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 Demon of Self
Here I am, on the precipice of self-annihilation,
Precipitation filling my immediate situation.
My head held high, brimming with satisfaction,
All I wish for is a seat in a mansion, so I can look on the resulting chain reaction:
Radiation enough to hospitalize an entire nation.
Nigh is the time of night where crows die and the mind flies-
In vain: no need for reason; who could answer if not the demon of treason?
Here I am, my brain twained by my inane mind-drain;
Thoughts profane mix with the humane to cause great migraine.
Never again will I know the peace I have slain on my campaign to escape the insane;
Bloodstained is the truth I have obtained, contained: it races around my mind unrestrained.
I have trained for weeks, years, or maybe even months- I don't know anymore, it sort of just finds -
A way to unwind itself in my kind: the type who align themselves with the maligned.
It lacks name so I decided to rhyme, an attempt to describe the pain I see in humankind,
A cocaine of the mind: it soothes the senses, frees your eyes: we're going clockwise;
An idea of pain, one you cannot criticize, comprising all the devils inside.
Slip-slide, drip, now you're in: a violin playing, a demon saying: "Fiddle me this- I mean riddle-"
"We're in your mind, but who am I? A mind's sigh, the last cry? A bittersweet bye? A good guy?"
"I'm the third eye; a view of yourself you can never find, a great tide," he snarked, "evil personified."
"I am the thought that frustrates your mind; the distraught you cannot escape, cannot beautify; the emperor butterfly,"
"Flying so high, a dreadnought of the sky; I reign uncontained deep-down below ground in the terrain you cannot ascertain."
"In a diadem of pain I am crowned; a femme fatale, one you try to hide but cannot help but mine; a mineral of your state of mind."
Never again, you explain to the demon's disdain. They dredged, your mind's etched, "what's a pledge balanced on a knife's edge?"
You acknowledged, flooded with images you dare not confess, the demon privy to your thoughts' darkest secrets;
An upside-down tree of accursed knowledge, one that grows at the demon's whim;
All of this a pseudonym, the demon's within; a synonym. One we grapple with at the gym,
In the mirror 'it' is stained, in the wardrobe whilst you change: one you cannot cover up again.
Find it once, find it twice, find it over a hundred times; it reads you between the lines.
An enzyme of the mind most sublime; a negativity most refined, something you cannot leave behind. A part of mankind.
Bittersweet, you admit, as you contemplate the viscosity of reinforced concrete,
Reminding you that you're a cheat full of deceit, the thought upsetting your very heartbeat.
Some things you can never take back, can never change, a thought you crossed thanks to the balkan mountain range.
The evil you have done can never be fixed by anyone: this megaton-yield of pain, you explain, is the just cost for the rain you have wrought;
Drenched we was but, what would happen if there were some megawatts? Brought to you by the gordian knot;
Split at midship as I bit my lip bit by bit, unwounded it in my mind as I tried to escape my sorry state,
The same brainscape from night to day, and to your dismay the contemplation seeps everywhere like radioactive decay,
These shadows are everywhere, an amorphous shape; a bridge to grey, a haunting display; a morality play in papier-mache across a cerebral highway;
A Green Bay foul play, a third-down blurred into a fourth-down fail across a raceway at doomsday;
It's a neural D-Day, a sundown; it is the gateway into my nervous breakdown.
Here I am, on the precipice of self-annihilation:
My fixation for devastation the likely cause of my present situation.
I admit, I am 'it;' a book of my own creation, of pain, to whom this oration I attribute;
My creativity fueled by the pain I accrue; my forbidden fruit, the thing in which there is no substitute;
The scars I wear: my golden parachute; The pain I feel I redistribute, to make art with gracious attitude.
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 Demon of Self
Here I am, on the precipice of self-annihilation,
Precipitation filling my immediate situation.
My head held high, brimming with satisfaction,
All I wish for is a seat in a mansion, so I can look on the resulting chain reaction:
Radiation enough to hospitalize an entire nation.
Nigh is the time of night where crows die and the mind flies-
In vain: no need for reason; who could answer if not the demon of treason?
Here I am, my brain twained by my inane mind-drain;
Thoughts profane mix with the humane to cause great migraine.
Never again will I know the peace I have slain on my campaign to escape the insane;
Bloodstained is the truth I have obtained, contained: it races around my mind unrestrained.
I have trained for weeks, years, or maybe even months- I don't know anymore, it sort of just finds -
A way to unwind itself in my kind: the type who align themselves with the maligned.
It lacks name so I decided to rhyme, an attempt to describe the pain I see in humankind,
A cocaine of the mind: it soothes the senses, frees your eyes: we're going clockwise;
An idea of pain, one you cannot criticize, comprising all the devils inside.
Slip-slide, drip, now you're in: a violin playing, a demon saying: "Fiddle me this- I mean riddle-"
"We're in your mind, but who am I? A mind's sigh, the last cry? A bittersweet bye? A good guy?"
"I'm the third eye; a view of yourself you can never find, a great tide," he snarked, "evil personified."
"I am the thought that frustrates your mind; the distraught you cannot escape, cannot beautify; the emperor butterfly,"
"Flying so high, a dreadnought of the sky; I reign uncontained deep-down below ground in the terrain you cannot ascertain."
"In a diadem of pain I am crowned; a femme fatale, one you try to hide but cannot help but mine; a mineral of your state of mind."
Never again, you explain to the demon's disdain. They dredged, your mind's etched, "what's a pledge balanced on a knife's edge?"
You acknowledged, flooded with images you dare not confess, the demon privy to your thoughts' darkest secrets;
An upside-down tree of accursed knowledge, one that grows at the demon's whim;
All of this a pseudonym, the demon's within; a synonym. One we grapple with at the gym,
In the mirror 'it' is stained, in the wardrobe whilst you change: one you cannot cover up again.
Find it once, find it twice, find it over a hundred times; it reads you between the lines.
An enzyme of the mind most sublime; a negativity most refined, something you cannot leave behind. A part of mankind.
Bittersweet, you admit, as you contemplate the viscosity of reinforced concrete,
Reminding you that you're a cheat full of deceit, the thought upsetting your very heartbeat.
Some things you can never take back, can never change, a thought you crossed thanks to the balkan mountain range.
The evil you have done can never be fixed by anyone: this megaton-yield of pain, you explain, is the just cost for the rain you have wrought;
Drenched we was but, what would happen if there were some megawatts? Brought to you by the gordian knot;
Split at midship as I bit my lip bit by bit, unwounded it in my mind as I tried to escape my sorry state,
The same brainscape from night to day, and to your dismay the contemplation seeps everywhere like radioactive decay,
These shadows are everywhere, an amorphous shape; a bridge to grey, a haunting display; a morality play in papier-mache across a cerebral highway;
A Green Bay foul play, a third-down blurred into a fourth-down fail across a raceway at doomsday;
It's a neural D-Day, a sundown; it is the gateway into my nervous breakdown.
Here I am, on the precipice of self-annihilation:
My fixation for devastation the likely cause of my present situation.
I admit, I am 'it;' a book of my own creation, of pain, to whom this oration I attribute;
My creativity fueled by the pain I accrue; my forbidden fruit, the thing in which there is no substitute;
The scars I wear: my golden parachute; The pain I feel I redistribute, to make art with gracious attitude.
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