Lost In Translation
I love hot showers.
Aquatic acoustics drowns out the part of my consciousness that threatens to destroy me.
I whisper into the steam all of my past indiscretions rather than allowing the guilt to gnaw at me from within.
My heart beats slow as I work the shampoo through my hair.
Inhale.
Exhale.
What opportunities has my selfish entitlement cost me?
My arrogance, both earned and not have cast me apart from those I've desperately wanted to be a part of; I know this and still, I continue these patterns of behaviours, further isolating myself from the world around me.
I hang on his every word
as if he were some twisted self-help guru.
I allow the marijuana smoke to fill me.
And when I cough, I exhale all of my worry and fear.
I want to lose control.
I want to be dead without actually being dead.
Flashes of memories past echo through my head and are
expelled through my mouth.
The joint has an earthy flavour to it.
Rich and aromatic.
It tastes like autumn.
Run with me through tomorrow.
Her voice echoes through my bones,
causing me to stumble and fall.
So much has been lost in translation that there is no
way I could ever understand the way she feels.
She always referred to me as the one, but when the time
came to choose, she chose someone else.
From the background shadows, I watched her morph into
something else, leaving me both saddened and confused.
Their hatred and toxicity pools within me
changing my perceptions of the world around me
and the doubts that I hold deep within me.
I see things through different lenses, different colours.
The world slows as he twists his fingers around me.
His breath is hot and rapid against my chest.
He caresses the soft flesh of my inner thighs,
teasing and testing me in only ways he can do.
I ache for the sensation of his weight on top of me,
pressing down, sheltering me from the weight of the
world that threatens so much of me.
I breathe him in, feeling his own angst twist within
my oesophagus, only inciting me more.
I cling to him in ways no human ever should.
I pull him into me, nestling my face in the softness of his
shoulders, drinking in the force that is him.
He slides one of his legs between my thighs as he wraps his
arms around me.
I need to feel his mouth on mine.
I need to know that I'm not alone.
And what will I leave behind?
Blood soaked renderings of me.
Etched into the walls of my prison, my palace are the tales of my madness and my genius.
Stories of my agony and my happiness.
My euphoria. My despair.
My sickness coats everything I do.
It's made me a horrible, unlikeable person,
and that is from every possible point of view.
The gore I take in cuts me and frees me from lonely concepts of self.
Little boy blue obsessed with the violence he sees.
I know one day he will get the best of me, first of the victims I'll be.
I cannot deny that my actions have been selfish, narcissistic done wholly and only for pleasure and my pleasure alone.
Behind the face of comic relief lives a failure.
Hiding behind twists of fate and empty smiles, is that really what's become of me?
Dig your nails into my throat once more.
Let me feel every second of your desire.
Committed to your pleasure,
not the other way round.
Serenading you with less than holy intentions below the waist.
My sexuality gets the better of me.
Along the stream of my consciousness, I catch a chill.
My stomach hurts, my minds divided,
but either way, I'm looking for a bigger thrill.
Sharpening my knives with every snide comment
Cracked and bloodied you gave my heart back to me.
I gave it to you for free, but in return for yours, you kept charging me fees.
Before and behind my declaration of both moral and monetary bankruptcy,
all I ever wanted was for you to truly acknowledge me.
Aloof, but obsessed with simplicity,
always looking for hidden meanings in things.
My life is a chaotic flux, filled with self-distortion and wondering what
lays beneath it all.
Pleasuring myself with my desire
Filled with all colours of self-doubt, my thoughts begin to bleed.
Stupidity itself has to be a layer of happiness.
Oblivious to everything beyond the line of sight.
I picture my death over and over again.
Through the seasons, through the layers of mental illness and magic spells.
Layers of sarcasm and violent vulnerability sometimes paint me as insensire.
I've spent the better part of my youth caught battling wave after wave of depression.
Once you reach my age, you realise that maybe all this time has been wasted.
My heart beats slow as I work the shampoo through my hair.
Inhale.
Exhale.
What opportunities has my selfish entitlement cost me?
My arrogance, both earned and not have cast me apart from those I've desperately wanted to be a part of; I know this and still, I continue these patterns of behaviours, further isolating myself from the world around me.
I hang on his every word
as if he were some twisted self-help guru.
I allow the marijuana smoke to fill me.
And when I cough, I exhale all of my worry and fear.
I want to lose control.
I want to be dead without actually being dead.
Flashes of memories past echo through my head and are
expelled through my mouth.
The joint has an earthy flavour to it.
Rich and aromatic.
It tastes like autumn.
Run with me through tomorrow.
Her voice echoes through my bones,
causing me to stumble and fall.
So much has been lost in translation that there is no
way I could ever understand the way she feels.
She always referred to me as the one, but when the time
came to choose, she chose someone else.
From the background shadows, I watched her morph into
something else, leaving me both saddened and confused.
Their hatred and toxicity pools within me
changing my perceptions of the world around me
and the doubts that I hold deep within me.
I see things through different lenses, different colours.
The world slows as he twists his fingers around me.
His breath is hot and rapid against my chest.
He caresses the soft flesh of my inner thighs,
teasing and testing me in only ways he can do.
I ache for the sensation of his weight on top of me,
pressing down, sheltering me from the weight of the
world that threatens so much of me.
I breathe him in, feeling his own angst twist within
my oesophagus, only inciting me more.
I cling to him in ways no human ever should.
I pull him into me, nestling my face in the softness of his
shoulders, drinking in the force that is him.
He slides one of his legs between my thighs as he wraps his
arms around me.
I need to feel his mouth on mine.
I need to know that I'm not alone.
And what will I leave behind?
Blood soaked renderings of me.
Etched into the walls of my prison, my palace are the tales of my madness and my genius.
Stories of my agony and my happiness.
My euphoria. My despair.
My sickness coats everything I do.
It's made me a horrible, unlikeable person,
and that is from every possible point of view.
The gore I take in cuts me and frees me from lonely concepts of self.
Little boy blue obsessed with the violence he sees.
I know one day he will get the best of me, first of the victims I'll be.
I cannot deny that my actions have been selfish, narcissistic done wholly and only for pleasure and my pleasure alone.
Behind the face of comic relief lives a failure.
Hiding behind twists of fate and empty smiles, is that really what's become of me?
Dig your nails into my throat once more.
Let me feel every second of your desire.
Committed to your pleasure,
not the other way round.
Serenading you with less than holy intentions below the waist.
My sexuality gets the better of me.
Along the stream of my consciousness, I catch a chill.
My stomach hurts, my minds divided,
but either way, I'm looking for a bigger thrill.
Sharpening my knives with every snide comment
Cracked and bloodied you gave my heart back to me.
I gave it to you for free, but in return for yours, you kept charging me fees.
Before and behind my declaration of both moral and monetary bankruptcy,
all I ever wanted was for you to truly acknowledge me.
Aloof, but obsessed with simplicity,
always looking for hidden meanings in things.
My life is a chaotic flux, filled with self-distortion and wondering what
lays beneath it all.
Pleasuring myself with my desire
Filled with all colours of self-doubt, my thoughts begin to bleed.
Stupidity itself has to be a layer of happiness.
Oblivious to everything beyond the line of sight.
I picture my death over and over again.
Through the seasons, through the layers of mental illness and magic spells.
Layers of sarcasm and violent vulnerability sometimes paint me as insensire.
I've spent the better part of my youth caught battling wave after wave of depression.
Once you reach my age, you realise that maybe all this time has been wasted.
Comments
Post a Comment