Being a Gemini, alters to my personality come pretty easily to me. It is pretty simple to separate my thoughts and feelings from one mode and switch into third person view, to see my situation objectively... To be able to write as an outsider. This entry, previously on Facebook, came from a darker time, almost as if Jekyll wrote about Hyde.
Sshh!
Shut up.
Can you hear it? This is the sound of the walls coming down. Taptap tapping away on a keyboard.
Isolation is a guilty pleasure. He types from a different perspective so that he can distance himself from the pain.
A thousand voices.
A thousand faces.
He feels it you know. He isn't made of Teflon. An empty carcass, bloated and lacerated. Drained of vitality.
Devoid of emotions.
Shell shock
Lived by the book. Pinpricks across the skin. Razor sharp kisses across his heart.
We understand. You are not to blame, even as you pushed him towards the precipice while he lay there broken.
It was clearly his fault.
Provocation
Red nightmares of a blinding white insanity. He writes while the world around him crumbles and falls and he is buried in the chasm created by the relentless taptaptap of the keyboard. It takes one to know one.
A bullet in the brain. Aching to escape. Mumblings through a wired jaw.
Speak up or the crowd won't hear you.
They need answers and you are the one scapegoat.
He hides his flaws.
Overkills.
Overcompensates.
He hates himself for being unique.
Masochist
Acid green fetish doll. Painted up nice and pretty on the guillotine. The blade drops and there is silence.
The roaring mass got what it wanted.
Blood.
Demons feast till the end of time and martyrs are created by unfortunate accidents. The brave ones fall and their remains are the gruesome trophies of a time gone by. A battle well fought.
Blood and guts for the winners and the losers lick their wounds with salt. Shallow opinions thrown at survivors while the corpses of the fallen draw admirers like flies.
Irony
Plastic blue suffocation till the everlasting Christ bleeds dry on the cross. The sin grows back and he screams for temporary solace. Smooth porcelain talent like flawless marble.
But an esteem easier to crack than candied glass.
Silver streaks in the thunderous clouds, because he rains on his parade.
Confidence like butterflies, it comes and goes.
He is an incubus, for gods that haven't quite left us yet. Raised in a putrid womb of metal so sterile, air so toxic that he gave up and decimated his desire to survive.
"Singled out in a hateful crowd, over and over again"
He screams while the desecration of matters holy and pure commences. The harness can only support him for so long. After that, it becomes his undoing. The leather bites into the skin while the metal sears his soul.
A broken toy, with artificial intelligence and a taste for self-destruction. Incarcerated. Evacuated. Left to die. He picks himself up and brushes it off;
Only to resume the taptaptap on the keyboard, till the eternal flame consumes him on the cross.
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