Wicked Monday

09 Sep

Bars made of insecurity,  rage and loss, hold him imprisoned in a cell of his own creation. The cold stone beneath his feet, has begun to spread aching coldness through all of his extremities. The time passed can be measured by the ashes of his cigarettes, piling around him like the dreams of what was, and nightmares of what should be. Blood. There is always blood. Purple. There is always purple. Rage and hate and absolution, blur together and cover his nightly visions like a sick mask. He just wants happiness. He just wants the rain to wash away the bars and set him free. Acid rain falls in searing sheets, and he realizes that even this has been corrupted. He screams to no one, yet deep down he begs for someone to hear. In the pit of his conscious, right near the wicked one, something lies. It’s breathing is shallow and it is surrounded by crimson, yet it breathes. It fights still. Because fuck them. Fuck everyone of them watching and patiently waiting for it to die. He decides if it fights, then so must he. Until that withered creature, which is nothing less than the broken remains of his pride, dies… he shall not either. And if it is hate and rage that keeps his frozen heart beating inside his shallow chest… so be it. Love is better than hate. But hate… is better than death.


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Posted by on September 9, 2013 in Paradise Drift


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