Blackened Mirror

I look upon a shattered mirror, burned and blackened home. I see a weeping form, a cold and woeful soul.

I reach out to touch them, to lend a helping hand, but jagged edges tear my flesh, and turn me back again.

I look upon my weeping form, in that blackened mirror, I have tried so long to help myself, that I forgot what it was I fear.

I hold my tattered hand, against my heaving chest as I feel the tears form once more and see myself again. Reaching through that blackened to start the cycle anew, as every time I try to help myself I just rend myself in two.

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Searching for My End

Friends I’m sorry, but I’ve gone to meet my End. I found it within my room, weeping upon my bed, head buried in their hands. I could only ask the reason why, oh dear End of mine do you weep for what must be?

In response they told me I have found you, you have met your End and now your life is done. It is not the way it supposed to go, not the time that was chosen to be. Alas you met your End ahead of schedule, before the appointed time and it is your head that this fault lies for you sought me out this time.

I did indeed find my end, but only after seeking death. This grim old man with a friendly smile, all dressed in black. He stood about four feet high and had but a single tooth and yet he smiled so happily, this grandfather so grim. I told him what I sought and he shook his head.

You need not me you foolish boy, you’re looking for your end. You’ll find them one day and we’ll meet, but not before you’ve lived so long that we might meet as friends. Yet still I pestered and persisted and he shook his and said you mortals all the same, twins in death for you’re born with your end. You’ll see them when time is right, that life before your eyes. It’s not a life you remember but one that was left inside. So search out your end and call it by name, you’ll find it sure enough, but you’ll die that same day. Tell me this you foolish tired boy, why search at all, why look for your end? What makes you wish for the rest my death grants, that black oblivion?

I could only respond with a sad smile to the question of that old man, for my tears are dust on ashen skin, my eyes are wide with lack of sleep, I’m world weary and cannot eat. The screaming in my head is more than I can take, so I wish that my End can silence it for my sake.

This is pain has grown to great and I can’t bare it on my own. So I’ll bear it not at all for it’s my pain and I’m a selfish soul, I know not how to share it, for it’s all I own. All that’s left of me to give for I’ve given all I can, my happiness and my smiles, my laughter and my sorrow.

All that’s left to me is my pain, and I hold it close to my chest. I’ll give it to my end, and carry this burden with me into my rest. So I’ve met my End and it’s time to go, I’ve not got long to finish this story truth be told.

So I’ll finish it here and worry not my friends, as I wrote this I’ve managed something I’ve not managed in the last ten years at least. I smiled again, once last time, for you all to see, as I go to rest and sweet silence be left be, free of that screaming, that burning agony that resides in my mind.

Cracking Creaking No More

Cracking creaking and suffering more, I see no reason, no reason at all as to why I hurt ever more.

The cracking and creaking and ever leaking form suffers and suffers ever more, though the pain shows not on my fading form.

It’s locked inside with these screams of mine as this cracking and creaking mind of mine breaks and shatters more and more, like a hammer to glass my soul falls apart and I hear it cracking and creaking and shattering more.

I wrap my arms around my self, to hold myself together, and simply scream in silent pleas “No more, no more.”

Broken Art/Burning Stars

The pain keeps me grounded, the agony keeps me sane. It stops these wicked thoughts from forming as it kills me all the same.

The aches keep me whole even as I fall apart, the scars hold me together as a broken work of art.

These tatters are my riches, the ragged holes my gold, they leak the inspiration for the words that seem to flow.

When the darkness grows to large and their whispers to great I wrap my tatters close and clutch to this aching scars to let them lead me onward like the burning of the stars.

My Mind – not sure which part this is

Hurting, hurting, hunting the scar and seeing the sound as I travels to the ground and Me goes away once more.

We has returned only to go to Their grave and They have yet to be seen again, and Us remains unsure.

I knows not the Me that came nor recognize the We that went once more I lost Myself to Them the only ones I once let in before.

The ones that broke Me and left Us sad, that crippled They and sent the others to Their grave but most of all they shattered I when they broke Me and We have never been the same.

I recognize not the shadows of We or this crazed cursed Me, the ones with scars and pain and its all I see. So all cry and scream and laugh because even shattered, even broken.

I and We and Me and They go to Their grave and sit and carouse and watch as the moon glowers down and the roses blossom tulip flowers, for even mad and even crazed All can speak as one.

“Least We’re not alone.”

A Writer’s Woes and Sorrows Told

There was once a writer who thought themselves weak, a worthless wastrel of wasted intentions, a person of pitiful poetic pain and who hated their own reflection and what they world wanted of them, to waste and fade.

However this writer that still exists, found some companions with which they did share their pain, their hurts and bruises, they told of their sorrows their inner woes, even if they could not put them in simple words, in ideas that could truly be told, that one could hold and examine and see the problem and the answer right there, exactly what it was and where it could be.

These pains, these woes and sorrows they held, couldn’t be told in words like that, in ways simple and easy to hold, their language was cryptic and their message bleak, however in releasing that weight, that burden so dear, they found they no longer carried that horrible feeling, that dreaded fear, they breathe the air, no longer toxic yet not quite so clear, and more importantly yet, they could feel the water that leaked from their eyes, letting themselves cry, each time, for what was to them the very first time.