Sweet Lunacy… A Sonnet

Oh, how joyous are these bare, open wounds,

The sweet red from mutilated flesh.

So luscious in the glowing full moon,

As the soul departs to take a rest.

He howls loudly as he begs releasement.

But I whip him, uncaring of his pleas.

Soon his flesh will rot––I laugh––and the dent

Placed I, crushing into a pulp his knees

To end, he cries for fear and agony,

As I plunge my blade into his center.

Soon his entrails will spill in the alley,

Which are soon to be my tasty dinner.

I reach down to grab and snag a few bites,

And carry on my nice, quiet, dark nights.

Eyes On Fire

As days turn to night,
And nights back to day,
Blackness floods the sight,
Vision fades away,
Leaving you behind.
Blinded.

Pain sears through the eyes,
Blazing hot as ice,
Slowly passing by,
As you dive into
The ethereal.

Running, losing yourself,
You see beyond body,
Beyond light,
And into the face of Black.


Tell me what you think! <3

Home

The first things you see, as you enter his domain

are the scratch marks that line the walls. Each one tells

of a heartbreak, a painful day, a broken promise.

Next is blue, the color painted on the walls

Not soothing, not serene, it's a cage of control with

bonds that scathe from a struggle for freedom

Books tip the shelves––the colorful children's tales and

those of a darker sort, filled with rape scenes and lustful fantasies––

screaming of the future, shouting out to be read.

Sometimes, you can almost hear them in the silence of Dead Night,

that hour where the whole world sleeps––the whole world without

that revolting child. But who cares? He's just another ant,

one of a billion, just waiting to be shred by the mower.

The half-smiles in photos seem out of place

amidst this other world––this room on the other side of life––

where tears become a mark of joy, and smiles become

nothing but an idea, lost and never to be found again.

The unkempt bed, the piles of clothing, textbooks, trash, and jewelry,

all drenched in blood or tears, just further the story

of a twisted childhood, riddled with attempts of murder,

of a thousand lies that haunt memories forever,

of a loneliness from a lack of anyone who cared,

of a meaningless existence without hope of escape,

of a loss of any care once had for a messy room or for happiness or even for life itself.

But who cares? A death would be insignificant.

And behind the childhood mementos that everyone keeps––

That's where he keeps it all, just in case those two,

whose names he's inscribed on the walls, on the desk, on paper,

and carved into his wrist, his ankle, and his hand, should ever disappear

and leave him behind.

I would really, REALLY, appreciate some thoughts!

C'est La Vie (Such is Life)

What's wrong?

Surely you know

All of it.

Every little scrap

Of your being.

You're feeling like

You're going down.

All your wishes

Just falling short,

Every night.

Every day.

Stop it––

Just stop.

Stop wanting to die.

Stop hiding in shells.

Stop all the flooding

Of your deepest fears,

Of your primal urges.

Shudder to a stop.

End it all.

Love hurts, doesn't it?

Like a blade, buried

Within your chest.

Like a hot iron, pressed

To your temple.

You'd think,

With all that pain,

You'd stop.

But you can't–– You're

Addicted.

You push

You pull

It's a fight

To exist

Resisting,

Conceding,

Controlling,

Letting go.

Smiling,

Crying,

Sniffling,

Sobbing.

That's it.

That's how it ends.

You see,

That's all I want––

Tori.

Tell me what you think! 'cause I'm a crazy person who wants to know such things.

A Montage to Love

Well, here it is... A montage to love––written over three years, and pieced together today.

Enjoy!

"There is something that entices me. It stops all thoughts in my head."

"It is my artwork––beautiful, and dark. When all else fails, it makes me smile."

"It tells a tale––how to live, how to love."

"It feels like a dream."

"It ends the pain, and fuels the fire."

"It swells in me––I must fight it. I must fight the flood. But as it leaves me, I realize: I must embrace it."

“Fear them, love them, hate them, embrace them."

"I long for the touch of humanity."

"I seek no more, and no less, than to be free from the suffering of loneliness."

"My wish to be touched, to be heard, to be felt, to be seen, and not to live as I do––alone."

"I yearn for your touch, however cold it may be. My blood burns in wait of your whips. Hit me, hurt me, burn me, stab me. I want all that you have to offer.

How sweet, how painful, how loving..."

"I was nothing to you––nothing but a tiny link to hold you in place. Only ever a rock––a pebble––in your world."

“Those three words.”

"Lies, lies, all lies! Everywhere I turn––everywhere I go, I can hear them!"

"But we were attached because of our lies."

"The voices in my head scream at me––they tell me I should not have gotten so close."

"I was alone––a useless vessel––left behind after my purpose had been served."

"Nobody could love me."

"I wanted just one person to accept me for all I was, and forgive me for all I wasn't."

"Is there anyone who can stop my pain, and hold onto me?"

