I wish only to escape, into where dreams and nightmares converge.
In that place, innocence can thrive, and hearts can exist. If even darkened by others.
Far away from this disease-cast scene, I will exist upon the outskirts with those
who yearn only to taste what I have once indulged upon.
The poison is sweet, as is the allure of anything that holds no true substance.
It is hollow much as is the concept of love.
I view them as children, never equals.
As we are not the same, never make that mistake in reading my lines or assuming
I want anything from you beyond this moment.
Art is not happiness, it is my realm of existence.
I read the words of a friend upon his deathbed. They bled passion.
Beyond an imbecile striving for social acceptance, they clung
to a life lived that would soon be withered within a goodbye.
I respect what is real, never what is crafted under the guise of anything to amuse
let alone kiss the backside of some tyrant's ego.
Run towards the lights, and I promise you, you will find nothing more than a mirage.
As your lungs struggle and you fall upon ever-shifting sands,
for you cannot command a stranger's attention, let alone their devotion.
Never chase, simply open the artery and bleed your passion till nothing else is left.
Take that path that others avoid.
Art is forever hopeless and that in its
purest essence is why I so deeply desire its rejection.
For if ever I were to know acceptance.
I would know I somehow fucked up.
JPR, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has been published in Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleaze Trash, Piker Press, Spill The Words Press and The Dope Fiend Daily.
His work is often dark and always unfiltered.
No comments:
Post a Comment