When the reason hesitates,
and the voice of the heart
is the only thing that you can hear
no-one light can distract you
from the darkness
that obscure your eyes...
Delusional visionThe disturbing tinkling of a music box
makes its way through my childhood memories,
tensing up, biting and tearing my flesh
in an attempt to break free to ascend to gods' sky
and a rhytmic, cadenced step of marching men
leads me again to a delirium, sacrificing my innocent blood
just before leaving my body to agonize,
waiting for Death - waiting for the eternal glory...
Visione deliranteL’inquietante tintinnio d’un carillon
si fa strada attraverso i miei ricordi di bambino,
tendendosi verso l’alto, mordendo e strappando la carne
nel tentativo di liberarsi per ascendere verso il cielo degli dei
ed il passo ritmico, cadenzato, di uomini in marcia
mi conduce nuovamente al delirio, sacrificandone l’innocenza nel sangue
appena prima di abbandonare il suo cadavere ad agonizzare,
in attesa della Morte – in attesa della gloria eterna...
Only a whisperWhere are your heroes when everything collapses,
and the weight of the world becomes unsustainable
to be lifted only by your mortals shoulders?
Only a whisper, ephemeral and sharp as glass
breaks this wasteland,
fracturing the ice of my sad consciousness
And, with its inevitable spider web,
here that appears another scar
on my poor body, already marked by a thousand of other battles,
now past and lost in the flow of time...
Soltanto un sussurroDove sono i tuoi eroi quando tutto crolla,
ed il peso del mondo diventa insostenibile
sulle tue spalle mortali?
Soltanto un sussurro, effimero e tagliente come il vetro
spezza questa terra desolata,
fratturando il ghiaccio della mia triste coscienza
E, con la sua inevitabile ragnatela,
ecco apparire un'altra cicatrice
sul mio corpo già segnato da mille altre battaglie,
ormai passate e perdute nello scorrere del tempo...
InsomniaAll of a sudden, I slide in the penetrating silence of nothingness, inexorably.
Small oxygen's bubbles float toward the surface of the gray sky above me,
as the light leaves me, leaving me to fall into the night,
hugging that little sleep that still lingers in my mind,
InsonniaD'improvviso scivolo nel penetrante silenzio del nulla, inesorabilmente.
Piccole bolle d'ossigeno fluttuano verso la superficie del cielo plumbeo sopra di me,
mentre la luce mi abbandona, lasciandomi cadere nella notte,
abbracciata a quel poco sonno che ancora aleggia nella mia mente,
This nostalgiaA hand that tighten my heart
in an icy grip of metal,
this nostalgia that spreads through my earphones
consuming my soul, corroding it
like acid on the fragile human skin
Questa nostalgiaUna mano che stringe il mio cuore
in una gelida morsa metallica,
questa nostalgia che si diffonde attraverso gli auricolari
consumandomi l'anima, corrodendola
come acido sulla fragile pelle umana
Really greatMordecai Heller kept his glance down, deliberately choosing to hide his big green eyes behind the hat that he was wearing, and that, like a protective shield, he kept slacked off fell on his face to completely ignore the two blokes sitting in the front seats of the car on which he was travelling, which in any case didn’t seem to have gotten the message he was trying to send to them, continuing, instead, to talk to him in that hateful language that mixes English and French, as in a strange cocktail of alcohol, and to forget more easily the panorama of the city of St. Louis, hurtling alongside them beyond the car’s window.
Moved by an almost catatonic slowness, the boy passed an hanky on the mark that has just been engraved on his chest, staining both it and his candid shirt of blood’s rivulets, that drawn again the symbol on the garment’s fabric.
Great. Mordecai growled to himself, staring with disgust his hand, that automatically went to place itself on h
Thoughts on Growing UpThoughts on Growing Up
I exist more inside of my mind
Than in reality.
I am not sure what I am trying to find.
I think I am trying to lose
I liked the sing song of nursery rhymes
Before I knew the story behind them.
I liked the way the world looked
Before I could read between its lines.
They sound nothing like my little kid lullabies.
Everything seems to remind me
Of how it will never be
What I wished it was.
I thought growing up was supposed to make me stand tall.
My veins are roots
Digging themselves into the ground.
But nobody ever warned me
Of the tree snapping
And I feel like a little kid,
I’ve got bright eyes and scraped up knees.
The scratches so alive and raw.
You use grown up band aids
To cover up your wide eyed dreams.
But I was never one for reality.
Keep your band aids.
I’ll make my own way to the Neverland
That I dreamed of.
I’ll make my own lullaby.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.i.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge of the toilet seat,
and chat to me about the weather.
I would give anything to hear your real, living voice,
to ask you what you were thinking
as you lowered yourself
into the tub, queen of the tendrils of steam,
and let your lungs deflate like old birthday balloons.
on the news they say that your autopsy
revealed three quarters
of a bottle o
Depression is an OptionDepression is a choice, my dear,
And happiness the same
You choose this illness, don’t you?
