Do You Find Me Sadistic?

"Do You Find Me Sadistic?"

The roar of flying planes
Is drowning out your screams
And so pure are dying veins
When wrapped around your dreams
Are your heartstrings being tied
Until they become a noose
Into which we'll slip your pride
'Til your logic lets it loose
'Cause like flies inside of jars
Our point of views collide
As debris reveals the scars
That we've both long denied
Are our backbones being used
To wind us up to dance
Or will their whispers find a way
To kill the truth's advance
Since we let the ones with shovels
Dig holes into our lives
But they will never be content
Until neither one survives
So the shovels pierce the dirt
Like true catalysts for change
But they don't alleviate the hurt
They just magnify the mange
On this life that's like a hole
In which we have to hide
As our skin is hardening
To keep us safe inside
But give sufficient time
And one day you will see
There's more for your eyes to find
When you look inside of me
And that time is now...
So look...
Look into my eyes, friend.
Use your hands to lift the lids, and find your chosen path.
Make your way past the lashes, still dense like a jungle's brush.
Journey far beyond that gentle brown ring that lulls you into comfort.
I want you to look deeper.
Deep into that gloriously, blackened center.
Do you see it? Good.
Because now you know...
Now you know, just what you are dealing with.
See, I have searched the corners of my mind.
And found the pieces of my memories.
When I put those broken shards together
I was able to see the bigger picture.
It was a mosaic of sorts.
And I have seen patterns in your behavior.
Small, yet repeated betrayals.
Whispered, yet spoken insults.
All masked as some greater good.
All dressed up as attempts to see how far someone else would go.
But none have gone as far as you, friend.
You have turned other's vents into volcanoes.
Fanned their inner flames until only infernos remained.
Then you stepped back and watched my world burn.
And don't let the fairer sex be involved.
For then there are no lows you won't stoop to reach.
No chair that you won't kick out from underneath me.
All in an attempt to raise your stature in their eyes.
All in an attempt to puff your chest out a little further.
But the bitter truth is, you are nothing.
As meaningless as I am, you are less than me.
Everything you now flaunt, I've already had.
Everything you truly want, I've watched you lose.
And everything you think you are, changes with the wind.
I am the constant.
Slowly moving forward. Slowly evolving with time.
But still, I am constant.
A constant reminder for you, of your own inadequacies.
A constant reminder for you, of your growing list of mistakes.
And a constant reminder for you, that you're bitterness is well-deserved.
You hate on everyone and everything.
Only the things you do are of great importance.
And in your own mind, is the only place you can truly shine.
The rest of us? We just laugh at you.
But tell me, friend... do you know what your biggest mistake was?
It wasn't your betrayals.
It wasn't your whispers.
It wasn't even you getting rid of me.
It was your taking my kindness, for weakness.
It was your thinking that just because I choose to treat people well, that it makes me weak.
The fact that I choose not to raise my voice, that it makes me afraid to speak.
The fact that I rarely throw my hands, that it makes afraid to use them.
But you are mistaken.
You think that because you may have prominent friends, that that makes you better?
You think that because people know your name, that that makes you safe?
You think that because you have more money than me, that that gives you power over me?
You are wrong.
Because I am calm now, you see?
But if I were angry... truly and justly angry... do you know how far I would go?
Do you think if I got so angry and wanted to harm you, that I wouldn't?
Do you think if I wanted to tear your throat out, that there is anyone in this room that could stop me?
I didn't think so...
But don't worry, "friend..." We're just talking here.
But since we are JUST talking, let me leave you with this....
Life... THIS life, is a grand opera...
And for most of my young life, I was content to play my role...
To ashamed of myself to audition for anything else...
To afraid of my own power, to grab those metaphoric brass rings...
But you?
You've tried to cast yourself as the victim.
Persecuted by a trend-loving, imaginary-man-worshipping world...
Acting as if you are pure, and untouched by the corruption of our city.
But since you tried to cast yourself as the virgin,
In this little play of life
Then it's time you found out that karma is a surgeon
That will penetrate you with the knife....
And then, you will look up at me...
With that beautifully shocked look, on your ridiculous face...
And I will whisper in your ear, words that I heard in a movie once...
"Do you find me sadistic?"
"...You know.. I'd like to believe that you're aware enough,
even now to know that there's nothing sadistic in my actions."
"...At this moment, this is me at my most... masochistic..."
And as you gasp, and slowly crumple to the floor,
I will stoop down and smile...
Then wipe the blade upon your shirt...
And calmly, take my leave...

La Danse Macabre?

"La Danse Macabre?"

