Gaslit isolation

A tart taste of dripping tar

is what left of my wrecked memories.

Gaslit isolation forced upon my will.

F*ck it.

Honestly,I dont know what to say.

All the words seem pointless

when you are pruned to the core.

Maybe I did have something to say

back then,

Maybe that is why I chose to step into that hole,

A shit smelling hole filled with dirt,

I felt like that was the perfect place for me to dwell in.

Poppy serpents bursting out of my veins,

I pulled them out,

but they kept blooming.

Not gonna lie,

It was beautiful.

Maybe that is the reason why

Burning poppies felt so satisfying,

Every time felt like the first time,

Inhaling poppy spirit,

I hoped they would steal my breath,

except it felt bigger, stronger, deeper.

Poppies grew vivid and solid,

leaving my reason behind,

We were levitating into the haze.

My memories are blank white, erased,

blinded by the light of panic, dizziness and sweat.

Shot the things that seemed too heavy,

I am no heavy lifter,

I am a shooter,

but I dont shoot stars,

I swallow them.

Looking from a safe distance,

I stay muted.

My mouth glued,

and there is no-one provoking me

to tear it bleeding.

To choke on your own blood,

A prey who acts like a predator,

Eye for an eye,

Against the mirror,

a looser who plays with his own c*ck.

Konrad in wonderland,

Stuck between the walls of a bog,

somewhere rotten and f*cked up.

what did I learn

from the magic surrounding me?

The sun could be drown

in the pond under my feet,

and the moon is nothing

but a blurry hallucination

before knocking off.

I don’t know

what the f*ck I am supposed to say,

my lips parted,

my brain - departed.

There is a smell

of something rotten in this room,

and the air is heavy.

I pretend I cannot ignore

the suffering of the bleeding clouds,

Stuffed sky is waiting for the night

to heal its scratches.

I pretend like I don’t find it beautiful,

like it doesn’t make me sentimental,

like it doesn’t remind me of myself back then.

And I knew what happens to j*rks like me,

and I hoped for serpent to swallow me alive,

Digest my wretched hopes,

Dissolve my pathetic dreams.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it vomited me unprocessed.

Like Cobain, I found friends in my head.

Voices on the wall,

splattered faces on the blue tiles,

A blinking light in the tunnel of their eyes,

watching and judging,

as if they know the fix,

as if they know the answer

to which I keep a blind spot.

You are a washed away watercolour illustration,

once oil painted masterpiece.

A stoned sculpture of a lost m*ther f*cker

Stuck in between poppy graves and star cradle.