03-03-2017, 11:48 AM
Note: I wrote this with performance in mind, but I want to see how it stands up alone. So keep that in mind if something doesn't make sense.
Also, sorry for the length. Obviously you don't have to go over all of it, but this was just something I was passionate about.
Are we alone in this world?
Maybe...
Lonely isn't proclaimed a room created with brick and mortar,
but brink and mourning.
It’s not a room that you built rather signed;
A familiarity contract.
With patented cursive letters,
Written with red ink and watermarked;
With your tears.
They sold to you these ridiculed bars as,
Independent cul-de-sac fantasy;
There lies within these contractual lines,
Unwritten history.
Your soul peer’s through the skin and bones to find it,
Distinct from owning desperate,
Hollow eyes.
The fine print lies; up ahead...
The room you have now is painted white.
The key to escape is camouflaged in eggshell shades.
But focus for only two seconds it holds something,
There is a note.
It reads this.
This key hides somewhere before your death;
As well as the top right corner of the room.
Where Anxiety and depression converse as equals;
The room’s corners hold no differences; only axis coordinates and jest.
But voices you have created still dwell; Somewhere in that ominous distance;
Getting rid of the voices get rid of the pain...
Is lonely a number?
Maybe...
But the room morphs, it’s grown into;
What I thought life was,
Through the window of normal;
As I pinned the tail,
On clickbait thumbnails;
Toxins and waste they described as,
Fresher air;
They will soon begin to sell it to you;
But hell,
That could never happen.
I saw the Lorax in theaters silly.
The number grows all I see is either,
With no depth perceived;
Or maybe,
Kaleidoscopes scattered with color's unexplained.
Even if this room changes it's shading,
Throughout time and space, still yet;
It would grow so sincerely empty,
With no room to call home.
With no knickknacks to call sentiment.
With no sin to call kin.
No sake, just life and death...
Can sanity be measured, maybe?
Though if I think it’s easy being green,
I will surely become queasily sighted;
Translucent mirrors have created my ego.
The more color I gave,
The more it was labeled as misbehavior,
Until I believed my essence to be black and white;
Grey rain always poured on new year’s yesterday.
The murals I created were my only escape,
Until I was fed up with modern art;
I like the color purple, god damn it!
They didn’t like the color purple.
I failed to copy others doodling;
I missed too many spots and colored my own lines.
They started questioning if my purple was a sane shade;
Hatred through purple was evident in some others,
But empathy was never drawn on by the likes of them;
Inside they had thickly clotted blood red of intentions dwelling, but I ask now,
Who’s grey now, bigoted connoisseur! I know your weakness!
You have drove me crazy, but I’ll drive you down a dim lighted path,
At least I have stimulation to keep me company!
Oh for goodness sake;
What does the note read?
...
I’m sorry.
That my friend,
Is a question that I don’t hold any solid answer too.
Why can you not find one?
I can only take the words you give me!
You read in tongues and cliche;
In sensation.
Words never forming from the origin.
But fear not.
You may perform the actions correctly;
However indifferent.
How is all this so!
I can't win this war at any rate!
It is tempting to throw away the question,
And draw treaty to blissful ignorance.
Or start wars with answers and claim that,
The war was won through one respectable battle.
So remember this.
Independence day was fought tirelessly,
Through numbers of sane,
lonely soldiers.
How do I march into battle?
If I were to take a shot in the awkwardly lit hallway,
The words that split the page in bold print would be,
Medication:
And perspective…
This room that contains me
Has no walls
Also, sorry for the length. Obviously you don't have to go over all of it, but this was just something I was passionate about.
Are we alone in this world?
Maybe...
Lonely isn't proclaimed a room created with brick and mortar,
but brink and mourning.
It’s not a room that you built rather signed;
A familiarity contract.
With patented cursive letters,
Written with red ink and watermarked;
With your tears.
They sold to you these ridiculed bars as,
Independent cul-de-sac fantasy;
There lies within these contractual lines,
Unwritten history.
Your soul peer’s through the skin and bones to find it,
Distinct from owning desperate,
Hollow eyes.
The fine print lies; up ahead...
The room you have now is painted white.
The key to escape is camouflaged in eggshell shades.
But focus for only two seconds it holds something,
There is a note.
It reads this.
This key hides somewhere before your death;
As well as the top right corner of the room.
Where Anxiety and depression converse as equals;
The room’s corners hold no differences; only axis coordinates and jest.
But voices you have created still dwell; Somewhere in that ominous distance;
Getting rid of the voices get rid of the pain...
Is lonely a number?
Maybe...
But the room morphs, it’s grown into;
What I thought life was,
Through the window of normal;
As I pinned the tail,
On clickbait thumbnails;
Toxins and waste they described as,
Fresher air;
They will soon begin to sell it to you;
But hell,
That could never happen.
I saw the Lorax in theaters silly.
The number grows all I see is either,
With no depth perceived;
Or maybe,
Kaleidoscopes scattered with color's unexplained.
Even if this room changes it's shading,
Throughout time and space, still yet;
It would grow so sincerely empty,
With no room to call home.
With no knickknacks to call sentiment.
With no sin to call kin.
No sake, just life and death...
Can sanity be measured, maybe?
Though if I think it’s easy being green,
I will surely become queasily sighted;
Translucent mirrors have created my ego.
The more color I gave,
The more it was labeled as misbehavior,
Until I believed my essence to be black and white;
Grey rain always poured on new year’s yesterday.
The murals I created were my only escape,
Until I was fed up with modern art;
I like the color purple, god damn it!
They didn’t like the color purple.
I failed to copy others doodling;
I missed too many spots and colored my own lines.
They started questioning if my purple was a sane shade;
Hatred through purple was evident in some others,
But empathy was never drawn on by the likes of them;
Inside they had thickly clotted blood red of intentions dwelling, but I ask now,
Who’s grey now, bigoted connoisseur! I know your weakness!
You have drove me crazy, but I’ll drive you down a dim lighted path,
At least I have stimulation to keep me company!
Oh for goodness sake;
What does the note read?
...
I’m sorry.
That my friend,
Is a question that I don’t hold any solid answer too.
Why can you not find one?
I can only take the words you give me!
You read in tongues and cliche;
In sensation.
Words never forming from the origin.
But fear not.
You may perform the actions correctly;
However indifferent.
How is all this so!
I can't win this war at any rate!
It is tempting to throw away the question,
And draw treaty to blissful ignorance.
Or start wars with answers and claim that,
The war was won through one respectable battle.
So remember this.
Independence day was fought tirelessly,
Through numbers of sane,
lonely soldiers.
How do I march into battle?
If I were to take a shot in the awkwardly lit hallway,
The words that split the page in bold print would be,
Medication:
And perspective…
This room that contains me
Has no walls