Poetry Texts Writ From the Depths

[Malphaestus]

Considering my writing of vaguely poetic works are a recurring thing, I have decided to make a singular thread (this one) within which I will post them. There are no primary themes, or intentional topics which I focus on; these are spontaneous creations, spurred by whichever influences they manifest themselves. But I will forewarn that I am not the most bubbly sort, and my personal work tends to be ennatured with great depressiveness.

First of:

In the real world you can find, that beneath dirt I am found;
I wishest it untrue, alas very little I can do.
Truth, I have found, very evil and unbenign, seldom very kind;
Mischievous truth, evilest brute to puncture any group,
Finding joy in such pursuits, so does the truth;
Ruining friendships so he do, very common is it too.
Ruining your friends, ruining your love; truth sure does that too, he cannot help but to.
Ruining you he does too, there's no limit to what he will do;
He will make you see what you never wished to;
Then you'll see him here, then he will for sure be there;
Truth will be found everywhere you view, he will never leave you.
You will see, too, that truth will be the only friend who, in the end, will be with you; but is this good,
Surely you had wished to hang out too, with those other people who are like you, unlike this faceless fictitious dude masquerading cosmic rule.
But truth will not permit this of you, rules your world he do; no compromises he will make you,
All that you can do, as devised by Truth, is to submit to his supreme world view;
Deny it and he will make you, fail to and he will force you,
Truth,
There is nothing he will not do to be friends with you.
He will show you how things are,
He will tell you the devil behind every remark,
And he will unmask every single smile:
Invading all that's hallow, razing every precious thing with burning husks and swallows-
All your thoughts and dreams and puts in place his wicked spins,
Truth, he strings, the Lord Supreme, he doth whispered sing into your ruptured eardrums.
All you do, thence on is follow; follow to his tune, singest as he do,
Joyous he strolls through every sanctum,
Soon even victim will spur a smile, crooked though it be:
Give it time, the fake will turn real,
And every single thought of pain, every dusk and every rain,
Will turn to sun and thus you go,
From sad, depressed, and hollow-
To much the same, but bearing wicked grin:
You have no choice, you thus submit,
Smile and it will end,
If the fake will turn to truth in stride,
Then all is real, there are no lies.​

 

[Malphaestus]

Introspection

I wake up,
Drenched in cold sweat wrought by my deepest inability to sleep enough.
The water within which I'd slept as deep, dark, and cold as the nightmare I had dreamt about,
Blessed by the loneliness, imagination ends when reality encroaches it:
Recurring themes intermix, morphing into horrific things, both in reality and in my dreams:
I wish I could flee, but I’m stuck- my dreams are no different from real life, they feel the same pretty much.

Feet firmly rooted in place, these eyes are mine alone to gaze through-
Yet they lie to me: all that I see when I view myself dead in the eye,
Mirror well-lit and room’s pitch tinted by eerie eve, is the ghost: it is me.
I’m awake, yet always wish I wasn't: wishing to spontaneously combust and,
Be free from my self-created nonsense: all this, emotion-
Could’ve easily been resolved long since, but wasn’t;
Holding on to it ‘cause I don’t know how to toss it.
Downer discovered; hell is what we make of it and I sure did bring a lot of it,
Drowner, smothered; in my life and in my head there’s no way that I may possibly recover,
So throw me, the deep sea; my mind is full of water and I simply can’t breathe-
So bring me deep beneath the earth’s wide ocean,
Make it evidently clear to me that I really can’t breathe:
I’d have to die to know that I truly did live,
Simply how I feel.

I need reprieve, a moment from myself:
some time- not a long while- free from my ceaseless impulses;
Free from the need to hurt mind and heart, flesh and blood-
I want to feel, anything real, like I belong to Earth, amongst the herd,
And not tossed to the heap by society, this I plead from within deep.
But I made me, this isn’t on anyone else; perfectly mendable,
I just refrained for too long, ended where I am-
And my soul therefore bleeds, it needs its release-
But I simply can’t, too much at stake, locked-
To the earth like the bird in its birdcage.
My mind and my heart: it's decayed,
Fingers, they are rotting- toes, too, are scalding,
My liver, it is molding; every piece of me is dropping-
Soon, I am nothing: how revolting-
I am when I look at myself, I wish I was anyone else.

