Malphaestus
Touched by the Apocalypse
- READER BEWARE -
This work contains topics which some may find gravely unpleasant. If you cannot safely consume literature or written works regarding mental health issues, then I recommend you ignore what I have written below and go about your day as best you can.
The birth of this work I have written was an outlet for me, and I decided to share it; thus not meant to incite anything, or urge anyone to do anything which could harm.
The concept for this is something I wrote in my time at the ward.
---
My emptiness is endless, senselessly framed as-
Senseless mockery, brainless, breathless aimlessness,
I'm high maintenance: countenance speaks of countable doubtfulness;
My trek through life is mountainous, landscape is boundless.
Path is clouded by fogs of mindless blindness: no sight for kindness,
Finest Midas would never have stooped to these degress of spineless violence.
Fiery bias minus righteous iris, shyness my highest virtue if virtue were detritus.
Name stems from Hephaestus, mixed with a malevolent edifice in elegant irreverence, creation in treacherous reference,
Intelligence my most irrelevant element, booning me the ability to weave words in directionless emphasis.
There are no benefits, my gift granting me the ability of misery, all I do is bitterly musing about my mental injury,
Gingerly finding new ways to construe my self-abuse whose bruise transfuse refuse into my mental central.
I'm judgemental, can't walk two steps on my wakeless quest to escape myself without stressful rest,
Some say I'm blessed, witnessing my ceaseless test and mistaking it for relentless zest,
Never witnessing the days I wake up distressed from nightmarish pest covered in sweat,
My rest bereft by unrest manifest in cardiac arrest-esque distress.
In me there's menace, it's presence stupendous, suspended by ropes of relentless offences,
Sentences birthed and born from dependence of my jealous essence, unholy remembrance,
Wearing masks of temperance, semblance of patience, visages of calm resemblance,
But beneath my skin cracks under hateful engine, perfection without affectionate dimension,
My complexion upon inspection steeped in introspective infection.
A wish of independence, born of pretentious intentions dreaming to strike the world with suspenseful tensions,
I was born with great affliction, addiction an ever-present friction, a crying man being a fitting depiction.
I often feel as if my wordly vision is receiving an order of eviction, having to pay the earth a tuition just to continue existing.
Wish I had an ambition, something less obtuse than my relentless muse to create contradicting diction,
Writing painful fiction, analogous to my synonomic mission to avoid self-crucifixion, I'm losing this battle of attrition.
My mind in fission, thoughts splint in twain to produce powerful ignition, the profane remain in these emissions of repetition.
I carry a predisposition towards self-incision forcing me to abide by the judicial condition of never cooking food in my own kitchen.
Thus it is written, wish I was christian, that or smitten with any other religion. Alas, my cognition revels in suspicion,
Locked from wishin', I do not believe in ambitions, my life has always been in hellish juxtaposition.
Am I existing, am I forgiven for looking for more from this blemished living I never asked for,
You're stuck in a prison, my deprecating thoughts are rough iron bars, ours is the pain we were given,
It keeps me hidden, "you're" is my avatar but I refuse to allude to truth whose views I will never use, I am the author of my own point of view.
I've written a border, I've got a dissociative horror, called depersonalization-derealization disorder,
Makes reality feel as if it's been filmed by a videocassette recorder.
This life I live is not determinative, I've cast it aside to survive.
Arrive now to someone who isn't anyone, it's take five, he's trying to thrive but it's headed in nosedive,
He's polite, but inside he despises life, so he sticks to exercise to feel alive, he's imbibed with lies,
Prescribed with ten different kinds of medical supplies whose names he cannot memorize to feel 'alright.'
He's a man who cries thanks to random advise by some group therapy guys that it would disguise dark skies,
A person with highs which've been unimaginably high, which implies he's gotten far in life, it was all paradise.
But inside he thought of goodbyes, everyone had called him wise, he'd gotten farther than any other at this point in life,
Guised in the sights of sunrise, he was someone none would criticize, he was aggrandized,
But he had snake eyes, he would look inside his allies and penetrate their minds to spread his malicious lies, he was vile,
He had vicious guile, carried a Cheshire smile stretched an international nautical mile to beguile, his presence a crocodile.
While never seeming hostile, he was a good juvenile, did his chores without bores, never complained,
Never needed to explain how busy he'd been because he always made room for peers,
He never had fears, never in tears, he'd always volunteer when none would lend their ear.
Here he would endear others with care, bar them, they thought him so dear, but he was a puppeteer,
Bore into their core, a metaphor fore, seeking material score, gold to go for, people filled with ore, viewing their dreams like a grocery store,
All of them things which he could pay for, once they were strung they were gone for, they were entertainment galore,
He was all they could fall for, they could only adore, no other options anymore, it continued until sophomore.
He was torn from his clique, he'd been sick, never'd expect to become conscripted,
Ahead was a road hard to tread, to his 'friends' he had said 'don't dread, it's only a bridgehead, go to bed, I'll text you later instead,'
But his manipulative spread, his hold on the marionette thread,
Was soon dead.
Every text he sent was left unread.
My relationships burnt down. I've been left a clown, If I had to pick a noun.
It is many years past, but the pain? It will last, for myself and the others it was vast.
It's justified, this time around, whatever I'd found, the crown imperial, born of whatever material-
-Istic politicing prick I'd been deserved to be drop-kicked, I had been real thick.
I never deserved to feel this homesick for the time I'd been crowned,
That is why I am drowned in this regret I have found, the pain that surrounds is profound,
The noise that I hear in my ears run aground to the sound of a nightmarish merry-go-round,
I've already built my burial ground, all that is left to do is to look around you and see when the pain that you strew has unwound,
Only then will you be uncrowned.
Only then is it sundown.
