Ira

I am the living eulogy of a dream that died at my conception, I am the vessel where every hope is poured, Only to leak through the cracks of my own inadequacy. I am an architect of shadows, Drafted in the ink of regrets. I am the perpetual apology for a life I never asked to lead, I am the glitch in the lineage, The static between the notes of a perfect symphony. I am a ghost in the presence of their idols, A blurred reflection held against the sharpened edges of those who succeeded. I am told I lack the heat of a distant sun, They only critique the shore, But never honor the one drowning to keep it dry, If they dared to descend into the wreckage, They would find a desperate perfection, They see a stagnant surface, not the underwater thrashing of my heart, I spent my life constructing a sanctuary of 'yes' and 'enough,' My quietness is not peace, it is the white-knuckle silence of a war I am losing against myself , And to them? I am merely the architect of a ruin, A child whose only legacy is the disappointment of not being the monument they envisioned. I am the child of a debt that can never be settled, I'm a ghost who haunts the periphery of a love, always trying to earn, but never allowed to own.

My pectoral vault stifles a cerulean Sovereign currently demanding it's externalized validity. Yet my internal constitution remains an impenetrable hegemony, Maintain your internal coordinates; I shall permit no external ocular breach of this perimeter. My pectoral vault stifles a cerulean Sovereign currently demanding it's externalized validity. I deluge it's form with fermented distillates, Inundate my passage with the carbonized essence of nicotine, Neither the nocturnal mercenaries, the libation technicians, nor the custodial staff of commerce can discern the cerulean anomaly within my structure. My pectoral vault stifles a cerulean Sovereign currently demanding it's externalized validity. Yet my internal constitution remains an impenetrable hegemony, I say, Remain dormant; Are you determined to orchestrate a catastrophic disruption of my existential composure? Do you truly seek to decommission my professional odyssey before inaugural acceleration? My pectoral vault stifles a cerulean Sovereign currently demanding it's externalized validity, However, my cognitive acuity is superlative; I permit its externalization only under the cover of nocturnal opacity when observation is at its nadir. I issue a formal directive prohibition it's dependency, Citing my own formidable presence as the ultimate stabilizer.

I have bled too much, Too much into the soil of this existence , To let you dismiss it as a phantom’s sleep, If my life is but a dream, Then tell me Why does the phantom weep?" The heart withers in the quiet, A ghost of its own making. Life is a cruel permanence, I am trapped for real, I'm forced to carry this heartbeat like a cross long after I have lost the strength to walk. Let the clay dissolve, I surrender my body gladly, But I can not mistake this for an end, The only thing I can not kill? Is my soul, The only part I cannot offer up? Is my soul, It stays awake, An immortal witness to the ruin of everything I once loved. We were never promised the mercy of a destination, Nor the dignity of a final tear. Our path is a colorless void, And, I am sacrificed not to a cause, But to a relentless, Unfeeling, 'Becoming', That neither loves nor pities my exhausted heart. Progress is but a wider gap between the heart and its healing, I move forward not to reach a goal, But to ensure that the 'me', who survived today is buried by the 'me' who must endure tomorrow. The masterpiece of my misery is eternal, While the seconds of my life bleed away like water through trembling fingers, And this heart? This stubborn, Cursed muscle, continues its brave, Blind rhythm, Like a drum echoing in the hollow of my chest. If I must fall, Let it be as a martyr to my own feeling, A broken 'hero' who chose to bleed out, With eyes wide open, Rather than survive in the silent, soulless safety of the blind, The ghosts of the 'great' do not offer me hope, They offer a mirror to my own inevitable erasure.

My internal landscape is populated by a myriad of divergent personas, Certain manifestations of my ego have successfully navigated their exodus, whereas others endure a forced sequestration, While one segment of my identity faces the entropic decay of a pathless wasteland, another is undergoing a forced liquidation within the unfathomable currents of an oceanic void, While certain facets of my persona offer a transparent interface for public consumption, other dimensions remain shrouded in an impenetrable, high-latency obscurity. Selected facets of my consciousness remain unacknowledged masters of the written word, though we occasionally evolve beyond the medium.... to inhabit the quintessential form of the aesthetic itself, While one segment of my identity offers a pharmacological salvation or an irrevocable condemnation, Another constitutes a terminal anomaly that transcends the boundaries of modern remedial science Certain iterations of my consciousness persist as suppressed inquiries, too profound for articulation, while others manifest as abrasive axioms that brook no further intellectual dissent, Certain factions of my psyche manifest the lupine audacity of an apex predator, while a residual collective suffers a primordial trepidation when confronted by the total absence of photonic clarity. While my consciousness occasionally culminates in a state of incandescent stellar fusion, certain internal iterations remain as singular, incandescent embers, lacking only the catalyst for a total systemic conflagration, Certain internal iterations possess the thermal inertia of a monolithic glacial mass, whereas a secondary collective remains in a state of pre-combustive potential, While our default orientation is characterized by an enduring, static presence, our eventual withdrawal constitutes a permanent ontological erasure. rendering any subsequent restoration a logical impossibility. My internal landscape is populated by a myriad of divergent personas, Selected iterations of my psyche occupy a state of superficial visibility, yet the vast majority of my essence is entombed within an abyssal vault, Selected facets of my persona are accessible to the common observer, whereas the foundational architecture of my being is protected by a level of cryptographic complexity that currently eludes my own high-clearance scrutiny.