Focused on the everything,
From the shallowest breath to the deepest scream,
Everything alerts me: eating food hurts me,
Soup makes my stomach feel like it is bursting-
Liquid is emerging, through the throat- I’m hurling.
Cleaning carpets, is it worth it? What’s the purpose?
Training every day ‘cause I feel worthless,
Two hours every day, is it worth it?
What’s the purpose?
I’ve come a long way, but I didn’t heal:
All I learned was getting used to it, what’s the worth of it?
This life I live lifeless, kind though I’m heartless-
I lack the soul though I’m living like I don’t,
I was never alike most but at this point I simply feel gross:
Repeating the same prose, the same way, endlessly close to the last composed-
And no change shows, it’s the same old, in life and on the road.
Trying to bring myself up to change my life but the struggle’s got my throat in stranglehold.
I wanna change, I wanna live, I wanna be a whole lotta things, but it just won’t.
Where’s this gonna go- where’s the end road, when’s the show closed?
When’s the change come, when’s the sunrise, when’s my ice unfroze?

I’ve lived plentiful in the past, my life then was quite vast;
I am not short of living, I just wish that it’d last.
Been many years now but yet I find myself reminisce.
From a lot to nothing, it went like the blitz: shellshocked, I was.
Laughed, I did, briefly, before it set in: my mind sunk,
Unable to pick up ever since, I went deep:
Therapy never worked on me, I’m closed off from reality,
I acknowledge what I’m in, but I see it too clearly-
It makes too much sense to me, rationalizing every single thing-
Building my own prison in my head from whence I cannot flee,
I know what to do, how to do it, to be free: it just simply never worked for me.
The textbook simply does not apply to my reality.
I’ve went to far too many group therapy meetings to be unaware of what to do,
Heard of every pain and hurt, part from me and some from other’s words,
Instead of learning from them- I’m supposed to avoid them-
I employ them, always wondering: will this change a thing?
So many things I’d done to myself, yet I’m where I was since the beginning.
Pondering: is this the life that I am following;
Suffering and lonely, drinking in the dark with only a dimly lit lamp to share my thoughts.
Moon greets me through the clouds, beyond my walls I see the trees-
Trees whom I fear will fall down, breach these walls I’m behind and gore me;
Deepest irony, drowning in hypocrisy.
Pursuing so intently, tried to meet it and failed, yet always so afraid.
But it never stopped me, other things did- another story for another writ.
Nevertheless, is this the way life should be lived?
Because it certainly is the way that it did.

Stuck, I physically cannot walk away from all this pain;
I had once thought I was devoid of feeling anything,
Until I realized that I simply feel so much it all feels like nothing,
For me it doesn’t change a thing, it all feels the same-
Though my therapist thinks that she can resolve it:
Sorry, just not how I’m wired, and naught I do will solve it-
My mental illness amalgamating, into this blob that sits beneath the skin,
Covering my every limb: every sinus, every organ, every thing-
With my existence replaced by such parasites, how can I possibly win?
It’s conquered my thoughts, seeped into my very heart- I can feel it in my fingers:
Itching’s relentless, I must scratch and so I do, until and after my soul seeps through,
The blotted patch leaks like geyser’s spray, but my endless itching simply will not go away.
Soon it doesn’t feel that much, shortly after then it feels completely numb:
Like you’re touching air, but you can feel the crunch:
The pain then is faded- the itching is abated,
And my mind is the way that it is supposed to,
That is how you know that you have made it, made what-
A mess, obvious- panic sets, rush to the sink, cleaning operation in the bathroom-
Luck you, you’ve gone through a few incidents,
And now you’ve got the skills to make it seem seamless-
Maybe this one's a bit too extreme, hiding it is impossible but you make do:
Do what you can do, accomplish what is possible.
You do not care, you don’t have to:
Hiding pain applies to-
Only those who walk through life like real people.

