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THE MADNESS OF ONE’S SELF PORTRAIT
Why, Has God created a visual fortune?
To show a poor man who has fallen from the
Logic of mankind.
The kind’s Man who lost faith in the
apprehension of man
From the idea to hypocrisy
Struck the wandering man into an abyss.
Then, He begins to think,
What rots after death blossoms by sunrise.
And, by sunset we grow Molde by the nurturing
Of Mother Nature.
To what extent do we lie in the void.
When joy only lives in the moments
And melancholy rents out the evening.
A fathers death is the beginning,
His vanishing presence leaves a comforting
Voice in the man’s ear.
Is it vengeance he seeks? If so, then mark
(Denmark)
What’s complex can be solved through blinded
Anger.
senseless trust ruffles an inevitable betrayal.
Love is tainted by dark ambitions which forges a
Trail of self hatred.
What is the purpose,
If vengeance? Then it should be you.
A dagger pinches the vein
As he stares unto me, skull he holds
A self-portrait of his failures, yet he understands
No matter good or bad in the end everyone
earns/urns in ashes
And
From this he understands the meaning of this
“quintessence of dust”
Serial Sevens
100. Who is the stranger that lives within me?
A monster that carries your fears and displays them as a trophy
93. My conscience slowly blinding away my own desires. What an experience would have been to lay on the grass as the sun hugs me. 90. Like a mother, hugs her youngest child with the intention of protecting him from the world.
What a cruelty to witness that, she holds you back from living life
86. Yet, I am trapped by 4 morphing walls that reflects my craving of suicide. Warping faces of anguish, tarnish and regrets surrounds me, like 4 vultures foaming out the mouth staring at my depression.
100. What is life?
Nothing but a joke, fight to live to die with nothing you fought for, it kills me with laughter.
93. ....Memories, clear memories that guide me through the hollows of what is borrow. I want to see, I want see...
But the clouds hover over you, you are of no importance to this world, why don't you just kill yourself, many walk around you and sees you in disgust of your existence, your extinction is the experience you are seeking.
90. Truth, once I lie the truth will be revealed, but what is truth with no evidence?
87. I will not lie another sentence and let the jury wrongfully judge me.
Then what is love?
Love?? 81. I don't know...
100. But if I can describe love to you, then I was never in love to begin with.
Tony’s Limbo
Being a man is difficult,
We’re born to Drown in an unsolicited ocean filled with our generational intoxicating masculinity,
We’re expected to be a brute in moments of grief in order to protect,
Being a grizzly bear yet not understanding we bear grizzling trauma that rips us to shred.
Tears fall when our heart is tear open damaging the calming rhythm of our pulse, veins puncturing the skins until it turns blue and our knuckles grated from punching the wall that our backs have fallen unto,
We are only allowed vulnerability within our solitude, we are prohibited to express how we feel, our emotions are stitched up by the hems of society judgment, so that they may see not a strong man but a smile that hides a man Interwoven his mental issues
though it seems healthy through the naked eye
Keeping it in tack is the only way we are suitable for societies fashion.
Being a man is difficult.
However, I as one is seeking a change.
Sometimes what has worked for years is not what’s right, but I as one is to blame.
Avere la testa fre le nuvole, but I as one am ashamed
We have been lost, therefore we must find love but, I as one is to begin that reign
Being a man, might not be so difficult.
The Perfect Fifth, The Crescendo, The Last Dance
Commence, solider’s fugue,
the open fifth note
Self identity is the
allegro tempo
self-loving addicted
mother abandons
her only 2 children
Left one to whimper
placing flowers on a grave
for my younger sibling
Her chaotic minuet
dance ripped Half a note
causing the last crescendo
Which led the final memory of a sister.
So, I resorted to pills to quiet the pain You could see from the bags under my eyes The baggage I bear. I carried-on with no regrets of my haunting past and packed my trauma in the shadow of my smile. I ghosted those that were close and in my dreams I was an unidentified male travelling through stories just to find his own. I overdose on every per-SCRIPT-ions just to numb the reality in which I lived in. I was never giving the stamp of approval, spoonful by spoonful water from my eyes fell unto the ground questioning God “can I have my passport?”
Then I find myself telling these shameful stories to follow a dream, struggling to break away from my past as I look towards my big break for the future. Selling myself short for some small change to wager on my success, Leaving a cousin back home that always kept me in check. Though there were Miles between us listening to jazz brings back memories of Mary Lou, I am still Young but, I have to keep my Arms-strong to follow my Art, Sunny/Sonny days will come and I’ll be back home dancing with yaz, remembering that the happiest song plays last.