I am ok.
As ok as the man sticking a needle in his arm — under a bridge of faint exultation.
I am ok.
About as much as a haunted widow placing a paper memorial on a roadside burial.
I am ok.
With the thought of never being happy…like the sadness of a clown unfriended.
I am ok.
And you will be too; because there is no such thing as an infinity. (it is here that I finally shed a tear…why did it take so long?)
It’s just time wrapped up inside a blanket on an early December morning–sooner or later the cold bites.
I’ve plunged my hands into broken glass more than a few times.
The pain is inviting.
The blood is intoxicating.
I am in ecstasy.
So much so that I can’t breathe.
Air supply runs in small quantities but decays when inhaled into my dilapidated lungs.
Abandon all hope and look towards a brighter existence.
There is nothing aesthetic regarding fragmented shards of a lost cause.
I’ve become the most beautiful of the faces longed to be cursed.
My insanity raises the dichotomy.
I’ll remain a part of the romany.
With only the sun to shelter my thoughts.
And the shade to serenade me to tears.
I am a caitiff poet.
Born into a ruination devoid of any self-worth.
They will never make effigies in memoriam of me.
And if they do…
Let us light it afire.
Let us watch it burn.
Let us stoke the flames.
Let me wither in disbelief.
I’ve always been a cause worth compensation.
I’ll make sure you are repaid for your wasted time. (more tears of the insane and the broken)
I’ll help you recompense your desire for living again.
Is this how we express regret?
Define ourselves through a glass bottle filled with a liquid that burns our throat?
It doesn’t matter.
You’re heart will burn on.
Void come tainted love.
Void of iniquities,
Validated with a cavalier attitude.
You can’t reign in carpers, castigators, or the emotionally castrated.
My thoughts are bad.
I torture myself with the inane and the insidious.
Why haven’t you called?
Why haven’t you beckoned me into a radiant embrace?
Because I don’t deserve it.
But he does.
Run off with him.
Enrapture him with your seductive illusions.
You’ve given me a disbuse of what a proper illusion should be.
It was inevitable.
I express regret within the procession of my unholy requiem.
I’ll remain in perdition.
Without a care and without a noose to hang myself.
I’ll remain dolent.
But I must convey.
I’m abused and used into a fiery death salute.
In time I will become something I’ve always yearned since a teen.
Unrestrained and a dispensation from the satirical or the lucid.
Unfortunately I must lament my final embodiment of destruction.
I’m sorry that it has fallen on deaf ears.
I promise not to soil another soundbite of the living or the in-tune.
I only wanted to be heard.
And loved. (I’m hopeless…helpless)
But I must confess that the impossibility remains.
The sour notes are in disdain.
So I will indulge in what I need for once…
To be the end.
So that I will never become the squalor ever desired.
And I shall sleep the eternal.
For once the irises become contracted and without essence,
I can’t save me from myself.
Goodnight mia bella.
Recquiescat in pace to what could have been.
I fucking hate myself (complete and utter turmoil).
– 1985 AD