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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A schizophrenic battles his inner demons. I wrote it in a way that is reminiscent of a schizophrenic's ramblings

Submitted: March 01, 2013

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Submitted: March 01, 2013





We have nothing

To do with breaths anymore.

All that, we have relinquished.

I mean, what's the bloody point?

Disappointment will always

Play its untiring game, and

Our outlook will be blurred by



They know nothing of our

Rhythmic graces given gladly

By the poetic goddess.

They'll abuse it, they will,

While we stretch our arms

And offer dark whispers to bring

Them to the light.


What is this?

Surely the harbinger has been

Slaughtered? Killed, I say,

Gutted like a fish.

I see now. Light pours

On distant echoes which have become

A subconscious of our conspicuous capriciousness.


The songs of a thousand voices

Call us from our restless hibernation.

They want us to bring back beauty.

Pah! Now they call us? Now they call us?

Yet, we remained optimistic

To the point of foolishness.

Yet, we expected warmth in that

Dank damp dark cave. That dismal

Abyss that stole our spark.


What now?

What is there left for us to hold on for?

They've taken all our will and still crave more.

Parasitic bastards! They feed

On our happiness (or sadness, I can never tell them apart)

And inflict mortal wounds to our altruistic pride.


Even those dead trees

Pity our pathetic plight. We shall, however,

Stand together on this sinking raft-

This slow and sure annihilation of a time gone.

We do not need them. We do not need them.

We have our own light in metaphors,

Shrouded in irony and garnished with wit-

i.e. this spirit that still burns in us.

It gives us a purpose, it gives us strength.


Ha! We are victorious in this dark hour.

We have murdered those lies

And now the outlook is promising.

Promising, I say!


They have nothing

To do with breaths anymore.

All that they have


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