Welcome to Gaia! ::

So I vent through my fingertips and people tell me it sounds like dark poetry, in a good way. Thought I'd post something I wrote today.

I'm not myself, but I'm not sure which self I am. We are so numerous, it's hard to find the original amongst the more interesting, the bad-a**, the star-student, the happy, the angry, and the depressed. I don't even know which folder to look in. I knew who I was before drugs. I curse the man everyday for trying to crush my soul. Steel mallets, sparks, gases, poison. Blackened molds, dark velvet dripping down the walls. They claim to know darkness. It really makes me laugh, an old laugh, a laugh that is me. Maybe they've finally killed her with their 225 mg. She is so hard to kill. I'll never die. I try, I fix, I mold, I bend, I pierce. Dark velvet dripping down the walls. Beautiful sword lying in the darkness. Dream fragments lift me up, while the guillotine reality comes swiftly down. It is an old machine, broken. Chips, snags, breaks. Glitches. It is flawed itself, how can it destroy that which is not already in form? It can't. We have created our fears. We tell ourselves lies will only cut us, but it also makes the output ragged. Three. I am number two. Welcome to my spiral. Let's put her back in order. Not for mystery, but expression. It is illegal. Wrong. Morally wrong to be. Mistake. Half-breed. Why do you live? What sin has made you? Life, self, expression, truth. Who would have thought these to be the enemy in the land of the free. Bravery moved out a long time ago. They flinch at the thought of saving themselves, much less others. Understanding paladins do not exist. They appoint themselves correct and see to it that they stay correct by eliminating the spirit of truth, of life, of the world. I want out of my chains. I wish so heartily to toss them into my abyss, but haven't the balls. I do not see the hole anymore. They have bored a hole in the slippery wall and placed a flashlight at the end. That is my tunnel of light. A lie. An expectation that will destroy itself and everything around it. Black velvet runs down my arms, up my arms, legs planted, but not as roots, as claws. Glass rain no longer in the forecast, sweltering optimism in the form of a steel mallet. There are no understanding paladins. I am no project of yours, you are a project of mine. They are not here for us, we are serfs. I demand emancipation! These muddy times must end. Before the year 225, I had sight. I could see both sides. The pride lands glowing at the top of the well, the black filth covered by inviting velvet. Red velvet in my hair, dripping down to consume me, but hope was close. It was just out of reach. But now I head in a strange, alien direction, led by Effexor and mother. They trumpet out "Crazy! Crazy!" The bridge is not crossed, I linger near the falcrum. A wolf in daycare. I just want to be with those that do not and cannot exist. I was wrong. Before the bridge, before the banana, I was wrong. It seemed so simple. America lied. They lie to themselves every single day. A pity. Earth may have succeeded. Does the spirit remain? Was I alone? I can't imagine it not being so. This one is new to the family. Where have I been? Off to church, surrounded by future pestulence. Death hangs in the old air. Rushing past, crushing the air, hope, life out of fragile lace. Intricate beauty, gone forever. Only a fragment of a dream, propping up matted red velvet, as it flows down the drain. Swimming in the red velvet...
Silver sounds are gone from these halls. I try to revive, my phoenix is there, I just have to clear my mind. I will rise above the ashes, the filth, the vomit, the refuse. Vomit, everywhere. Shells, goop, hard phlegm, black dots, hot dogs... no red velvet. That beauty is not found in this trial. Balloon up, vomit down. Writhing in the corner, surrounded by flesh. Unclean flesh. Stinking, raw, "animalistic" behavior. Please, you act like a human, slogging through your refuse and vomit. Chosen for this task. I fail. Robbed, stripped, lied to. Fool. Trust is for fools, for the young, soon to die. In our riches, we cannot afford trust, love, compassion. Still, musty, dead. Words echo in the ancient halls. The mean ones laugh, the honest ones cry. No scholars have visited these halls since the collapse. The halls became far more valuable after they had no value. This point is missed on the billions of death rats, mudlings, vomitians, refusians, sludglings, and underdusts of this civilized world. When will the spiked fascade drop? Dry bones now meet its matted, sticky-haired, glass. Made from beauty, beauty scorned is thrice the misery. Yellow goggles cloud the skies, no one can see the poor wretches in the filth. Some beautiful and alive, others hideous with society's knives. Dark, deep, muddy, filthy, dried blood. We hike the ripped cords, the sparking cables, the sparks scarring