Post by Friday on Feb 17, 2006 2:37:55 GMT -5
**Less of a poem and more of a prose.**
You can’t fix a mirror once it shatters, you can glue it back together but you’ll always see the flaws. They only show a reflection of the overused lie, crumbling at the edges. If I cut myself on an edge will I still bleed or is that the final lie, told so you can sleep better at night? Are you laughing still? At the pathetic excuse she gave to justify the ultimate screw up. I can hear her screaming, inside my head, where even the shrinks can’t reach. They pick and pick but some things weren’t made to come undone. They’ll lie to you anyway, say you’re fine when you both know your NOT. You’ll never be fucking fine because you were born this screwed up and that’s the way you’ll die. But they’ll never tell you the truth; the liquid mirror cuts more than the shard and they can’t have you screaming. So they say you’re fine, you’re normal, it’s okay when it will never be okay, you were never normal and you don’t even know what “fine” feels like. Still they pick and pick, pulling at the threads in the hope that one day it will break you enough to feel the artificial calm before the forgotten storm. Eyes itch from the hopelessness of life and I don’t even know why they bother. It’s all a means to an end and no matter who you are you can never be anything but a pawn drained dry, drowning in the blood you desperately gulp down like water. And you say I disgust you! Bugs under the skin that won’t come out, you’ve always been this filthy, but the mirror lied for you. A brain soon to die and a body soon to rot are the answer to the equation you never knew you craved. You say you’re sick of crying and the blood from within but count your blessings that you still have the illusion, because when you finally realize just how insignificant you truly are the fabric will unravel and the shrinks can play with your insides as they hang meekly like Christmas decorations on the cross. And even when they lower that pretty casket into the ground with $200 flowers you’ll never taste you’ll still be weeping, praying that you’re death made you normal and you really are fine now.
You can’t fix a mirror once it shatters, you can glue it back together but you’ll always see the flaws. They only show a reflection of the overused lie, crumbling at the edges. If I cut myself on an edge will I still bleed or is that the final lie, told so you can sleep better at night? Are you laughing still? At the pathetic excuse she gave to justify the ultimate screw up. I can hear her screaming, inside my head, where even the shrinks can’t reach. They pick and pick but some things weren’t made to come undone. They’ll lie to you anyway, say you’re fine when you both know your NOT. You’ll never be fucking fine because you were born this screwed up and that’s the way you’ll die. But they’ll never tell you the truth; the liquid mirror cuts more than the shard and they can’t have you screaming. So they say you’re fine, you’re normal, it’s okay when it will never be okay, you were never normal and you don’t even know what “fine” feels like. Still they pick and pick, pulling at the threads in the hope that one day it will break you enough to feel the artificial calm before the forgotten storm. Eyes itch from the hopelessness of life and I don’t even know why they bother. It’s all a means to an end and no matter who you are you can never be anything but a pawn drained dry, drowning in the blood you desperately gulp down like water. And you say I disgust you! Bugs under the skin that won’t come out, you’ve always been this filthy, but the mirror lied for you. A brain soon to die and a body soon to rot are the answer to the equation you never knew you craved. You say you’re sick of crying and the blood from within but count your blessings that you still have the illusion, because when you finally realize just how insignificant you truly are the fabric will unravel and the shrinks can play with your insides as they hang meekly like Christmas decorations on the cross. And even when they lower that pretty casket into the ground with $200 flowers you’ll never taste you’ll still be weeping, praying that you’re death made you normal and you really are fine now.