When the world you spent a lifetime building is unmade by a grief so vast it has no shore, When the things you loved most are pulled from your white-knuckled grip by a current that doesn't care for your screams, When the silence grows heavy where voices used to be, When your spirit begins to break under the sheer, relentless volume of the loss, whisper to the hollow space in your chest. 'Let it take what it must.Even this shadow is a ghost that cannot stay" When the relentless machinery of living has finally ground your joy into dust, When the melody that once defined you has been choked into a hollow, aching silence, When you find yourself staring into the dark, When your hands are too heavy to reach out and your tongue too weary to even whisper for help, In that gray twilight, Where you are too broken to ask for mercy, whisper to the hollow space in your chest. 'Let it take what it must Even this shadow is a ghost that cannot stay" When the light is so gold it blinds you, When the air is thick with the sweet, lying perfume of a joy that feels eternal when your heart is so heavy with laughter that you forget the weight of the earth tread softly upon the heights. whisper to the hollow space in your chest. Let it take what it must, Even this shadow is a ghost that cannot stay. When the world finally screams your name until the air is thick with your own myth, When those you once looked up to as gods now bow their heads to your shadow, When you stand upon the summit of your own making, draped in the heavy, freezing velvet of greatness, Look down at your hands, See the ghosts of the years you traded for this moment of light. Offer up your pride as a final, agonizing sacrifice. As the sun sets on the grandest chapter of your life, Whisper to the silence that remains when the clapping stops, I have climbed to the stars only to find they are cold. Even this light is a lie told to the dark,even my name is a word the earth will eventually forget how to speak. It is the final, agonizing mystery, That even in the hollowed-out shell of your despair, whisper to the hollow space in your chest. Let it take what it must, Even this shadow is a ghost that cannot stay.

My 'everything' has become a currency that no longer buys success, I am bankrupt in the one place I used to be king. I am being measured by a yardstick that doesn't account for how tired my soul is, The world calls it 'potential,' but to me? it just feels like a debt I can no longer pay. Instruction is for everyone, but encouragement? That's a private currency I don't possess. I have become a still-life of my own grief, They look at me not to see who I am, But to find where I’ve fallen short.... Their gaze is a cold chisel, Carving their disappointment into the stone of my skin, I became the curator of a life that does not belong to me. I killed the version of me that was happy, just so they could be proud of the version of me.... That is empty! I am drowning in a sea of ink, Gasping for a shore that has nothing to do with numbers or names. My spirit is weeping for a horizon, They’ve forbidden me to see.

It is a choir singing in a burning cathedral, Holy and horrific all at once, I am drowning in the stillness of it, Finding a terrible peace in the very thing that consumes me. A celestial fever dream where every glimmer of light is a needle, Every shadow is a sanctuary. I am a monument of meat and bone, Performing the choreography of the living so the world doesn't have to mourn me yet, I move through the crowd like a whisper in a storm, Unheard, Untouched, Utterly adrift. My heart beats only out of habit, A rhythmic reminder of a life I no longer have the map to find. I am a cut flower in a crystal vase, Bright enough to deceive the eye, Drinking from a well that ran dry long ago, I mimic the tilt of the head, The curve of a smile, The cadence of a 'hello,' but beneath the ribs, There is only the quiet, suffocating dust of a person who stayed behind in a memory. I am a cathedral of hushed tragedies, I am weary of guarding the doors alone. I crave a soul brave enough to sit in the pews of my devastation, Not to light a candle or offer a prayer, But to simply exist within the shadows of what I cannot say, There is no 'I' in the way I ache for you, Only a hollow space where my pride used to be. I have stripped myself of every defense, every boundary, and every selfish instinct until I am nothing but a raw, pulsing nerves of affection. I am a translator for a God who only speaks in shadows and departures., My pen is the only scalpel that can find the pulse beneath the numbness, I must cut myself open daily just to prove there is still blood in the veins, To write is to perform an autopsy on my own heart while it is still beating, A desperate, beautiful cruelty that is the only proof I haven't turned to stone.

