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Monologue From the Tortured Mind

Poetry By: Entity
Other



A monologue. That's really it.


Submitted:Apr 4, 2013    Reads: 62    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


Monologue of a Tortured Mind

I look around me, and wonder how everybody seems happy in this world. With the sky heavy with foreboding, and the ground we walk on slowly slipping from beneath our feet. We were all falling, and I swear I'm the only one who sees it. They always told me that doing the same thing and expecting a different result was insanity, but if you're only given the one option, you don't have much of a choice. I stand at the center of biggotry and ignorance, and I explode with invisible rage. I faulter, and catch myself a little later each time. I wonder if the day will come when I'll finally be too late, and if, when that day comes, I'll be strong enough to end myself before I contribute to the hate.

I don't watch the world and attempt to understand it anymore. If I understood anymore, I'd already be mad. Of course, I'm getting there now. It's just not as bad as it could be. I stare up at the sky, the warning getting less subtle, and yet others still ignore it. I sceam at them from within the confines of my own mind, but they ignore it. If I sceam any louder, I'll lose my voice, and then nobody will ever listen, like there's a chance anyway.

My mind burns with rage. The fire scorches my memories. It burns pride, and incinerates myself image. This place I find myself in is not the world I grew up. The kind people, the happy faces. They don't exist anymore, or maybe they never existed to begin with. At this point it doesn't matter whether they were there before. They weren't here now, and now is when I them most. I turn these thoughts over in my head, Eventually I'll fuck up. They'll spill all over the place. maybe that's just what I need. Release some of this. Spash it on somebody else. Perhaps then they'll see the warning beacon in the sky, feel the sting of the cold foreshadow that covers us. Perhaps someday they'll know what it is to be me, and they won't call me mad. It's a long shot, but then, so was hoping I could last.

I don't know what happened to the old familiar feeling that I could be me. I don't know where the sudden rush of self-conciousness came from. I hated. I'd watch every move I made. My tongue has been feeling neglected. My heart beats to rhythm of panic and chaos, and I fall. I fall into hole, and keep falling, never seeing the end, and hardly giving a damn. If I cared even the slightest fucking bit about the end, I could bring it on myself. The beginning. That's what I concern myself with. I still can't quite place where it all started, but dammit I plan to try. To hell with the world. The foreboding in the sky is fading. The danger is here, and the only thing worth saying now is goodbye. We're all dead now, we just don't know it.





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