Only then may you rest in the ground.
This work contains topics which some may find gravely unpleasant. If you cannot safely consume literature or written works regarding mental health issues, then I recommend you ignore what I have written below and go about your day as best you can.
The birth of this work I have written was an outlet for me, and I decided to share it; thus not meant to incite anything, or urge anyone to do anything which could harm.
The concept for this is something I wrote in my time at the ward.
---
My emptiness is endless, senselessly framed as-
Senseless mockery, brainless, breathless aimlessness,
I'm high maintenance: countenance speaks of countable doubtfulness;
My trek through life is mountainous, landscape is boundless.
Path is clouded by fogs of mindless blindness: no sight for kindness,
Finest Midas would never have stooped to these degress of spineless violence.
Fiery bias minus righteous iris, shyness my highest virtue if virtue were detritus.
Name stems from Hephaestus, mixed with a malevolent edifice in elegant irreverence, creation in treacherous reference,
Intelligence my most irrelevant element, booning me the ability to weave words in directionless emphasis.
There are no benefits, my gift granting me the ability of misery, all I do is bitterly musing about my mental injury,
Gingerly finding new ways to construe my self-abuse whose bruise transfuse refuse into my mental central.
I'm judgemental, can't walk two steps on my wakeless quest to escape myself without stressful rest,
Some say I'm blessed, witnessing my ceaseless test and mistaking it for relentless zest,
Never witnessing the days I wake up distressed from nightmarish pest covered in sweat,
My rest bereft by unrest manifest in cardiac arrest-esque distress.
In me there's menace, it's presence stupendous, suspended by ropes of relentless offences,
Sentences birthed and born from dependence of my jealous essence, unholy remembrance,
Wearing masks of temperance, semblance of patience, visages of calm resemblance,
But beneath my skin cracks under hateful engine, perfection without affectionate dimension,
My complexion upon inspection steeped in introspective infection.
A wish of independence, born of pretentious intentions dreaming to strike the world with suspenseful tensions,
I was born with great affliction, addiction an ever-present friction, a crying man being a fitting depiction.
I often feel as if my wordly vision is receiving an order of eviction, having to pay the earth a tuition just to continue existing.
Wish I had an ambition, something less obtuse than my relentless muse to create contradicting diction,
Writing painful fiction, analogous to my synonomic mission to avoid self-crucifixion, I'm losing this battle of attrition.
My mind in fission, thoughts splint in twain to produce powerful ignition, the profane remain in these emissions of repetition.
I carry a predisposition towards self-incision forcing me to abide by the judicial condition of never cooking food in my own kitchen.
Thus it is written, wish I was christian, that or smitten with any other religion. Alas, my cognition revels in suspicion,
Locked from wishin', I do not believe in ambitions, my life has always been in hellish juxtaposition.
Am I existing, am I forgiven for looking for more from this blemished living I never asked for,
You're stuck in a prison, my deprecating thoughts are rough iron bars, ours is the pain we were given,
It keeps me hidden, "you're" is my avatar but I refuse to allude to truth whose views I will never use, I am the author of my own point of view.
I've written a border, I've got a dissociative horror, called depersonalization-derealization disorder,
Makes reality feel as if it's been filmed by a videocassette recorder.
This life I live is not determinative, I've cast it aside to survive.
Arrive now to someone who isn't anyone, it's take five, he's trying to thrive but it's headed in nosedive,
He's polite, but inside he despises life, so he sticks to exercise to feel alive, he's imbibed with lies,
Prescribed with ten different kinds of medical supplies whose names he cannot memorize to feel 'alright.'
He's a man who cries thanks to random advise by some group therapy guys that it would disguise dark skies,
A person with highs which've been unimaginably high, which implies he's gotten far in life, it was all paradise.
But inside he thought of goodbyes, everyone had called him wise, he'd gotten farther than any other at this point in life,
Guised in the sights of sunrise, he was someone none would criticize, he was aggrandized,
But he had snake eyes, he would look inside his allies and penetrate their minds to spread his malicious lies, he was vile,
He had vicious guile, carried a Cheshire smile stretched an international nautical mile to beguile, his presence a crocodile.
While never seeming hostile, he was a good juvenile, did his chores without bores, never complained,
Never needed to explain how busy he'd been because he always made room for peers,
He never had fears, never in tears, he'd always volunteer when none would lend their ear.
Here he would endear others with care, bar them, they thought him so dear, but he was a puppeteer,
Bore into their core, a metaphor fore, seeking material score, gold to go for, people filled with ore, viewing their dreams like a grocery store,
All of them things which he could pay for, once they were strung they were gone for, they were entertainment galore,
He was all they could fall for, they could only adore, no other options anymore, it continued until sophomore.
He was torn from his clique, he'd been sick, never'd expect to become conscripted,
Ahead was a road hard to tread, to his 'friends' he had said 'don't dread, it's only a bridgehead, go to bed, I'll text you later instead,'
But his manipulative spread, his hold on the marionette thread,
Was soon dead.
Every text he sent was left unread.
My relationships burnt down. I've been left a clown, If I had to pick a noun.
It is many years past, but the pain? It will last, for myself and the others it was vast.
It's justified, this time around, whatever I'd found, the crown imperial, born of whatever material-
-Istic politicing prick I'd been deserved to be drop-kicked, I had been real thick.
I never deserved to feel this homesick for the time I'd been crowned,
That is why I am drowned in this regret I have found, the pain that surrounds is profound,
The noise that I hear in my ears run aground to the sound of a nightmarish merry-go-round,
I've already built my burial ground, all that is left to do is to look around you and see when the pain that you strew has unwound,
Only then will you be uncrowned.
Only then is it sundown.
Only then may you rest in the ground.
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