literature

Broken Psyche

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Literature Text

Although the pages appear to be neat and orderly,
Tattered and torn they are in their true form.
For between the lines lie another story waiting to be heard.
But not strong enough to make it known.
It is hard to read with all the stains and burns
Mental scars and physical reminders.
Yet some way some of the story can be deciphered
But much cannot for the story is too dark, Too deep to be known.
For what lies inside is deception and despair at its very worst.
Other sections are often misinterpreted.
Taken at face value, while the actual meaning is lost

But of what meaning is left, after the author has finished,
His book bound, his story closed
Of what ink is left, when his body has none left,
And his pen has gone dull,
what is left of him?
Only what he doesn't share between the pages.
Only what he keeps with his spare pens and paper
But those stories are forever lost
Gone away with his mind,
His Sanity
Not if he has another work in progress.
Constant Progress

Life continues on, with each moment a new entry.
Little by little, the author can compile everything
Until all the paperweights are gone and put aside
Paperweights aside, each entry becomes overbearing
Leading to the author's demise
By will or not,
Even the slightest paper cut is leading, bleeding to the end
Thus the life, time and trials of a weary author.
An entry to many,
Sent time to the very place he wrote of
His own hellish imagination festooned and described as a heavenly abode.

Only the insane roam here
As they are this place's only inhabitants
Bent, twisted and mad
Forms or their former selves
But of what former selves weren't already insane?
Aren't we all for thinking this life is unfair?
We all get what we pay for in the end
Some by death, Others by blood.
Judgement isn't for them
They know their sentence
Spent to roam this Purgatory forever and always.

Condemned since birth
Future set in stone
The only thing not;
Their Sanity
This Sanity, it lacks permanence.
No one ever keeps it.
They toss is aside and let it wither and die
Much like their lives
The end to those damned souls,
Is the closure of the worn book.
I had a conversation the other day that then turned into a poetic discussion. Deciding to consider it a collab work, I feel it worth to show the talent of both myself and my friend. He knows who he is but I'll still link his gallery below.


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© 2012 - 2024 Nachtetraum
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