these insectoid nightmares of my childhood consume everything:
I'm torn apart by my own past, turned to stone by snake mother,
forked tongue, dualism is strong, avoidance of utter dispair...
the awareness of something far more saturated in residue,
held together by time, yet remaining weathered in space.
each day, another continuum of abuse enacted upon me;
self-sacrificial, for I shall appoint myself as traumatization,
& with the sharpest blade, the markings shall be far deeper.
for the pen is mighter than the sword.
switchblade dreams, too deep into night, lungs full tar & smoke,
thick velvet, my aura worn like regalia, majesty in highest form.
yet fragmenting, internally, my mind swirling;
the thread weaving needle filled daydreams,
my brain is rotten, burrowing deeper daily...
sin is the backbone of my framework, not in the sense of affect,
moreso through the lens of the product of sin, child of satan.
those walls still hold the screams of my nine year old body.
my body knows terror; the shame drowns me everyday...
it's inversion of complex confusion & missing narratives,
the rearrangement of my structure, undone by time itself.
we find our opposites, & then are subsumed by them...
self-reflective deflation, the declaration of myself,
an autonomous being seduced by darkness early,
& yet you wonder why I don't know how live life...
bad decision are my best friend despite my hope.
optimism only takes you as far as neurology can;
before we reach the water, our minds flood within.
