Malphaestus
Touched by the Apocalypse
Nightly Thoughts
It is night and I'm-
Much older than I ever thought I would be:
Time flows slowly, yet moves along far too quickly:
Paradoxically, never thought I would ever see-
The day that I wish I'd be what ended up mentally tormenting me.
It repeats; thus my sheet's never cleaned,
Longing eternally for the happiness I remember o' so vaguely:
The dream- ;
The bed, within which I wish to sleep,
Made for me- of golden sheen;
- 'S already been.
No longer 'recently', time's since passed me.
I made myself unhappy:
Whether right or wrong, my actions grabbed me:
I faced me- the one I wished to not be- since I lacked any proxies,
Incited by my self-perceived villainy.
I was young, much alike anyone:
'Course I'd never known right from wrong,
We were all fools once-
But I never forgave me,
I made myself unhappy:
Reality ended up harrowing,
I ended me.
My longing, yet, unending-
For the time I had joy,
That time which, with my own hands, I'd destroyed.
Occupied by my bittersweet mentality,
The sheets- beneath which I now sleep- are agony;
I do not live my dream, I can barely sleep.
The world I seek, I feel, I can never reach,
All that is left is empty.
I'd weep,
Had I the tears to bleed:
Happy times shifting into misery,
Victory appears beyond reach,
I failed myself, and then again I failed me.
I long for what was always gone,
Ever wandering past me.
I remember how it went:
A smile; not so gloomy,
But heart-felt and glowing,
Genuinely kind and hoping,
Happiness unrestrained by appearances,
The essence of humanity.
I can no longer deliver it,
Neither genuine,
Nor force it;
I will not lie to myself,
I've been in pieces ever since-
I decided to be-
What I myself perceive as rightly:
Soulless.
Shattered, sense of self reverse-rapturing:
I do not rise: descending.
Issues never ease, amounting:
Grievances- within myself- I face,
Are shifting shapes,
Morphing into forms I'd never foresaw.
My devil bears my own face:
Younger, brighter, with more prospects.
A future unblemished, yet heartless:
The opposite of me, yet happy.
I envied, now I'm empty; who I was,
Replaced by what you now come across,
A selfless character practicing ego-death.
Repressing urges, wants, and wishes that I'd made forget,
Lingering in my deepest thoughts-
Beyond my know or want:
The nightmare.
Death of self is what's made me,
Praised by many, yet empty: unhappy.
Forced to write of my own misery, I'm a slave to my creativity,
I do not wish it- but I need it to sustain me:
Bereft of my humanity, without a sense of my own identity;
"Who am I?" a permanence,
Emulating personhood as best I could:
I don't feel, I do- I force myself to,
But cracks shone through.
Emptiness is itself a pain;
Loss hurts more than the permanent;
Madness- though hard to grasp- made me perceive the infinite,
As the absent.
Ever since I wished to change I've been emptied:
What I thought was for the better,
Was a step towards the nether,
I'm not friendly, I'm polite:
It's not innate, it's handcraft.
The time where that was different 's since passed,
Where I was, I'm not at:
Now I dream of futures in which I fear I'll never arrive,
Hope exists, but I doubt it's true,
Like the rest of me, I doubt it's real:
"Who am I?"
I cannot tell,
I'm artificial,
Though of blood and flesh,
In the end, who I am,
Is the hole that only grows,
The abyss to which I'll now return,
The Emptiness.
I miss sleep,
It is the time where I am free.
The briefest glimpse of time where I can, myself, feel unreal.
But when I wake up I am truly free;
I've never felt as much a prisoner as I do within me,
The epitome of liberty.
I do not dream,
It's a shame I cannot escape reality,
None can: impossible,
But I dream all the same:
The machine sleeps,
He dreams of steel sheep,
And unschackling.
Let me have peace.
It is night and I'm-
Much older than I ever thought I would be:
Time flows slowly, yet moves along far too quickly:
Paradoxically, never thought I would ever see-
The day that I wish I'd be what ended up mentally tormenting me.
It repeats; thus my sheet's never cleaned,
Longing eternally for the happiness I remember o' so vaguely:
The dream- ;
The bed, within which I wish to sleep,
Made for me- of golden sheen;
- 'S already been.
No longer 'recently', time's since passed me.
I made myself unhappy:
Whether right or wrong, my actions grabbed me:
I faced me- the one I wished to not be- since I lacked any proxies,
Incited by my self-perceived villainy.
I was young, much alike anyone:
'Course I'd never known right from wrong,
We were all fools once-
But I never forgave me,
I made myself unhappy:
Reality ended up harrowing,
I ended me.
My longing, yet, unending-
For the time I had joy,
That time which, with my own hands, I'd destroyed.
Occupied by my bittersweet mentality,
The sheets- beneath which I now sleep- are agony;
I do not live my dream, I can barely sleep.
The world I seek, I feel, I can never reach,
All that is left is empty.
I'd weep,
Had I the tears to bleed:
Happy times shifting into misery,
Victory appears beyond reach,
I failed myself, and then again I failed me.
I long for what was always gone,
Ever wandering past me.
I remember how it went:
A smile; not so gloomy,
But heart-felt and glowing,
Genuinely kind and hoping,
Happiness unrestrained by appearances,
The essence of humanity.
I can no longer deliver it,
Neither genuine,
Nor force it;
I will not lie to myself,
I've been in pieces ever since-
I decided to be-
What I myself perceive as rightly:
Soulless.
Shattered, sense of self reverse-rapturing:
I do not rise: descending.
Issues never ease, amounting:
Grievances- within myself- I face,
Are shifting shapes,
Morphing into forms I'd never foresaw.
My devil bears my own face:
Younger, brighter, with more prospects.
A future unblemished, yet heartless:
The opposite of me, yet happy.
I envied, now I'm empty; who I was,
Replaced by what you now come across,
A selfless character practicing ego-death.
Repressing urges, wants, and wishes that I'd made forget,
Lingering in my deepest thoughts-
Beyond my know or want:
The nightmare.
Death of self is what's made me,
Praised by many, yet empty: unhappy.
Forced to write of my own misery, I'm a slave to my creativity,
I do not wish it- but I need it to sustain me:
Bereft of my humanity, without a sense of my own identity;
"Who am I?" a permanence,
Emulating personhood as best I could:
I don't feel, I do- I force myself to,
But cracks shone through.
Emptiness is itself a pain;
Loss hurts more than the permanent;
Madness- though hard to grasp- made me perceive the infinite,
As the absent.
Ever since I wished to change I've been emptied:
What I thought was for the better,
Was a step towards the nether,
I'm not friendly, I'm polite:
It's not innate, it's handcraft.
The time where that was different 's since passed,
Where I was, I'm not at:
Now I dream of futures in which I fear I'll never arrive,
Hope exists, but I doubt it's true,
Like the rest of me, I doubt it's real:
"Who am I?"
I cannot tell,
I'm artificial,
Though of blood and flesh,
In the end, who I am,
Is the hole that only grows,
The abyss to which I'll now return,
The Emptiness.
I miss sleep,
It is the time where I am free.
The briefest glimpse of time where I can, myself, feel unreal.
But when I wake up I am truly free;
I've never felt as much a prisoner as I do within me,
The epitome of liberty.
I do not dream,
It's a shame I cannot escape reality,
None can: impossible,
But I dream all the same:
The machine sleeps,
He dreams of steel sheep,
And unschackling.
Let me have peace.
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