Broken to the bone, you aren't people, you literally cannot view yourself as you:
You know that it is not true, so everything feels like life is making a fool out of you:
Dehumanization at its most self-destructive, except it’s not a view-
Not an opinion but an absolute truth, it is how it truly is for you:
You feel it on your finger, on your carved wound.
How can you possibly explain the truth to those incredibly few,
Less than a hand’s finger- excluding the one you might lose, no one truly knows-, who care for you.
At least you have someone to write you, some time.
More than few, but you are you, not them: enjoy the stresses.
The innate illnesses of simply seeing their faces, reading their messages,
Nothing’s good in your mind- everything sets you off,
Everything’s a social crime: they breathe and you lose your mind,
They eat and you fight the urge to take the table knife and puncture eardrums,
Cutlery piercing straight into the mind, all the whilst seeming like you're just fine.
Anyone does anything, and you want to pop the pills and drift off towards the other life.
Only thing keeping you from not doing much of anything, dreaming big and pretending to become functioning,
Is the "discipline", the lie you told yourself to believe, but here you are getting through life by dreaming of sleep.
It is make-believe, we'll see how well that thing will go:
You are hopeless, there ain't no future for you.
You'll be back to where you started, right back here to where you're startled,
Just a few years older, a few miseries to add to your counter:
Stumbling through life, everything is how it was: and never will be how it wasn't:
You never had a future to start with, born different, destined to suffer.
It is how it was, it is how it will be, this is how it's meant to be,
So try your hardest to survive the misery; it is pointless.

Mind descends, constrained by dark thoughts, migraine growing; down the aspirin.
Choke on the medicine, feel the brain imploding, time's going slowing; violent coughing.
Yet the only where that I’m going is deeper-
Rescuing my treatment, I down it again, and yet again descend into myself.
And so it goes, on and on, I can’t refrain; it’s simpler to do it the way that I’ve been,
Safer to walk the hard road when I don’t know the way to the other end.
I’d feel a fool amidst the other people, merry and blissful; I’d be alone, it’d be distasteful.
That is how I make do; it isn’t really anyone’s truth, but it is how it is for me- hopefully not for you;
I say I do not belong- which, whilst what I say is true, it isn’t anything to aspire to,
No one wants to go through what we have to go through,
It isn’t how it should be, and neither is it anything to submit a life to.
I wanted, like anyone, to be normal: to have joy, and for a time, I did have some-
But, alike anyone, a little is never enough-
And a little is however much we wish it to.
It’s just what humans do.
And whilst I wished, once, to be above;
I cannot rise so high, it’s evidently so.

I never ceased to inflict great pain, for where once I made to others, I now receive again;
Where I once provided them, I take into myself- the logic of the exchange, long since has been:
Equivalent exchange, distinguished by the exponential torment that I gain.
I continue, again and again, because it is the way that it has been,
And so must be again, again, and again.
I thought I should hurt myself for them, and so I’ve been.
It’s a part of me since- cannot let go, cannot change;
I’ve tried- for myself and for others, I have- but it never went far.
I inspire others to great things, I hope, through what words I can give:
But alike all life that I live, it’s an illusioned dream: bittersweet memories straddled in the everything,
From the coffee of the noon, to the coffee three minutes past the full moon.
It’s in the nicotine addiction, it’s in the booze: the drinking problems that I’ve struggled through.
It’s in my most hated room, where I’ve lived for most my life, and the walls with whom I oft talk to,
Needing to, sometimes, speak to,
Someone.

