Twisted Parody

I had forsaken all hopes now; the love that I held on and had held me was too much to bear, too much to take, too much to understand. The best friend has become my worst enemy, the giver of hopes now the destroyer of dreams, and the healer I consider my slayer. So I close my eyes to make all the judgment fade away. But of course it doesn’t. In the end I’m still the fool.

I hear them speaking. Their whispers are like screams in my restless mind. Who are they to tell me that they know me? A friend or a fiend, I don’t care now and apathy has taken its toll. Every word they utter doesn’t stop me from falling down my filth. So I say good night, I'll turn another page. And before you judge me any further, you must know that I know that I am in a war I’m never going to win.

What is left then…perhaps to wish that someone would take me on Sunday and bury me deep on the ground that I stand on? Or maybe find temporary highs in cold embraces and be offered unwilling hands that’s not meant for me to hold. I guess it’s better than drowning in the drugs I’m taking. Futilely hoping it’ll make the pain fade away like the alcohol on my lips.

And how many nights now had been wasted? Vainly, I wait on my porch for someone to arrive---imagining make-believed princes to come save me from this nightmare that I’m breathing in. Pathetically, like every perfect fantasy, it’s always an imperfect reality. And even though the clock strikes twelve, I’ll only remain here on this porch, watching the smoke from my mouth slowly float away in the cold night air. Just like the ghost of my hopes that I helplessly just look at as it sails to nothingness.

My lips are cracked and my throat is sore. Perhaps I had too much smoke and beer already, but why do I still feel lacking. Lacking like an empty, never ending hole, maybe craved deeply in my soul. I should be bleeding but all there is numbness. Pain, sorrow, joy, anger, love--- what difference does it make? Doesn’t it just cause your heart to beat and halt?

And I stand here just completely lost and broken as I let myself just sink into the disturbia that swirls inside me. I’m too jaded to move and too guilty to speak, as fairy tales and fantasies of Belles and Beaus cross my mind, just like the songs of autumn leaves and cherry blossoms. And like the pathetic melodrama of my excuse of a life, a sway as the tattered rug doll in a corner as they dance by. But as I try to run away, I’m pulled to the dirt and drag back to where I started. For the thread that fixed me are bounded on their necks.

And my loves, whose eyes threaten my hostile sanity, my personal hells, asking me what’s wrong. Should I laugh or should I cry, maybe just give them a mirror as a reply. This is the sweet cruelty of irony indeed. The ones warm arms that I ran to are now the chains and thorns that bind and wound me. And yet through very blood that trickles down my skin, I am unable to blame them for even my own cry sounds, “I am to blame.”

This is my parody! A broken record playing my past, present, and future, though played a million times, I still stand were I stood, never going anywhere. I’m crushed on every side and pinned to every corner. So my sweet sacrifice I now offer to you my loves. And as I breathe my last sanity, to cut the thread that holds me whole; and though I know that it'll cause me to fall apart, all I ask is that you'll hear me silently scream.

But this is not the end. For now, I take a bow.

So riddle, riddle in my lips, do you know now why I’m sick?