Devil's at my door.
Devil's at my door.
The devil's at my door tonight,
Walk away before I turn everything into a fight,
It's not a dream not a nightmare not a threat,
Come a little closer I'll show you it's a fact,
I've unlocked the cages and unbarred the doors,
Let the demons roam and wage war,
Against the fragile sanity of my mind,
The gatekeeper's given up, he resigns,
I'm embracing the fury red insanity,
Sanity was but a myth and a fantasy,
Tomorrow I may hold my demons at bay,
But as the Devil greets me, not today.
stoned @ 12:05 AM
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J.A.S.P - Just Another Silly Poem
J.A.S.P - Just Another Silly Poem
Easily hurt,
Hardly fine,
With death I flirt,
Ignoring passing time,
Bitterly done,
Sweet sorrow,
Life line gone,
But here comes tomorrow,
Bleakly ignorant,
Vividly pushed out,
Never forgotten,
Just too left out.
Author's Note: Oh, contrary to popular practice I will not post this at Winter Trees either. It's not related to Yun do not be mistaken. I've made it a point to not write poetry regarding that issue. However... this is related to Charlotte. It may not make much sense, but then again as long as it does make sense to me it's good enough. There's no specific purpose I wish to achieve, and as much as I owe her many apologies I doubt I am able to say anything aloud. I am just... forget it.
stoned @ 6:07 AM
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Emotional Death?
Emotional Death?
Frustration boiled within him as he fervently tried to write something worth reading. His fingers would fly across the surface of his laptop and the words would form, but each time he would delete them a moment later. Dissatisfaction with his own work. At times like these he couldn't help but to doubt that perhaps Journalism really isn't his line of work. But then again, he has already lost so many certainties in his life he doubts that he can handle a sudden change in this. A boat without an anchor is what he would turn into. With that in mind he brushed off his insecurities. With that in mind he tried to write again.
He couldn't understand which of it was lacking. Was it passion? Or was it skill? Is it the fact that his English skills simply isn't good enough that is holding it back? Or is it because he isn't passionate enough, he isn't feeling enough, that is holding him back?
It hurts when he feels. It hurts when he fails to feel. It hurts all the time in short. The only thing he can do is hope to stitch his heart up as quickly as it tears. It works, not all the time. It works, just tires him out. He's already a skeptic, now he's bordering on being a cynic. With a worried glance into the future, he worries that one day he may become a narcissist.
Wouldn't it be ironic? To find that writing isn't a privilege he has anymore? Wouldn't it be ironic? To turn into a narcissist when it is something he hates tremendously? Wouldn't it be ironic that when he does turn into that, he won't even realize it anymore? Oh life, such an ironic bitch?
Iron Man! The man of Steel, Superman! They both have titles or names that suggest physical invulnerability. The ability to withstand explosions and bullets. Lex Luthor and Warmonger they can take down, but I doubt they can take it if they're abilities and powers are taken away. Look at it that way and I'm not much different from them. I face my demons everyday in the battlefield of my heart and soul. Take away my power to write, feel and heal and I would be like Superman with a costume made of Kryptonite, Iron Man with his pacemaker turned off.
In action games the "Health" bar would glow when one is nearing death. One would then apply the necessary actions to restore the status back to normal. Life is a game without instructions. Life is a game where everything is a quest without clues or directions. I wouldn't know clearly if I'm closing death or not. Perhaps I'm already close to emotional or creative death. Worst of all I don't even know what can be done to amend this situation. In games a helpful tutorial tip or hint would pop up. In life a big middle finger with a smiley face would say "You're F*cked!".
Life isn't a game. Life isn't a comic. Life is but a nightmare you cannot wake up from. Every time you wake from one you end up in another.
stoned @ 3:02 AM
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Listen...
Drip,
From my slit wrist,
My life.
Drip,
From my sad eyes,
My dreams.
Flow,
Gone; my life.
Shattered; my dreams.
-
Kai Teoh, Seasons of September