They made pain beautiful.
Laying tributes of insomnia at its shrine to liberate themselves from the basements of their minds.
Swallowing littles tablets made of stardust.
Under the blanket of night skies.
They dreamt in colors that didn't exist.
Tiny nebulas spotting their wrists.
And bruises around their slender necks.
Pinned up against life's canvas.
A painter and his easel,
Till death do us part.
They wore anklets made of rope,
That had cinder blocks tied to them.
And they wandered around,
Looking for lakes.
They had pieces of glass stuck in their hearts.
And cuts in their palms from holding other people together.
And a thick fog surrounding their mind.
Because pain and their disease goes hand in hand.
They tried all the vaccines,
Injecting religion and native beliefs into their veins.
Nothing changed.
They still hurt in places the drugs didn't reach.
They could teach you new ways to hurt.
And show you places you've never seen.
Angels of the codeine scene.
They had as many ways to come alive,
As the many times they have died.
Because practice makes perfect,
Each attempt is experience.
Rulers of dead kingdoms,
That is the ruins within their head.
Pills and potions.
Overdosing is a skill.
Failed attempts at breaking out of the chrysalis.
Reality is a lie.
And if you cross to the other side,
And see the places they have been.
You'll realise the scales covering your eyes.
This is their truth.
They are butterflies.
Cursed to live among us.
So fragile,
So brave,
Poisoned to be filled with hate.
Candid pictures of our lives.
Kept in pockets of color on their wings.
Lemonade, marmalade yellows for all the sunsets they've seen.
Blues and vibrant shades of green.
Reds in all the shades in which they dream.
They themselves are the rulers of the spectrum.
Their colors become so bright,
Each experience adding to the hues on their wings.
Coaxing dream colors to come to the surface to exist.
They became unstable.
The blurred lines of reality and the ruins of their minds,
With the pressures of the spirit world and the physical pressing in on them from both sides.
Until they are crushed into a static white.
YOU ARE READING
EPIPHANY
Poetry"I'm desperately trying to heal myself." •. •. •. •. •. I strongly believe art isn't supposed to be pretty, or liked and understood by the masses. Art is supposed to make you unco...