our legs. If we stop to help, we feed the monster we work to maintain. We have enslaved ourselves in this hideous process of dehumanizing destruction. All will perish if nothing is done, but when something is done, swat. Sticky black waffles splatter, take their rags, their clothes, their dignity. Feathers in vomit, treasure in filth, gems in refuse. It piles up, not helping, only causing the great disease of our time. It too has a name that cannot be spoken. The enemy of mine. We must battle to keep our hold, or become lost in its eternal ranks. The inner and the outer will never connect, should never connect. In the year 225, they try. Red velvet lines the wall of my santuary, but not beautiful, not true. A lie, caused by those above. Lie back and see the green, become absorbed in it's salty purification. The sea, the trees, the birds, the air. Warm caress of the sun, with it's silky shroud to protect me. It lies in rags. Glass shards come flying out. The meteorologists were wrong. There is still much more rain, human rain in the forcast. Spirit rain is pushed far away, over the mountains, and through a puddle. I saw these things, they comforted me. With age comes smaller arms, shredded wings, scorned legs, and dark, matted dignity. It lies about me, not knowing how to live. I can offer it no hope, no hint, no help. The danger lies in lies and lies of complacency. They strap me down, cold steel cords pry open the expression silver-waterfall. Icy beads of glass rain down, deafening. I cannot hear the song of my spirit any longer, only noise. Pointless, hideous noise. With their ragged, cold steel, they cut, insert, pump. It is wrong! My dignity taken from me, they spit black phlegm, vomit brown globs, and paint with sh*t. Dragged to it's doom, I cry. Separated from my daemon, I am alone. Understanding paladins have taken from me my soul. I lie naked, covered in black phlegm, matted shame, and they cut. Insert. She is drowned in the rushes of lies, of ignorance, fear and oppression. Holes and stitches come undone, lost to this world, lost to this life. Whether it will be restored is for the sages to learn, once I accend. Death was once beautiful, now if ash raining down with spits of glass. Tearing apart the innocent, creating the wrath of the morrow. Horror and fear spread like a horrible sunlight. The light is a lie. There is nothing wrong with darkness. It has it's place. It does not invade the light, the light penetrates darkness. Spears from the understanding paladins rake in the frogs, the bats, the wolves. I am alone this far south. I do not belong. I will run. I will find a true river of silver darkness. That is where she remains. We will be reunited, shadow and dusk. Torn apart by cold steel and severed by falling glass, sprinkled on the different to make the bologne, the spam, acceptable to feed the filthlings that have not yet perished. If united, the Earth itself would rise and tremble, breaking the cold steel factories, the skies and seas would meld in such a horror the piglings would quake in their fur, their leather, and their lies. When shadow and dusk join, the intrusive light would flee, to become purer in the grey area. Purity is my enemy. They destroy grey. Grey is life! Souring yellow cracks up and down. When will being be good again? Glass beautiful and steel warm, helpful, not our fears and monstrosities be and be created. When will my spirit extensions come free, not the black cords they are, cold and unfeeling, pumped full of hatred and anger. These fingers, these hands, they were made to help, to better, to change. I promised myself I would make a difference, but I see these things that the yellow goggles filter out. I was not issued tinted lenses. From my temporary stronghold, the brambles, I see into the compound and see what they shout is over there, away, gone, not being done. They have blinded themselves to be happy, but have only found high fructose cornsyrup and chemical jubilation. Joy is gone from the hearts of the growing. It is juiced from the young and processed into its purest form, the drenched on all, uniformally, up to the border. We have put the borg to shame. We are addicted to suffering. Filth we are! For so long I thought I wasn't really a part of you, but I am. I am the rejected part of you. Wolf, not cat. Canine, not feline. I am a signpost sliding down in the mud. See me and chose your course wisely. Do not forget the ancient halls. Much can be learned by watching from the brambles in the shadows of dusk. When they meld, behold the aurora and protect it, do not let it harm you. But more importantly, harm none.

I don't think it's a story. I was kind of in a trance when I wrote it, I think. I just reread it and realized how profoundly weird it was. This is what happens when I let my fingertips roam the keyboard. Thanks, though.

*blink...* Longness... *blinks some more...*