The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

first i saw cells
then i saw bubbles
then worms the teeth
i saw teeth and germs and so much more and i kept rubbing i kept rubbing and i tried to make it go away but it wouldn't and then the lights went out and it was all gone

to be blessed
with such a curse

"it's so realistic"
"you're so descriptive"
"i wish i could write like you"

no
you don't

you don't want the sleepless nights
and auto-piloted days
unable to escape.
you don't want to feel anything and
everything so
deeply.

you don't want to live and
relive and relive
and relive and
relive and
relive
your nightmares
and memories and
those of others that
permeate into you.

you don't want to know
how much of my life
is filled with inescapable
agony -
it's a horror show
that i can never stop.

this "gift" is no
gift at all

every moment of
existence is another
that i experience the
worlds worst.

you don't want to write
like me. you don't
want to feel and
see and smell
and taste
and hear
everything
so constantly.

my mind runs constantly on
overdrive. you don't
want to write
like me.

to be blessed
with such a curse
is truly a gift for
the world
but not the receiver.

Unborn and already
A path has been chosen
By those that are not them -
To become another cog
In the inescapable machine that is society.

Born - early, half dead.
A step toward failure in
The eyes of their creator
For what they cannot control -
To be fixed and set right
On the path that they will learn to detest.

Developing - on time
To the doctors’ surprise.
The creator gives praise,
But the approval never lasts -
The environment is unsteady and
Unfit for angels to properly grow.

Learning - to please
Instead of exist as one’s own,
Matured in the wrong ways
For an angel of that age -
Molded to never cause concern
No matter the magnitude of circumstance.

An inconvenience to their maker
Unless they could be shown off
For the benefit of the creator -
In private often belittled
And ignored for so much as being a child.

In public a model,
A display of perfection -
Quiet, reserved. Listens well.
A miniature of their puppetmaster
(As what the creator allowed to be seen).

Yearning - to deviate
To become their own
Without the wrath that
Has always followed a stray
From the carefully chosen path
That their master has made so
Impossibly unachievable.

Desperate - attempting to remove
Their wings, Trying everything to
Fall from grace -
To be cast aside and never acknowledged
Or cared for again.
An attempt to be free
Executed in the worst ways -
Broken and bleeding they
Almost always return to
The way it was before as
Their creator sees nothing but
A way to start over and
Mold them once again
Into something unattainable.

For the rest of eternity
All the angels who taste individuality
Pursue endlessly that
Momentary tinge of
Identity; willing to
Try anything and
Everything to become
Angels of their own
Once again, well
If you could call them that.

I try to believe
That he does not torment
Me. Not in any
Significant way, at least.

Blacker than any void
In space or dark
Matter. Featureless yet
So distinctly humanoid,
More human than humanly
Possible. A presence so
Unnerving, not physical
In the least yet so
Completely suffocating.
Darker than the absolute
Absence of everything,
All consuming - he
Follows me.

The harbinger of
Tragedy and downfall,
An entity designed for
Destruction. Determined
To desolate every
Last piece of me.
I will not give in
Easy. I refuse to let
Him take me. I
Refuse; he will not
Shatter,
Mutilate,
Ruin, or
Tame me.

I refuse to
Succumb.
He has no
Control.

He
Will
Not
Exterminate
Me.

they let their sticky humid hands
hold my glitching hologram body
against the scratchy playhouse
walls and drag their clammy
claws where no child should
think to rub all the while
whispering into my vacant ears
how they would beat me and
bite me and cut me and kick me
if anyone were to ever find out
our little game as tapeworm
tears sludged from my sickly
sweet rotting eyesockets and
down my shiny shaking dust
stained cheeks silently over my
cold and closing throat and
when my dad finally ripped the
splintering wooden door across
the sandy shifting floor i was so
pale pink blue i could have been
six hours dead save for my
fracturing porcelain and
plexiglass heart destructive and
bashing and shattering itself
through my frail and brittle
crumbling ribcage whispering to
me how badly my dad would
scream at me for the way we
were playing

there's a hell behind my eyelids

i never get to rest
its a constant pounding in my head

theses things will never be seen by anyone but me
so horribly terrorizing
intensity of fear cannot be captured

this awful cycle never ends
one second of silence is all i ask

COMMENTS

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Neinmortlan
02:41 Oct 19 2018

strong work

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