"Is life worth living without another beside you, to care for you always, and be cared for in return?"

"In each hand, I hold a piece of me, for I am torn. In my left have I placed my heart, in my right, my mind.

Should I choose my left, baring my heart for all to see, will I find my one true love?"

"My only wish, now that I have chosen my destiny, is for another to walk by my side as I journey... And when she claims me, I shall be no other's."

"I did not care in how many places I was torn. I did not mind the pain of my past. I was in love, and that was all that mattered."

"I love her. I love her, but cannot have her"

"I feel the need––the need to taste flesh."

"Biting into her... her blood pouring through my lips..."

"I feel what there is to feel... A jolt of life, of love, of happiness."

"My flesh aches for the sweet tinge of pain."

"Stab me. Slit my wrist. Break my bones. Burn my flesh. Bite me. Shoot me. Punch me. Kick me... I need pain."

"I needed to be hurt, or else I would never truly feel alive––loved."

"The knowledge that it would not last brought pain to me even as I stood side-by-side with her. Every moment I was away from her, I could see her in my mind––still as a statue.

Even as I slept, I felt pain, for I knew she would grow tired of me. And if, by the goddess, she did not, time was short, and did not last."

"I fear there will not be another day; I pray that there will."

"If there's one thing I wish, it's to be with her and never leave her side."

"But she was in love with another, and to hope that other disappeared was a selfish wish. It would mean the loss of her other half, and she would never be truly happy again.”

“To live for love? To die for loss?

I close my eyes to dream, my heart pounding in my ears.”

"There is a thought––love.”

"It was too much for me to leave behind."

"The knowledge that if I crossed, I would never see her again, stopped me at the edge."

"I find myself smiling...”

"Love is the cause of my suffering, but love is also what keeps my heart beating. Because I would do anything for those that I love.

I would die for them.

But more importantly, I would live for them."

"To love is to kill your heart."

“We live, we love, we hate, we hurt... It is a vicious cycle that will never end."

'I love you.'

Why does such a small combination of words cause so much trouble? How does it convey enough emotion that people will die-–or live-–over it?

What is love? Just a concept-–an idea. It represents so much that cannot be spoken. Yet, to say it, to express these feelings, why use the shortest number of words-–words that mean nothing?

It can be given; it can be taken. This is what love is. It can be broken, or even stolen. Yet we put our lives in its hands––into the hands of a lie.

Love is dark, mysterious, conditional, conceited, and often faux. Still, we strive for it––we believe in it. All our lives, we are conditioned to live by its laws-–victims to its snares and easy pickings to the vultures that circle above. And for what?

To be hurt, misled, maimed, tortured... There is no other way, when you bare your soul for someone. There is no other ending when your gruesome, corrupt, and injured self is showing.

Just look in a mirror-–look hard, and you shall see it.

You will stare right through yourself… See the pain, and not think twice before you look away.

This is love. Is it worth it?

Thanks to Aphrael for the photo.

Chapter 1

Well, here is Chapter 1. Please tell me what you think!

The first day was perhaps the worst of them all. It started with a pair of handcuffs, and ended with a straitjacket and a padded cell.

“Alright, get up!” my police escort shouted––I had learned his name was Tim during my night’s stay at the station.

I opened my eyes and glared at him––sleep had almost come for the first time.

“What time is it?” I groaned––we weren’t allowed our personal belongings there or at the institution.

He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s ten. Now get up. You’ve been transferred.”

At first, I thought he meant to a district or state jail; I also thought it would be the last time I’d get to see him. Neither was the case.

We spoke quite a bit during the car ride about nothing in particular. I think I started the conversation with a comment about the clear sky––the calm before a storm, I believe it was.

He was 29––only 7 years older than I, at the time. Unmarried and convinced he never would be, he was still one of the sweetest people I had ever met. That was probably what made me like him––though he was a defender of the peace and I a criminal, he still had kind words for me.

I suppose it’s kind of sad, really, that I was actually looking forward to going to jail. My life was already over in public anyway––I beat down a priest in front of all those who had ever been close to my family or to me. And jail life was something I had only imagined in my waking dreams.

That might have been one of the reasons that pulling into the asylum’s parking lot depressed me; I lost the boost of my label as a criminal.

The inside was much the same as one would expect––light, happy colors decorated everything in sight. Even the waiting chairs were baby blue.

In a few minutes, the receptionist––whose name I never got a chance to learn, as she left a few days later––cleared us to see the doctor.

“Hello. My name is Dr. Hannelore,” he smiled. “You must be Maria?”

I told him that, yes, my name is Maria.

“Oh, wonderful!” He indicated a brown leather couch with one hand. “Please, have a seat.”

Raising my arm, I showed him the cuffs that kept me attached to Tim––I don’t think he even noticed my escort before hand.

“Oh. That is a predicament.” He paused to think for a moment.

