if my head were a fleet, the ships would all sink from the holes that appear in the ways that i think
and the gaps in my logic that i always trip over or cracks that show through my total lack of composure.

my ever idle hands are some other devils plaything, some stupid marionette suspended by heartstrings. 
it's those same rusting wires that have become my garrote and make up every bullet i've caught in the back my throat
so i try to stay upright with no assistance over-head but i am too weighted down by this collection of lead. 
my inactivity is consummating my inevitable downfall, so laid my best plans to cut short the rest of life's long-haul.

draft 1 (5/4/21). -

i've toyed with being honest but it just won't compete with the nonsense i spew or all the shit that i eat.
it's difficult to fall for all the theatrics i stage, when every trick and illusion is showing its age.
despite my best efforts, you were never deceived by any trap that i lay or single web that i've weaved.
my mind runs in circles some the dumb man on fire, that will burn out real bright like a wooden funeral pyre.
if my head were a fleet, the ships would all sink flooding from holes that appear in the ways that i think

the rat.

i lick my wounds to infection so that they never recover,
i spread sick and disease while i cannibalise others,
another parasitic plague that breeds with decay.
i guide young lambs to the slaughter that i've lead astray
so i can harvest their wool to keep pulling it over my eyes
and to add on new pieces to my human disguise.
though all my carefully crafted armours cannot hide the fact
or the constant reminders, i'm nothing more than a rat.

i thought i felt your shape but i was wrong, really all i felt was falsely strong. 
i held on tight and closed my eyes, it was dumb. i had no sense of your size.

the last two/three months have been awful. everything fucking sucks.