But there’s no one; it’s in the absence of anyone, the internet the sole escape but it’s not the same.
Fear the similarity, always remember that it is no substitute;
Yet always envious of those lost in the fantasy- lacking, myself, those acquired qualities.
I once escaped through my writing, but disillusioned by the fiction I've grown addicted, instead, to the process;
It is no joy, I am forced to; everything I do is devoid of hope, and the things I do to cope aren't any different;
Cynicism's ruined the intents behind my fiction, now I merely do what I've always used to.
The screen is too alluring to view through, its tendrilous expanses always so overpowering:
But it is not the same, this isn’t how it should’ve been.
It’s in the wrong, it’s in the obvious acknowledgement that this isn’t the way to be;
But I’m rooted in the rhythms of living like I’m dead, I simply don’t have the heart to change.
All that’s left are the memories, and even they are leaving me slowly;
It’s in the gradual degrading of my self, slow yet so much more hurtful,
I can feel my soul escaping. I do not believe in much, but this at least, I can so feel:
Having lost all touch with what's make-believe, I have nothing with which to put my mind at ease.
I am losing touch with myself, my memories, and how it feels to be real.
This was never how I thought it’d be: the very concept of what I feel,
I could nary dream in a hundred-million dreams.
Writing is my escape, or so I say; I feel worse as I write, but it's cathartic in a way-
Or so I say, but I cannot accurately state what's the best for myself,
I feel like I've long since went past that state:
This stage, is a whole other thing, it seems, than what even I can portray.

I once thought myself above, now I recognize that I've pulled myself far down;
Where I once was, no longer means much, it's the truth right now.
Yet I cannot forget every thought I've made, it's at the very forefront:
Like a lightning bolt it penetrates, and like the thunderclap it quakes.
Where I think I can change, I'm reminded of my gravest mistakes, and I remain where I've been,
Improvements, whilst they do take shape, my mind is where it's always been: the grave.
Has anything even changed after so many years of going down the drain,
If I feel the same after having spent a life in pain; the sun was flushed and all that's left is rain.
I just cannot let go, always circling the whirlwind; my sail, caught by the hurricane,
My ship destined to never breaking through the currents and my final descent a matter of personal management.
I have lowered my anchor, but its chain is held on by circumstances; they will break when my bonds shake,
The structural health of my very own ship is under a lot of stress, metaphorically, the conditions are inadequate.
Taking on a lot of water and I don't know where to put it in,
Throw it overboard and it will just come back in again;
In my dreams I'm underwater and when I wake up I am drenched again.
My face is pale, and I tend far too much to stare at things no one but me can see:
I wish I was like everyone else, lacking these chains that keep me from becoming who I was meant to be,
Whatever that was supposed to be, it isn't me- but even so, I put most of these on, I could've risen above:
Gone far, far beyond where I've fallen to: any mountain, any top- maybe even the stars, I could've gone anywhere I thought,
So why did I have to have fallen here, deep down where-
In the pale dark, an umbral described by icy thoughts-
hangs above, there's nothing there: neither dreams, nor fears,
There's nothing in the spot which the sun's supposed to share.

Though my star, deep doth shine: coming from the depths below.
Ushering tired thoughts into a mind which simply cannot deny,
They march as legion, raucous and squalid, overpowering my beleaguered ramparts,
Conquering a bastion long since under siege, the darksome Sun grins as the white flag sings:
It's forces are let in, and yet another territory falls beneath their wing.
There's not much left now: from whence a kingdom had been, only a few lands are left to claim.
It had been easy for them, they had been helped, primarily, by the morality of the enemy's very own king:
More friend, by this point, than anything else; even him can see as much by now,
Had he the heart to think about the pain he'd brought.
Upon himself and upon those who had believed in him,
Nothing had affected him, or so it'd been, until he took to himself,
And it all would cave in: so, now he does sing, lunacy imbues him,
And he stares into the floor, seeing the darksome star peer through the stone.
It grins, and he grins back to it again: he's losing himself to the star's melodious thoughts.
Destruction has a beauty all its own, for those with little they can take so much,
And with those with much, they destroy more to keep what they've caught,
It's self-perpetuating, so described through linguistically artistic iteration.
And so I continue, for where this ends neither moon nor star may sense,
Whether this text, or the journey, it's a complete mystery:
Just like emotions, they may never vanish; which once I thought I had banished,
I recognize now that, in my attempts to manage, I simply worsened the damage.

 

[Malphaestus]

I am alone now, have been for a long while.
So much to say, but these feelings just won't go away;
I try to understand, however there's so much for me to handle;
It's an emptiness that strangles, intoxicates and wrangles my heart and thus mangles.
My personhood it entangles, sentience estranged:
The thing that's left's as much dead as anything else,
I want so much, yet never does it feel genuine,
Someone else's in my place, my mind isn't in the right space.
I cannot do many things, I feel alienated and envious;
I wanted normalcy, but this is where my thoughts lead me.
I can do many things, have skills of which others'd dream,
But my mind's betrayed me, miserable and empty,
Ergo, this is where all that's lead me;
I try hard- have been- to get my life back again,
But I doubt I have much a chance,
This is how these things're supposed to end.
I wanted to be free, but freedom was never meant for me;
I wanted a new me, but the 'me' I made myself has enchained me;
I don't know what to say anymore, it all feels so grey and so very horrible.
The same things been keeping since the last time I felt the need,
It's bad, genuine; difficult to speak of, never solving.
It won't go away, in fact I- myself- am stuck in this fiendish state:
The world is becoming increasingly monochrome,
The world that surrounds me is darkening ever so slightly, for every day that's passed me.
I gaze upon myself and a wrongness imbibes me, the chills guide me-
To correct myself, I have done badly: must remove the negatives,
But I shouldn't, everyone says: hurting myself has no benefits,
And it shows- but that ain't how this goes, it wasn't reasonable to start with.
But it is all about a primal need, the error that's inside of me, deadly: killing it, finally.
I doubt I'll ever get to it; stumbling blindly, likely- I'll fall flat faced on the final step,
Before the peak, where the sun shines deeply into all people that reach,
Where it inserts the warmth, the kindness, and the heart: the soul that sets humans apart.
And thus, that final part that would restart this life forsook will likely just be torn apart.
For I am different- but we are all much the same, I was taught, I lived life with such thoughts-
But I never really did belong, for they were wrong: my likely end is as its start, it'll be quite dark,
At least it's in line with the world I'm in,
There's no purpose left for which to be living.
I continue, but it's hard to:
I live life 'cause I was taught to.
I don't really want to.

 

[Malphaestus]

Once, I went to the Store

It's a moody day, cloudy skies full of rain,
'What is the worth of this pain, and the dirt?'
I hear the smattering of droplets splattering,
Windows rattling, cashier cackling;
Standing still by the register, I check my purse,
'I thought I'd pay with the earth,'

'Whole wide world, from ocean trench-'
Her stare's immense, furrowed brow matched with the deadeye gaze of minimum-employment wage.

'Across rolling hills and their luscious trees borrowed deep within great forestries-'
Pointed nose smelling my insecurities from deep within, plucking them one by one like leaves.

'Deeper then, towards the seas and their luxurious beaches akin to nothing else you'd ever seen-'
A mouth straightened, forcefully misshapen: I can tell the atmosphere and it makes me shaken.

'And then upwards, ever upwards: towards peaks the likes which mountaineers could never reach- all those thrills encapsulated, yet to've been seized.'
Hyperfocus eased, zoom out and her whole visage I'd espied and her mask I'd pierced: the brute force by which her face moved causing me to pause.

I'd offered the world, but was it worth- my thoughts are beginning to turn; he'd offered the earth, but smelled, he did, of something rotted and livid.
His smile had crooked been, hiding beneath his lips the teeth from which slightest miscolouration could be glimpsed.
Before the deal'd struck, he'd reach for the earth and through his hand'd procured, but she did not care, she could not help but see:
The scars she gleamed, which reached from fingernail to wrist, the tendrilous, serpentous, and numerous slitherings,
Real skin drowned beneath their crooked mass: even though he'd held the earth within his hands, she could not help but to gasp.

