Submerged anger.

A childhood of anger veiled beneath the silent whispers of a broken angel.

Today was a bad day; I think so, though for anyone else at the present moment in time it may have been the best day of his or her life. Anywhere around the world, there will be those children, with angles that protrude from their sadness, hidden in a hurt bigger than themselves. Here I am, saying that my pain is worthy of some annoyance. I laugh at myself in ridicule.

I always seem to be laughing at myself, they laughed at me until the pressure cracked the vase and I split into a thousand tiny deadly fragments of a bigger picture, so I turned on myself and laughed. Hysterically until the tears leaked from every crevice, pouring from me in a waterfall of misunderstood solitary.

Don’t judge my disgrace and I shan’t thrust my opinionated problems upon your light-hearted heart, so bright and filled with joy that I daren’t darken it with my sick violence. Her words were the breeding ground for this anger, the further she pushed the harder I fell and slowly, at first without my conscious knowledge, I began to hate the evil thing that grew and spat at me with the forked tongue of the spawn.

When I escaped the place that stank of her abuse, and ran, ran into the arms of the trees an anger wormed its way beneath my breast and blossomed. It bloomed as I recalled the way she killed me, not my physical self but my child. She stole my innocence; I beat upon the imperfections within my soul.

Why must I be the scapegoat for a hatred born and bred within a family of the un-united? I never wanted her tainted touch upon me, I could smell her danger, but when everyone turned to her gloriously misleading radiance, I had nowhere left to run. She tasted the air for weakness and drank my blood greedily.

She tied a noose around my neck but allowed me to make the jump, strange that one so tainted wouldn’t want the taint of murdering innocence upon them. She told me she would teach me, teach me what it meant, what everything wrong with the world meant.

Exposed me, naked cold I shake in the darkness. In her darkness, my moon has faded; he is back, angry seething at my translucent flesh, shame, builds and bubbles forth, it reaches it’s peak and is purged from my disdain. Unnatural sinner, stray from the torment and finish the job. He turns from me, travels up her bones, leather wrapped over illness.

Illness and dirt everywhere: on me, in me, over me. She suffocates me in her devilish sick delight. Close eyes against the disgrace. Don’t want this; don’t want you, please stop. Deserve it, bad, fat silly.

Shake head from side to side, as the mantra continues on. Today was a bad day, was today a bad day? Her hands pinch, force, thrust and whip. Tears spread with my confusion. I don’t understand, what did I do wrong?

Too weak, too fat, too deep, hits my cheek, no shock, look down as words infect eardrums and cause deafness. Silence, her lips move my eyes roll back. The floor embraces me with welcome arms; I know its cold embrace won’t penetrate me. Won’t ask of me the things I know are wrong yet no not the reasons. She makes me dirty; I let her make me feel dirty.

Stare into the mirror, the reflection warps, I see you in there, tiny worm of destruction. I won’t let you out, you won’t change my image again, and no marks of evidence shall streak through the unconsciousness of my open sky. Don’t make me hurt you; I’ll carve you out of myself. Smile a wicked deranged smile. You wont escape me.

I know you, I recognise your voice. Does it belong to me? This enriched sophistication? Can I have it please? Touch your shining light. Burning in its brightness, it leaves trails of revulsion upon my nauseating desolation, hiss at the delightful agony of something beautiful. I’m too far-gone; the other side holds more power over me now.

I want to obliterate myself, my mind is already ruined my body scarred with a perfect measurement of blackness. Erase this stupid blemish from the earth. What use am I but for those things that cause society to turn up their plastic noses.

Obscenity springs forth from wounds, they leap and dance to spiral onto a floor of woes, they, angered in their plight wish to seek the on who took my joy. Hush, hush my inner children, lie beside me on the forest floor and let me hold you to my breast. Do not insist on shouting to be heard, your silence and haunting eyes tell more than words could ever portray. Your paralleling emotions convey the suicide you wish you held within your timid grasp.

Hush now my sweet child, with your innocent head placed on my silent heart you breathe the life I wanted to protect, I shall lay beside you until the time comes for us to join our stone brothers.

Take my hand and I will lead you the way, leaves shall fall upon our grave to colour the controversy. A misunderstood victim of perfection’s grasp: so weak, so small. Lay your heart to rest within the coffin of secrets. We shall grasp the stories of the beginning. Your light shines within me; I kept it all these years, though I continuously went up against the whip and the blade.

Within me, I held the candle aflame, wishing I could turn their marks of deliberate mortification into ones of ethereal serenity. To look upon serenity, the whispers of my handiwork scratch the surface of serenity. Help me up; lend me a hand.

I can’t do this anymore, I can’t take the weight of the world, of your world, everything spins faster and faster but I have been left behind to fall into the darkness and become a shadow. Invisible to those that live within the world surrounding, I am lower than the lowest, I can’t pick myself up from the grime and humiliation. I purge myself of sickness and ingest the insanity of a reality born within the asylums.

It is so hard to comprehend the ideology put to us through the superficial regime of day-to-day life, whilst we are surrounded and swamped by the work that bends us to the will of a hundred defeatists. Every pointless task thrust upon our fragile boundaries pushes to the edge of breaking. Fall into a spiral of hatred directed at those that dictate to us what our future shall consist of, and it is a bleak discovery.

Every lie of the feeling of having free will is quickly burst through the canon of deceit to rain down upon those of us in chains below. The freedom we are said to hold is the freedom given to us by the government. They manipulate it into what they believe is right and give it back. A warped version of its honest and raw self. The freedom of speech, is not freedom if what comes from the mouth is shot down by those in power above you because it goes against their own opinionated beliefs on how the world should be viewed.

I see them glance at these scars with a mixture of disgust and intrigue, they want to place me beneath the microscope of human nature and discover what makes me do the things I do. They shall steal me away in the night and never return me until they have hollowed me out and replaced me with a different alter ego that matches their boxes. No longer, have the knowledge of what the individual stands for. I hold no originality. Not any more, but deep down I know it still resides within me despite their desperate attacks upon it.

They tried to take away myself, like I did, try to create a perfection from an already distorted persona of self. You can’t create perfection with a medium, or perhaps you can. Is the definition of an artist someone who creates beauty or someone who can manipulate anything they are given into a creation of awe-inspiring devotion?
I wonder, can an artist hold within his or her hand any instrument through which to create with and make perfection?

Can an author be given any subject and write a powerful novel upon it? I think so, or, I would like to think so by any rate. I have a fear running through me, it is alive and it is desperate. I have a desire running through me, and if I submerge myself, it will destroy me.

Reviews

[cartera]

A piece that affected me emotionally and also made me think. It is very well-written; there is no recourse to detailed description to bring the reader onside, the atmosphere you create in these paragraphs is enpough for the reader to feel the pain. The more intellectual argument at the end of the piece re self and artistic possibility is thought provoking. I emapthise completely with work that bends us to the will of the defeatists.
Excellent stuff. I hope you got rid of a lot of anger in here.
ATB
Alex.

[Nimbus Thread]

"I wonder, can an artist hold within his or her hand any instrument threw (through) which to create with and make perfection?"

An excellent write! The above quote is a timeless question all artists have asked ,and grappled with ...still do. Your pace, and imagery is eloquent, and nurturing to this reader. A self diagnosis of a writer seeking to free the bounds of doubt and doubters through art. Whether art is ever perfect this is up to the beholder's interpretation. Ah, but the chase by the artist is what keeps him/her alive and viable. I must read this again. This is an inspiring write. The best I've come across in while! Keep at it.

And thank you for joining Surreal-zine! Looking forward to your inspired writes. : )