The Last 5 Titles: Echoes of a Tormented Soul

I’ve scrapped my last five writings, with the opening sentences starting with,
“It’s hell in this darkness,” “Dearly departed, please be here for my heart.”
The other three were as stark: “I hate being alive,”
Don’t seem to remember, one rubric: “Demons inside.”
Life is overrated, diluted with wine,
My tears empower me, a tailspin fusion designed
To reinforce and devour these current sutures, I try,
Irritated, I could feel the torque overpowering madness,
The endless script, scour for breadth in callousness.
Out of breath on land, but at peace underwater,
No feelings, this author reveals at the end of the chapter
That he doctored/remastered his slivers of sonder.
It’s physical misconduct, picture cigarette soft burn,
Sepia softer, silky seeping… Mossberg,
You’re examining my life on repeat,
And it’s slightly appeasing to people reading,
Each piece to critique the mystique I deliver each weekend—or month, or year.
It’s weird, I can’t survey time-frames in increment values,
Separating migraines from lachrymation is sad too,
Just script what I have when my soul’s in a vacuum.
Red dwarf fighting a black-hole ready to eat me,
Dissect the inside of my pen, where ash grows tethered beneath,
The mass knows, the malice that backhands this skeleton species,
You’ll find remnants of relic of this deeply defined, delicate E.T.
A cavalier lifestyle, the atmosphere where sadness smears nice smiles,
In half a year, went from happy tears to having fear light fires,
A tower with a floor unbolted. I’m a boatman with no course, no joke.
Thousand waves found their way, like an omen or horoscope,
Had the wind knocked out of its sails, with winds brought up from hell.
Sing by myself and it sounds beautiful; help,
When I’m around super sopranos I can’t sing all that well.
An imperfect mesh of nervousness that curls from my snarling lips,
Like a surge of restlessness that stems from the furl of depression,
Defensive, protective, self-deprecation, or self-preservation?
Dedicated to a distaste for eternity, and to being enigmatic,
If you ain’t honest with yourself, who can you expect to feed you a truth
That dismantles your courage? Without feelings of soothing,
I see a lighthouse that I’ll never reach, so I kiss my lantern with fervor,
Feel the surge of a burning sun when you mess with the solar flares,
Or don’t, my soul’s ensnared. Most likely, I’ll tell you that I don’t care.
Touch paintings of fuel like Braille I consume,
My muse, it entails within rules of varying doom.
Feed off energy that doesn’t exist in a physical sense,
Even spiritually, and its progression is hasty.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that’s the start of an inherently crazy,
Apparently brazen human being, with narratives caved in.
Communicate with airwaves that illuminate the way,
Laid in a zany loop of naysayers that feed them daily soup to trailblaze,
Tied up in this phalanx suit of grayness, where hatred blooms the helmet,
Doesn’t have a rhyme or reason for simple explanation,
That in theory is relevant to his searing insaneness.
I don’t fucking get why I’m like this,
I accept all and any likeness to help me on this quest, or this crisis,
I carry the heads of lions on my belt, and then it’s goodbye.

Published by Cristian Leonardo Gajardo

Welcome to Cristian’s Cafe, a website where I showcase my various forms of expression and happiness. Here you can find poetry, podcasts, personal blogging, research articles, open mic, comedy, and art. Whether you are looking for inspiration, entertainment, or information, you will find something that suits your taste and mood. Enjoy browsing through my content and feel free to leave your comments and feedback. Please note that the Wi-Fi connection may be slow or unstable at times, so please be patient and look at the art instead. Thank you for visiting Cristian’s Cafe

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