The Suicide and the Poet

A night of sorrows and some not-so-inspirational intensional poetry climbs to the attention that I am bored. Bored of sleeping and bored of smiling. Bored of breathing, writing, drawing, reading and much more unique qualities of my own obscured fashion. An obscured fashion not particular in the peculiar American culture. Dressing in somber black, unkempt hair, my personality beyond Moliere's misanthrope, but alas, I am no Raven. I can keep my madness in check from time to time, but when creativity flows, it becomes a torrent of complete and utter imagery. A torrent of which most, if not all, artist can not stop up until completion. Poetry is no different, and much like paintings have a thousands words, words have a thousand meanings.

However, a mind can travel so so easily in this misguided world of pornography, violence, greed and all sorts of stuff that can be explainable,... and many Unexplainable. What bewilders me the most is the extraterritorial figure deity named by man, God. Does thou exist? Does thou hear the myriad prayers, made my saintly loafers who only consume the wrong rather right? Bah, 'tis a strange phenomena. A deity in the sky, what were our former thinkers thinking? To believe Dante created the Divine Comedy, or Socrates was the ancient teacher of all knowledge. Or is it because I was born in modern times and those some years ago never rubbed on me.

So, being a masculine poet of romance I have seen a lot of strange relationships. Well, as I call it " Teen Love, " it appears to be that true love so longer exist. I did studies; books, novels, paperbacks, poems, art, speeches, songs, etc, and I have seen it all. The more over depression type such as the band Thrice and their poem called " Moving Mountains, " to the more interesting love such as " Kiss of Dawn " from Villie in His Infernal Majesty. So how many genres does romance really have? Is it the perpetual and arguably gross romance with Kesha? The twisted and disrespected romance with rappers such as Lil' Wayne, or others more passionate with strong meaning such as Eminem, " When I'm Gone? " It's all music, sure, but they still wrote it down on paper and designed a beat for it. All song writers are poets. Even those such as Tvangeste, Slayer, and Marilyn Manson. Then we have the sophisticated ones, primarily Jim Morrison and including the Beatles. Love is too diverse to comprehend, and is only defined by the person who thinks of it from their own personal culture, here in America.

But to be fair, from childhoods hour I wasn't the same as most were. My mind wasn't developed like my mother or father. It was developed from negativity. The cursed cries of those who lost and failed. I became them. And I learned from them, but did I fix them? Did I repair my mistakes, or learn? No! I became the self-indulgence pity you call a Man. A Man who leans forward in the dark side, a Man who resides with depression and is married to the pain. A Man who would rather chose Death than a Solution, and this Man is what I become. My thoughts and power are so swollen from the grips of depression that now my mind is eternally depressed. No amount of pills or prattling comfort can help me. My life, this life, I shall take back. Why am I me? Who am I? And who was I before me? Was I a poet in another life? Do I bare resemblance with Poe, or Alighieri, Wordsworth, Frost, or even Ginsberg? Or maybe I am a Martin Luther, or Anton LaVey. These answers will never be found. We will die before we can figure.

Why can't I be the normal one? The one who smiles, answers with approach rather poetry, one who doesn't intimidate a teacher with my somber and daedal personality? Why am I this? Why? Why, why, why, why, why, why why?!?! Why aren't I the one who everyone loves, the one who actually gets presents and hugs? The one who everyone wants to be with, and are never annoyed or frighten?

It is cause God isn't real. The act of a God is fraud. If he were real, then we all be in a blissful world. But this is a world robbed by torment, lust, war, and greed. The deadly sins are the creators of the world, and we follow them by rules. Our life is this. A place of war and death. We live only to die.

So on this day, I declare my life back to thee! Into the womb of my mother! And to the spirits in the future! I shall be reborn in another life! Mark my words, this shall be proof of my awakening! I shall return, as the almighty Wraith King! Hear the call of your king! In time, I will be reborn as the perfect child! As the perfect being! And I will prove that life is meaningless in the end! This is my call! This is my trail, my pledge, my obligation!
I am the Wraith King,
the angels and devilish hymns they sing
Allow me to return to earth as such deity
And I'll prove the prophets and philosophers, they will all see
That this "Man," this shell of a human is alive
Within another life! I try!
My death is the door to answers
And my life is the lock to my sorrows