it’s fascinating how hands can simultaneously bring about surreal beauty and catastrophic destruction.
these hands i beheld in a contemplative state created tragic beauty, converting unpalatable thoughts into words that reeked of pain, with a hint of poetic merit all for holding together my crumbling sanity.
but that was a time of the past.
these hands were also the very same hands that brought upon my downfall; the same hands that turned nectar to poison.
fascinating, no? fascinating how the thing that brought me immense joy was the source of my descent into darkness.
and now, they’re merely a vessel; a chalice to contain the flood of tears bound to spill over the rim. a chalice for someone who lost their purpose.
all because a pair of multifingered appendages were gifted to the wrong person.
"You are the wizard of your own world. Your thoughts arrange your universe.
Thoughts are sometimes hijacked by another's dark sorcery, and through a series of unfortunate life events, you were taught that you're worthless, unlovable, and unskilled, an object to be desired and acquired, used for labor and flavor then tossed away to repent, and these thoughts feel like they became a part of you.
They were placed there by evil-minded conjurers who aim to steal your light and break your spirit so they can sell you their solutions. They want to make you their self-fulfilling prophecy, illusionists profiting off of your inner anguish. But there is a way to get your light back that requires no pay.
Self-hate is a powerful, pricey potion, but self-love is a homebrew far more potent. It is a radical move of psychological rebellion, a rejection of conditioning. It is magic. Magic that you don't have, but magic that you are. You and it are interchangeable.
You can shuffle the cards and shift the stars. You can find the strength to shoot fireworks from your fingertips. This world may beat you down, but the magic lies in what you think of yourself amidst the bloody humiliation, and how you get up afterwards. How you spit out the spite, and become your own antidote. How there are still fireworks brewing in those fingers, and how no murky curses can snuff out your potential to set the sky alight... How whenever they try, it only gives your hands more strength.
"Truth is never recognized until the truth teller dies. Genius, seen as insufferable 'til it is gifted to the pearly gates. The angels are just more appreciative.
The humans with tractable minds left behind will insist they "saw it all along." It's always the people that didn't who feel the need to say this. They are comfortable now because the person is no longer around to confess, "You never listened to me." Honestly.
People won't see what they don't want to see, but reality doesn't bend to their fickle, feeble needs. Wether we like it or not, the truth is still the truth. The genius is still going to outlandishly express it. Why don't people WANT to touch genius? Why is the truth too much for them? I think they are simply unnerved. Nothing can disturb the webs of illusion they've woven for themselves.
Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. Sylvia Plath. A confessional poet. Frustrations of life ended up in death. Works were filled with alienation, death,frustration etc. She had attempted to committ suicide three times and was successful in her third attempt. If she was still alive she would have turned 86 today. Anyway its Your Day ❤❤❤❤ #bday #poetess #confessional poetry