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.
---
Today I sat down and prayed, it's a first for me,
To feel this defeated and restrained, it's a bust indeed;
The wars I've waged in my mind to this day enraged.
I'm afraid.
Yours truly, sitting in the corner by my door on the floor,
Feeling like a foreigner to my own future, what a chore;
I don't want to deal with this anymore.
I don't want to suture myself together just so I can go to the store,
What for? Just so I can abhor humanity to its core? Forevermore?
I don't want to stress over the stress I feel when I explore new avenues I haven't gone to before,
If only I could defuse my mental refuse; blue's the only hues my mind's on, never gone.
It's there from dusk 'till dawn.
I don't want to sit on my floor, overloaded from a five minute walk across uncrowded streets no one's barely on.
The brawn I've built is paper-thick, devoted to being unfortunate: it's my mind's trick; my walking stick.
I feel sick, anaemic. I might squeal, we'll see, I'll write it out so I don't have to be so loud;
There's others here, they might be disturbed; therefore I commit to the written word:
It's exhausting, forcing yourself to disconnect from the suffering you suppress only so you can carry on,
Living with a lexicon; one thing connects the other thing, it's really puzzling, discovering new words for pain, It's kind of stifling,
Wondering if there's an end to my torture, a depature from this horror: some place that's warmer.
I just want some order.
I want to meet people, I want to make friends, without the despair of my haunting guilty conscience.
I want to appreciate dinner, I want to chat for longer than some speech-beginner,
I want to see people's eyes when they look at me shimmer,
The likelihood of that grows ever slimmer.
Locked up in my head, my mind grows ever grimmer.
Trying to salvage whatever sliver that's left that isn't depressed before my mind's wretched,
I'm balancing on a knife's edge.
But if you hearken yourself back to the first words I wrote, and the pain I feel, then you'll be surprised to discover that it's not real.
The words I weave speak of an ordeal which isn't real, I write as I type of a blight which is far too surreal;
I do not recognize reality as factual, it's not actual, I refuse to believe.
I refuse to grieve.
I wish for more, it's not wrong, but what I have right now, whilst it may be small, is not gone.
Whilst I cannot speak, whilst I see horrors across every street, whilst there's pain thoughout my every thought,
My surrender may never be bought.
The demon's in my mind, he's a friend of mine, I see him all the time.
He whispers defeat, but it's a victimless crime, I'm fine,
I may be depressed, but I'm still in my prime.
This pain is a friend o' mine.
My creativity tuned to the pain that's resumed; a forbidden flute, a music without substitute;
The notes it sings: resolute; the songs it weaves are mute, there is no absolutes;
A passion none may prosecute; a beauty I wish to institute, a friendship without attribute;
A well-fitted suit.
My pain is my muse.
I'm going to make some food.
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.
---
Today I sat down and prayed, it's a first for me,
To feel this defeated and restrained, it's a bust indeed;
The wars I've waged in my mind to this day enraged.
I'm afraid.
Yours truly, sitting in the corner by my door on the floor,
Feeling like a foreigner to my own future, what a chore;
I don't want to deal with this anymore.
I don't want to suture myself together just so I can go to the store,
What for? Just so I can abhor humanity to its core? Forevermore?
I don't want to stress over the stress I feel when I explore new avenues I haven't gone to before,
If only I could defuse my mental refuse; blue's the only hues my mind's on, never gone.
It's there from dusk 'till dawn.
I don't want to sit on my floor, overloaded from a five minute walk across uncrowded streets no one's barely on.
The brawn I've built is paper-thick, devoted to being unfortunate: it's my mind's trick; my walking stick.
I feel sick, anaemic. I might squeal, we'll see, I'll write it out so I don't have to be so loud;
There's others here, they might be disturbed; therefore I commit to the written word:
It's exhausting, forcing yourself to disconnect from the suffering you suppress only so you can carry on,
Living with a lexicon; one thing connects the other thing, it's really puzzling, discovering new words for pain, It's kind of stifling,
Wondering if there's an end to my torture, a depature from this horror: some place that's warmer.
I just want some order.
I want to meet people, I want to make friends, without the despair of my haunting guilty conscience.
I want to appreciate dinner, I want to chat for longer than some speech-beginner,
I want to see people's eyes when they look at me shimmer,
The likelihood of that grows ever slimmer.
Locked up in my head, my mind grows ever grimmer.
Trying to salvage whatever sliver that's left that isn't depressed before my mind's wretched,
I'm balancing on a knife's edge.
But if you hearken yourself back to the first words I wrote, and the pain I feel, then you'll be surprised to discover that it's not real.
The words I weave speak of an ordeal which isn't real, I write as I type of a blight which is far too surreal;
I do not recognize reality as factual, it's not actual, I refuse to believe.
I refuse to grieve.
I wish for more, it's not wrong, but what I have right now, whilst it may be small, is not gone.
Whilst I cannot speak, whilst I see horrors across every street, whilst there's pain thoughout my every thought,
My surrender may never be bought.
The demon's in my mind, he's a friend of mine, I see him all the time.
He whispers defeat, but it's a victimless crime, I'm fine,
I may be depressed, but I'm still in my prime.
This pain is a friend o' mine.
My creativity tuned to the pain that's resumed; a forbidden flute, a music without substitute;
The notes it sings: resolute; the songs it weaves are mute, there is no absolutes;
A passion none may prosecute; a beauty I wish to institute, a friendship without attribute;
A well-fitted suit.
My pain is my muse.
I'm going to make some food.
Last edited:
