Sips of Insanity
One last bite...
Save it for me.
I will not retch over with it...
Though contentment is a foreign thing
And satisfaction is dangerous.
I am lost within the simple song of wasps in futile summer...
Which produces beauty from death, and creates melodies of humor
Noctournal, and breathing.
Relentless hope of dreams and dares,
All the other things insane with reason,
Or none at all, just drowning.
Hopelessness is waiting calmly for you to fail,
and so am I.
I wanted you to die like me.
No morbid smiles of discontentment,
Only you and me...
Harmonizing in gentle sunrise
We remeber weary broken-heartedness
And dreary metaphysical existence.
We were happy once, and thriving with life.
Never did I hope to shed a tear for you.
Only did I hope to breathe again...
It burns at me; a hunger.
A towering desire to kill and destroy...
To explode into a million pieces and then meld back together.
Painful voices scream inside my head.
Every phantom-like shrill my ghastly creation.
I am drowning in my own surrealism.
Reality is merely an option, and insanity is an untimely obligation.
The blue-blooded babies will cry and bay at the moon in the calm calculous of hiearchy.
It was never an easy thing.
The yellow-bellied rosebuds would seem to flair to life inside my mind, some throbbing depiction of sheer confusion.
And we lie naked in a field awaiting certain blessed doom.
The shrilling voices cried out in pain for 27 years, and threw on me a blanket of subtle relief.
They were dying... it would be quiet soon.
Murder was a stepping stone they told me...
Deep into the icy despair of twisted carnage and painful gasps.
This artistic creation of sober hellians, running wild and free in their eager dillusions,
At peace with the thought that they'd balanced the world.
Beauty has caught them by the throat and landed their minds,
So that on the sudden ride to hell,
They'd be able to intepret the view.