 

In our minds we share a dance

And on the floor we find the fear to give our love a chance

With swords and knives, it's our thoughts we guard

And to deliver fear a killing stroke has become as hard

As it is to fly inside a fleeting summer's breeze

When our ship has been troubled in all the seven seas

But when dancing, they say you should never lead with your left

And I look at the life I lead, and wonder what I have left

For the world isn't very kind

When your reality doesn't fit the image in their mind

Remember that they'll disregard your hopes and dreams

And only focus on the brands and sizes of your jeans

It's a photogenic world, full of plastic people with morals for sale

And they'll include a tan in a bottle, in case you're feeling a little pale

Paint your eyelashes black, so we won't notice your eyes are always shut

And pay your surgeons well, so they'll remove every self-inflicted cut

In our souls we share a dance

And on the floor we find enough guilt to give religion a chance

With swords and knives, it's our beliefs we guard

And to deliver sin a killing stroke has become as hard

As it is to devote ourselves to something we cannot see

While reading about miracles performed by a man we'll never be

But when dancing, they say the more experienced one should lead

And still the timid take control, because it's our egos we love to feed

For the gossip of sinners isn't very kind

When they're searching lives with fine-tooth combs, for what they'll never find

And remember that they'll disregard the truth, if lies bring more delight

It's not about who are you today, but what you do at night

And they love to know who you do it with, and details make them smile

They show their teeth to throw you off, their second face is just as vile

Paint your windows black, so they can see a reflection of their hearts

And they'll know their lives won't equal yours, unless they combine the parts...

I'd Rather Be Condemned

"I'd Rather Be Condemned..."

In a world where people seem to be searching for peace of mind,
I thought I would take the time, to give this online world, a piece of mine....

~ If waiting has gotten old, then I'm glad you have chosen something new.
~ The things we display the most, are what we wish people to believe.
Especially, since it's those who don't know us well, that are easiest to deceive.
~ If certain posts makes you pious, then I'd rather be condemned.
For there is an honesty in uncertainty.
And people are most afraid of what they do not know.
So they seek tranquility in what has been foretold.
They look for signs to guide them, because they are afraid to walk alone.
~ I wonder, what is a bigger disease, self-consciousness or self-righteousness?
On some days, I suffer both.
But if I'm being honest, I usually have a heavy case of the former and not enough of the latter. Because I sought to convince myself, that it was myself, that truly didn't matter.
But I was wrong. And right. I don't matter. But neither, do the majority of you.
~ Was Tyler Durden right?
Is self-improvement a form of masturbation?
Oh, tell me pretty one, how do you do it?
How do you project that air of invincibility?
How do you stay so humble while gazing down your nose?
Do all those extra looks make your synapses fire loud?
Does the awe you inspire truly make your ego proud?
Does their admiration make the little bit of hair on your body stand?
Does every like and compliment make you feel like you were heaven sent?
Tell me, pretty one! Tell those ugly souls like me, how much like you we could be!
If we just tried a little harder. If we just worked a little harder.
If we just got off of our fat, collective asses and sculpted our holy temples!
Then we too could be worshiped! Could we not?
~ Does working work for you?
Do you work and slave and sweat to make your money to survive like the rest of us?
Or do you do it for another reason?
Do you do it, so your neighbors and your relatives and your online friends will covet thy goods?
Tell me, little one, are brand names your gods?
Are the price tags on those designer rags their apostles?
Tell me... if you have to have something just because it's new.
And not because of what it can do for you?
Tell me little one, do all of the shiny things still catch your eyes?
Do you befriend the souls who can give you access to your prize?
I hope so. I want you to buy everything, little one.
Buy and buy and purchase your heart's content!
Buy the things that will fill that hole inside of you!
Buy the things that will make you forget the flaws you see in the mirror!
Buy the things that will make you smile and help you to forget the life you have at home!
I want you to buy until you feel complete.
Buy until you feel you are a better person than me.
It won't take long. Will it?
~ I wonder if God actually existed, would he or she be content with the things done in their name?
I wonder if all the little babies that died were really a part of his or her so-called plan?
Or maybe they were a typo.
Maybe we misinterpreted that, too.
Along with that book he/she supposedly wrote.
Maybe the so-called cornerstones of some people's character were chosen at random.
Maybe the true pillars of their principles were lost somewhere in translation.
Or maybe, just maybe, there is no plan at all.
Maybe we are all, just coasting along, like ripples on a pond.
The products of rock-like reality skipping across our face, until we've reached what lies beyond.
Maybe this imagined God is not on top of the clouds, but in our minds.
Maybe the words of his supposed son should not be in our statuses or news feeds, but in our actions.
Or maybe, just maybe it doesn't fucking matter anyway.

- End transmission. For now.