Open It Up Mediocre Poetry At Its Best

Most of you, if not all, should know the story of Chris. Chris was a happy young adult at the age of seventeen until he was awoken one evening by his worst nightmare. I wasn’t planning on adding this installment, but this may be read as the fifth part to Closure. Enjoy.

Eight corners shadowed, masking the white death, with no bars and no light in this room with one breath. His hair is ripped out from his scalp and his chest and his vocal chords are rotted out from screaming at the crest. He’s been working on his teeth, but can’t reach the last molar, as the pretty red spatters encompass his disorder. He’s bipolar, schizophrenic, cutting at a friend. He’s a menace to himself and he’s yearning to pretend that the end is the beginning and he’ll find his salvation drowning in a pool of blood and salivation. Sitting on the ground of a cloud he’s on top, and he chokes ‘till it burns or his wind pipe pops but he stops to feel something, something more than pain, it’s control shooting tingles and mingles to his brain. He hears a friend knocking through the back of his eyes and he cries to get him out, he’s yearning for demise. He knows because he’s tried, and he grows because he’s lied; he needs help, he’s skeptical, his vision grows wide. Inside he rages on top of his stage; it’s done and he’s won, and he’s turned a new page. His bursting red pupils lay staring up at him; his vision’s now clear and hears angelic hymns, but this friend he’s now ended was never inside his head as he stares down his father’s broken wind pipe in bed. He can’t shed a tear in this padded room, instead, now the white coats are coming and it’s time to get fed.

I have been scared to push onward, but

I have progressed, with my morals in tact, and

I have smiled genuinely, ear to ear.

I have moved forward from what’s been tying me down for months now, and

I felt something.

I felt like myself again.

I’m feeling something. It’s something good.

I wish that impressions weren’t pre-conceived.

I wish that they would dissipate.

I wish I could be known for who I actually am.

I just wish I could be given a chance. 

I think that everybody should check out Rocky Votolato’s new album True Devotion. It’s extremely passionate and overall well-written on all counts. Musically and Lyrically. It’s definitely worth your time.

Just finished this today. Hope everybody likes it!

Don’t tell me I’m not able to persuade you like fables because I’ll burn bridges and turn tables all day ‘till I’m all out of matches or my mouth is sewn shut. So ask yourself, “What is it about me that makes me different from the rest that ingest propaganda that’s bullshit at best? Is it my style or flow that allows me to go that much further so I can show you what I’m truly made of? Is it my daily routine that’s now so serene or obscene to the masses of asses unseen? Is it my mediocre lifestyle that allows me to compile and file away relationships that were never worthwhile? Is it my ability to be apathetic towards your sensitivity that just doesn’t seem real to me? Could it be the fact that when you took off I cracked and relapsed to closed feelings that you’ll never get back?” I mean, it’s possible to think and snap back in the blink of an eye and just cry until the pen’s drained of ink because the bow of my ship has started to sink and I’m taking on water as my brain’s out of sync. The Captain’s gone under and left us to drown in this town we once roamed where the grass has turned brown in a sea of dry leaves, and dry heaves and frowns, but I’ll surface once more to watch the sun go down.

really bugs me when people post and post and post and post the stupidest shit within seconds of each other. Give it a rest. Nobody cares.

I woke up today, thank God, and that may sound a little unusual, and odd, but I had a vivid dream last night though not one of terror or fright, I woke up messed up from it. Shaking and sweating, but slowly forgetting what had occurred in this so-called sub consciousness, and so I grabbed some paper and a pen in hopes to remember the dream again. There was a former friend of mine, but not one from my mind, a friend of the realistic kind.  We were conversing, and walking on this beach when the talking and romance was breached by a sky filled with lights. The explosions above us had covered us, and below us the erosions of the sand had engulfed our feet and it seemed that we were held captive there in defeat. In that moment. But she kissed me, and this told me what this show had meant, I could taste the smoke on her lips where the cigarette went, and I closed my eyes and her smile was a mile wide with teeth as white as the whitest clouds, and I had never felt so proud and filled from the inside out because I finally found what happiness was about. But just as this epiphany had hit me she had pulled away from my lips and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. It was like she was my life support, but the bottle only empties after you pop the cork. I woke up drenched, lying in a pool of sweat, I hadn’t even thought to try and catch my breath yet. I didn’t need my subconscious to consciously display these events to me, I’ve been trying to erase them, but if they made me happy one time, I’m going to embrace them.