I could sense my every motion noticed: my locomotion slowed, and the simplest shift of muscle hampered- left me well spent.
I wished for her to grasp it, for it to be over then; her mind thought many things, and in that moment, I knew what that'd been.
My skin crawls, remembering; my skin crawled, imagining; her skin crawled, thinking; my soul aches, knowing.
'No,' she'd procured from herself in those tiny instants passing, she'd stumbled across a genius thought, she thought.
'It's free,' she plead, my mind groaning. Judgements, layered unto infinites, produced as we'd laid each our eyes upon the other in this passing moment.
'You seem like you're, um-' a pause, produced from grotesque thoughts, she was already sure of who I was.
'Like you could need it,' she finished, her eyes as dead as my spirits upon hearing this.
It had been so fast, the world, still within my grasp, out for her to grab it.
Yet she'd denied it; the value of my earth plummeted.

Everything crawled, across my skin and through my very lungs;
Across my heart a centipede walked, and through my blood was venom;
My mind went blank, cascade of thought had brought it down to crashing;
Within my stomach fire sparked and through my throat the smoke bellowed an awkward cough as the duct behind was collapsing.
I retract the earth, the globe, the world, and put it back into my purse, my awkward purse of embarrassments.
I gaze down, my eyes met by the marbled floor of the market reflecting blinding lights, looking left and then to rights, thus I spot the queue that's forming.
I fiddle, my hand scraped into the palm of the other one, sensing the wrongness across their epidermal fabric.
Wishing a conclusion, I reach for the pain and the dirt, and walk away hurried and panicked.
Stricken by a sensation I could nary explain, I head out the store, and breathed as if I'd roared,
Inhaling air as if I'd drowned, latching my eyes towards the skies, water dancing across my sight,
Drenched, aqua mixed with the sweat: my thoughts ran quick under the duress.
The day has moody been, I was thus showering with such temperaments.
I held the dirt within my right hand firm, my grip was stern: it entered through scarred pores.
The great outdoors, or quite simply, outside the store, had a rich air freed from the tumults and stress inherent to social engagements,
Better yet, it bred within me a need for rest, the best thing I'd ever known: to sleep, for very long,
Until the day was gone, and hopefully, until the furthest dawn- until the last day would spawn,
I know such peace is a bit much to wish, yet I cannot help it.

I walked home, though I'd kept my earth, and gained the pain I'd so yearned, it felt unlike what I'd imagined.
I would figure it out, I procrastinated, never letting my pain slip out my hand: fragile thing, supposedly- handling it carefully.
I went to bed, haggard and out of breath, strained and listless.
But as I slept, permeating through the whole of my earthly flesh, and what little I call myself: was the earth,
And the dirt in which it was caped.
I wake, and my whole world then'd changed, for all that I see: where once colour had been, only browns remained.
Joy was brown, and when I'd frowned all intent was brown: I cry brown, and scream brown from the bottom of my lungs.
It was strange, but I'd not resigned myself yet, it seemed I could fix it- or rather, that it wasn't much to deal with,
I lived life, and a lot of time would come to pass:
Met people brown, partied brown, socialized brown,
Talked with them with words coloured brown, I saw my cats purr in the brown, did my work and was praised brown,
Cut my hedges brown, drank water brown, made coffee brown,
Smoked brown, ate brown, trained brown, made brown,
Everything became brown.

Everything is the same, it's all the same; no colour remains, it's the same and only the brown remains-
It's so grey, dull, and grimey- who knew that brown would taste, feel, and sound so whiny.
I'm losing myself within the monotony, all I have to my name is the pain and the earth;
The earth looks the same as the rest of everything: there's no variety, hues dominated by uniformity,
The pain, though, looked unlike anything:
It had no shape, no colour, and no taste nor smell- it was no thing, but it felt.
I'd held on to it for the longest while, having forgotten that it'd rested in my hand all this time.
I lie on my bed, with the world besides it, and the pain I thus guided:
In my leveled hand, held aloft above my face, I opened my palm's gates,
And showered.

It hurt, very much so it hurt, but I felt empowered,
Penitance offered a potent colour gradiant,
Though the earth looked much the same,
My mental welfare was degrading, and it felt fitting,
It did not feel tiring, it was adrenalin inducing:
Addicting-
I do not know what it felt like,
But I do know that it felt like something,
And that was all that I was requiring.