The Destruction.

I feel like destroying something beautiful.

Beauty masks monsters. Beauty fuels falsity. They sky is beautiful, but the sky is cloudy. Your face is beautiful, but it is lifeless. Beauty is torture. Monsters thrive off of torturing you, they thrive off of your fear. Wandering, sucking color from the world, ice cold, Antarctica, miles and miles away.

Taken advantage of. Beauty is, I mean. Murdered, covered as suicide, but why would you ever want to destroy something beautiful? Higher powers, controlled anarchy. And no matter what, you can’t escape.

Beauty is everywhere, lying to you. Things aren’t beautiful, so destroy it all. What we deem as having beauty is merely a reflection of how we perceive ourselves to be. Do you think you’re beautiful? No? What about your soul, is that beautiful, or are you dark like me?

You’re tortured within only because of the constant battle with beauty. Your eyes, hungry for relentless destruction.

I feel like destroying something beautiful; therefore, everything will be destroyed.

Creative Manipulation.

Creativity is deep, yet is destroyed by man. Taken advantage of, simply because of anatomy within. Hierarchy of manipulation, ideas of demise, putting it down because you're sick of your lies. You believe you’re creative, that you’re over me, and by putting down my dreams, you’re helping me.

It’s not about comfort, but insecurity. I can know who I am, but you’re still authority. And it’s only because of what society has raised you to be, because of the prevalence of male patriarchy. My emotions and creativity are all of my own; you think you ignite them but you don’t even know. I came from you, but am not the same; I’m motivated to make something of my name.

Glasses.

Get me out of here, give me a sign. I won’t make it out alive. Darkness, darkness, follows me. Nothing but sleep encompasses me. Sleep and tears, darkness adheres. I don’t believe I’ll make it out alive. Darkness, darkness, follows me. Give me glasses so I can see. Wish they distorted the world enough so I could at least pretend someone wanted me.

Unusual Rant.

Why are we so compelled to be under the control of technology? It’s nuts, bolts, screws, chips. Little pieces combined together, ruling us. Laptops, phones? Why do they have to rule us.

And money. It’s just green paper, just paper. It can tear, be shredded, fragile but we live around it. It motivates in the worst ways. Death occurs because of it. Money hungry people rule. It defines statuses, although we’re all on the same boat, called life, where no one can get out alive.

Why live this way? When did society lose sight of the really important things? Those things that don’t constantly change, ruin relationships and reputations, compete. When did we become the people that choose to text instead of talking in person, or the ones that feel so dependent on their technology that they can’t even hold a face to face conversation because Marimba is ringing in the background or a horn tone is letting you know someone took the time to type you something, completely irrelevant.

When did we lose sight of building strong relationships with people instead of building strong relationships with a crappy piece of plastic and glass and a flimsy piece of green construction paper with numbers printed on the corners, things that can get lost and break oh so easily.

Because people strive for convenience over interpersonal relations.

Have a day of self, of others, without an inanimate object delegating who you are and what you’re doing. Change it, or it’ll change you.

Fallback.

The thought of a memory, once held so secure. In my hand, it was once a cure. Years ago it abandoned me, letting my body finally feel free. But freedom is cold, so dark and unknown, the thought of freedom.. scares me. Freedom, limitless, it petrifies me.

Angel Wings.

Held by an angel, demented wings, but bright in spirit, yet full of tears. They shelter from the corrupt dark word, more terrorism than it should ever behold.

Comforting, closing me in, my angel holds my innocence.

I may have wings, but they aren’t all white, black scattered, I’ve grown to fight.

My body, my soul, I deserve to grow old, not to be taken from here. Whether in an empty shell or completely here, my angel still holds me, she knows my fear.

It’s dark but it’s light, lightness so bright, prevailing over the storm. Finding the past, recovering that me. Relentless, it despises me. Uncovering facts, assumptions, truths, that me is gone, my angel is proof.

Judgmental of wings, but who cares if they’re veiled? Not all angels are perfect; they can be dark from the start. Doesn’t mean they are cruel or harmful or lost, it means they know hurt, and that is what’s dark.

The Lullaby.

Sleepy, sleepy, close your eyes. I’ll come get you, your demise. Bargain, watch me come take you, you’ll never find a way-- break through.

Soft, sweet lullaby, be so cruel. I’m no angel; you’re a fool.

Sheep jump, counting, sun rising. Poor little hoof prints, my coffin.
You deteriorate at my will, just like a sheep stripped of its wool.

Let me be Alice in Wonderland. I’d like to play a game of pretend. Think I see you, rabbit hole. Stuck in a teapot, grow so small. Naked, sheep wool keeps me warm, flamingo feathers on the floor.

I know you’ll take me away from here, yet I still fear, counting sheep won’t disappear.

Sing me a lullaby, comfort my soul. Sing me a lullaby, my eyes are growing cold.