What a tragic little game.
Depression is an option, love
Just get up out of bed
Take your tears and worries
And just smile now instead.
Depression is a choice, you see,
And so is suicide.
Just sit back, kick your feet up, dear
Enjoy this perfect ride.
Get over your own standards
Of what everyone should be.
Just smile for once, and maybe
You’ll be living perfectly.
Depression is an illness
That we feel so deep within.
Why would anybody choose
To write poetry on their skin?
Unless there lies a reason, dear,
I would not choose to die.
If depression was an option...
I’d choose to say goodbye.
Art and Other WeaponsI use words like an anchor.
Tying myself down to a piece of paper.
In books my heroes used swords,
I use a pen.
I got a mind as violent as a hurricane.
I could use these words to build me a raft.
Because it’s the only weapon I have.
And this pen isn’t what it looks like.
I finally found some sort of voice.
I can use it. These thoughts inside our heads are like bombs, so let’s defuse it.
It’s my torch.
I could burn the shadows, set fire to these fears.
I could use ink instead of tears.
I could use books and poetry like a night light
Because I never liked the dark anyways.
I could use it like a head stone…
Writing about all of my friends who couldn’t find a flash light
I could write and write
Until my skin was stained with lilies made of ink.
I write because I think
And when you think too much there is no escape.
So I say, when everything is too much
Little dream weaver, you have all the pieces.
Arm yourself with a paint brush,
HetaliaxDepressed!Reader:Self-Inflicted AchromaticHetalia x Scary! Depressed! Reader: Self-Inflicted Achromatic
I want to be a person just like you, don't you see?
I want to be a person who is still being "me"
A tired sigh escaped your lips. You were just so damn tired. The other countries said that you, (f/n) or (c/n), was scarier than Russia himself. But of course, you have lived 2500 years with wars and bloodshed always trailing after you. You just really want to be happy. But all those wars and blood imprinted on your mind, you really just released off a dark (a/c) aura and a stoic atmosphere.
It really would be nice but I'm paying a price
'Cause I'd really, not be me and that would not suffice
You asked yourself, "I know my face doesn't show my pain. But isn't it obvious in my eyes? I'm lonely and hurt" You rubbed your numb (s/c) wrist, yesterday's cuts still had a colorless ache to it. You picked your silver knife, twirling it around watching the others argue. The said knife is the one you also use to cut yourself.
A dream which
Trapped WithinShut up!
I don't want to listen anymore.
Get out of my head!
I can't depend on anyone.
There is no way to save me.
If it's up to me to make the voices leave,
I am powerless.
All I can do is try and drown them out with music.
I find myself closing up.
No need to worry anyone.
sometimes pain is the only way to tone things down.
I really hope things change.
Whispers of the sweet release offered by a blade seduce.
I can't though.
I have reasons not to.
I want to be free,
but I can't escape myself.
People are busy.
People are stressed.
People are sick.
Who am I supposed to talk to?
Who could I trust?
I can only cry and crank the volume of my music.
Sleep would be best,
but I can only sleep so much.
Go away go away GO AWAY!!!
and take my pain with you!
I am such an idiot.
you're much stronger than you thinkI'll be the first to tell you
scissors don't need to be brought to a wrist
to cut deep
because cutting off your heart from you head,
or yourself from your dreams,
is also enough
to make you bleed
and there's ink spilled all over these pages,
and at times it seems tears
are cheaper than water from a spout:
these lines need diluted,
these blots are a dark, dark sea
and maybe I'm not too good at swimming,
even if it's just through a pool of ink
but I've learned if you just keep paddling,
you're much stronger than you think.
An Angel's Promise'Thou art mine,
And so thou shall remain.'
I will not let you have any other before me,
Nor can there be any after.
For it is your soul that I have shared
And it is your soul that I do take.
Your worship is the blood that flows through me.
Your praise is the heart that pumps life into my veins.
I have accepted that which is torn;
And if you are not whole before me,
Then by my will and word,
You shall be made whole.
So fear not this frigid world,
Though its cold bites deeply into your flesh.
I shall take that which has been torn from you
And weep life into it,
Until only warmth remains.
For thou art already mine,
And so thou shall remain.
For My PeopleAs far as I can recall:
I did not ask to be birthed
Into a cycle of stagnation.
I did not ask to be told,
That my dreams are achievable;
Only to see them limited by the scope of reality.
I did not ask for a failing system,
Passed unto me by half-dead corpses wearing suits.
Nodding eagerly at one another,
As they wait for an inevitable death.
This I did not ask for,
And I am certain that most of you did not either.
But it is for that reason,
And for that reason alone, I say:
That it is up to us,
We siblings bound by the chains of our forefathers,
To create a system that is better,
Than the bitter shackles of the past.
Justice is what I long for.
Justice for MY people.