I’m just standing here, In a house that doesn't know my name anymore, I look down at my hands, The same hands that held everyone else together, And they’re shaking because they’re empty, It’s not just that it’s quiet, It’s that the silence feels like it’s swallowing me, Even my own shadow seems to have walked away, Bored of waiting for me to matter. I’m bleeding out from wounds I gave myself Just to keep others warm, And the worst part isn't the pain, It’s that I’m screaming and everyone is just adjusting the volume. I used to write my dreams on these walls, When they were still clean, Back when I thought effort was enough to change things, Now, I just watch the paint flake off in the dark, And it feels like watching my own skin peel away. I wake up and my first thought is an apology, Apology for still being here, Every morning is just a loud, Bright reminder that I have to do it all over again, Carry this body around like a rental car, I can’t afford to keep, But can't return. I look in the mirror and I don’t see a person; I see a history of sacrifices that didn't matter, I'm still breathing, But I’ve been gone for a long time, I actually went outside and screamed at nothing, I stood there, Making a fool of myself under a sky, That didn't even have the decency to rain, I was begging for a reason, Any tiny, Pathetic sign that I wasn't just screaming into a vacuum, The stars just sat there, Cold and indifferent, Looking at me like I was some intruder in my own life. So I went back inside, Looked at what was left, I tried to find some deep, hidden meaning in the mess I’ve made, Picking through the jagged pieces of everything I’ve broken. But there’s no epiphany, There’s no 'lesson.' It’s just me, I’m staring at a reflection that’s so fractured, tired. I don't even recognize the eyes anymore. I’m just a stranger who’s been bullied by his own heart for way too long. It wasn’t a dramatic exit, My feelings didn’t scream on the way out, They just slipped away like everyone else did, Leaving the door wide open and the lights on. Now I’m just this empty, drafty thing! A hollowed-out skin suit that still has to remember how to breathe, Even though the air feels like lead in my lungs. I try to remember what love felt like, But it’s like trying to remember the plot of a movie I saw once when I was five, I know it happened, But I don’t believe in it anymore, My joy didn’t just fade, It corroded, It turned into that bitter, taste in the back of your throat, when you’ve been crying for so long that your eyes finally just… Quit. I’m standing over my own grave, and I can’t even find the tears to mourn the person I used to be. The end? I actually went looking for it. I didn't do it with dignity, I did it like a beggar, Reaching out for the dark because it was the only thing that felt like it might finally hold me. I wanted the silence to be a mercy, But it felt like the universe just looked at me and laughed, It’s like I’m not even worth the dirt it would take to cover me up. If this kind of silence had a color, I’d be submerged in it, I’d be drowning in the sheer, Violent weight of everything I never said, But the universe doesn't give you that kind of release, Instead, the sun comes up, My eyes open. I have to face the absolute horror of a new day, I’m forced to inhabit a life, I’ve already finished with. I’m still here, Being a person, When every part of me is screaming that I should have been gone ages ago. I’m caught in this sick, Middle ground, Where I’m too hollowed-out to be considered 'alive,' but my heart keeps beating anyway Just to spite me. I’m too exhausted to have a single dream left in my head, Yet I’m cursed with enough consciousness to feel every second of the daylight. I’m a ghost that still has to pay, I’m a corpse that still feels the cold, I am simply... stuck.

I gave the world a version of me I couldn't afford to lose, And now? I have arrived with nothing left for myself, Without warning, The architecture of my mind collapsed, Pinning me beneath the weight of my own thoughts. I am a prisoner in a cell where the walls are made of my own memories, I have lost the strength to even scream for the key. The world became a choir, All screaming at once, And I swallowed my own tongue, To keep the chaos from spilling out of me. I escaped the room only to be trapped in the replay, Each heartbeat is a question, Did I ruin it? Did they see me trembling? Did they see me suffocating? Did they see me suffering? Andd....... I try to turn up the music, To drown out The sound of my own soul shivering, But? The panic is a ghost that doesn't need ears to be heard. The world has become a map of scars, Every face, Reminding me of what I’ve lost, Every street, A ghost of who I was, I tried to find the words to explain the ache, That turned to ash in the heat of my throat, I built a cathedral of strength., For people to find shelter in, Not knowing, The walls were to be made of my own brittle bones.