The
best of the liars are the ones who claim with their lips that they cannot be
believed in their tale of deceit, they giggle and laugh and every person knows
that they speak truthfully. But they are wrong. Because spite flows from the
tips of the DNA’s roots in the solid mass called a brain. A thirst for the
truth and a mouth spewing lies.
It is
a twisted and backwards path to weave, just to pull in each person and make
them believe that they are the only reason you pay attention to the world. That
you could not possible fathom hurting them, when really it is all a scheme, not
a nightmare but a dream, where you pull bits and pieces of each human and take
what they give you and play with it. Like play dough. Holy mother of pearl you
are a children’s toy, meant to be meddled with, ultimately destroyed, so play
with the pieces and perform the final scene, make everyone think your brain is
calm and serene. Then start the fire.
Become
a pyro. Play chess using minds as pieces. Find some inked teardrops on faces in
the crow’s feet of exhaustion and maybe move on and discover they hold the
answers to all of the whys.
Curiosity
once killed a cat so sorry dear felines but there is about to be a massacre. A
full blown escapade into the psychotic. Anxiety, insomnia. Breathe, in out,
heart beat, now breathe again. Remember, act normal and smile and talk hug this
person and that and hold someone’s hand while you say that you care when you
don’t and you won’t and it’s not that you wouldn’t but you can’t. Call it a
disorder but maybe that’s the disease. Look it straight in the eye and be
honest. Something is wrong. Normal functions the things that come easily to
others seem needless and unnecessary just a piece in the game you’re too tired
to pretend to play their version, when yours is so much better.
Scariest
of all compare yourself to the hated and find the similarities the glaring
monstrosity of a scar that cannot be hidden forever; the Grand Canyon doesn’t
have enough space, so maybe the universe doesn’t either.
Wrong,
all wrong, what’s wrong? Nothing, fine, unknown, tired, overworked, exhausted. More
like not knowing what right feels like, how happiness feels on your tongue and
soars through your heart, wait for the inevitable as the wave crashes and home
is in the pages of a book to be burned because your character may have figured
things out but comfort never came.
There
is a glitch in the system, lights flicker and go out. Some say the problem is
your light is too dim, not enough serotonin. Others say you have too many
lights to manage; they conflict and overlap causing more shadows than spots of
clarity. Still another may say your light burns too bright.
Maybe
the itty bitty details matter for the label on the clouded bottle filled with
fluff and plastic spheres, but it all comes down to the empty. Eyes that look
like the shark has seen blood, don’t match the expression on the painted face.
Don’t believe a soul you cannot see. Try to read the imposed imperfections and
every little guess is wrong, or maybe it is right, no one is even sure anymore.
What is and what isn’t is an invalid argument when you cannot describe the
problem.
There
is a glitch in the system.
So
lungs breathe, heartbeat, foot tap, leg jump, wrists twist, head burns, eyes
blink, and mouth smile.
Accept
the lie in hopes of hearing the blood flowing in the background. Gray bleak
skies are magic.
Bad
days hold truth in their rock bottom pits. Somewhere there is the bit of glass
that reflects happiness, all you have to do is find the shards and fit them
together. Some say it takes years, others days, some say lifetimes. Maybe this
one just isn’t it. But next time, I promise.