“Officer, would you mind leaving us, for a bit?”

The next time I saw Tim was nearly a year later. By then, my stay was almost over, and I was almost free.

“Say, Maria, do you know why you are here, sitting in that chair, and talking with me?”

“Because I attacked two people who insulted my mother, and a priest?” I guess I figured that since I would be there for the rest of my life––which I really wasn’t––I might as well have told the truth while I was at it.

“Well, that is a reason, but not the one I was looking for.”

He stood up from behind his desk and came to sit on a small, backless chair directly in front of me.

“So? Why am I here, then?” I’ve always hated doctors who play with vague words to make people assess their own mental states. Dr. Hannelore was no exception.

“You are here so that we can help you.”

“And what if I don’t want your help?” I responded sharply.

“Then you need not let us.” Certainly, his uncaring answer shocked me, but the way he said it––without trying to defend himself by crossing his arms or making sudden movements––only made it worse.

I smiled sadly at him. I didn’t need his help, and I didn’t want it, either. There was simply no way I would let some narcissistic doctor––who couldn’t even bring himself to use contractions––help me, even if I did need it.

“Well, that should be enough for today.” He stood back up, and pushed a button on his phone. It beeped loudly twice––once before he spoke, and once after.

“Victoria? Could you come and show Maria to her room, please?”

He bid me farewell and a good night’s sleep on my way out the door and into the overly happy company of Victoria.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Maria!” she exclaimed excitedly––and they thought I was crazy.

She smiled as if she knew the thoughts going through my head.

“C’mon! I’ll show you around.”

The hospital was actually a nice place––it wasn’t much, but it had every necessity in plentiful amounts. Two exercise rooms were located on the third floor, and an indoor pool––closely guarded and monitored, of course––in the basement. Private rooms and small lounges on every floor, there was enough living space for a thousand people, but far less in number were those who actually stayed at the institution.

When I questioned how they managed to afford such things on the low budgets of hospitals, she quickly––in a practiced manner––informed me that each of the rooms was paid for in full by ex-patients who had been reintegrated successfully into society and had become rich or famous. The pool was from a man named Eikzel Hanz.

“Reintegration?” I asked, puzzled.

“Oh, you didn’t know? Our job here is to help people like you––those deemed mentally unstable––to return to society as free and reformed people.”

I had always thought that asylums were only meant to keep us locked away from humanity until we died.

“It’s a relatively new project,” she explained, “that the city council approved a few years ago. We take in only those who have not committed any serious crimes––like murder and rape––and help them learn from their mistakes until a board of psychiatrists deems them worthy to return to the real world.”

She stopped in front of a large, steel door.

“Well, here we are. This will be your room until such a time as you are willing to accept our help and sign a few forms. After you do, we can move you to a more comfortable room.” Smiling at me, she opened it.

“Oh. One more thing––you’ll have to wear a straitjacket until then, as well. Some assistants will be down shortly to help you into one.” She paused, considering something.

“Please don’t struggle––I don’t want your time here to start with injections of tranquilizers!”

The tranquilizers definitely helped me sleep, those first few nights.

Prologue (Maria's Backstory)

So, for this one, I was kind-of hoping for some input––which I will get to at the end of the post––if it's not too much trouble.

I sat on the edge, looking in, as people approached me, and laid their hands on me, saying they were sorry, or offering their condolences.

I was the only one who really cared––the others only came to utter lies or to look like good people. They pitied me, whispering about me behind my back, as they had always done. But now that I was alone, it was worse yet.

They didn't know what it was like––and nor would they ever––to catch someone important to me and feel them go limp in my arms, their last breath escaping from their lips, their last beat lost in the noise of my screaming.

My mother died. She was the only one who understood.

"I'm sorry for your loss," they'd say.

Quietly––complacently––I sat; the funeral was about to begin. I toned the world out, and ignored it all but to stand and sit at the instructions of the priest.

"Our dearly departed," he began, "was a kind soul..."

Some whispering behind me stole my attention from the speech. I listened closely, already indignant.

"She was such a looney."

"Yeah, I know."

"And she was so amoral––she's going to hell, I'd bet."

"You know what? I'm glad she's dead."

I barely remember what happened next––it was all a blur. One moment, I'm sitting, and the next I had leapt over my chair and choked the man––I don't think he was so glad after that.

"You didn't know my mother! You didn't have to be there when she died!" I shouted at him.

And as the man choked and spluttered, I only felt better and better.

"My mother will not be going to hell––she was a wonderful woman, and a far better person than you will ever be!"

By then, the priest had stopped speaking, his jaw was left hanging open in horror as he watched me pummel the man.

When he collapsed, I let go of his tie and started on the next of my mother's insulters.

"Someone call the police!" he managed to shout just before my punch connected with the side of his face.

Well, at least, that was how it pieced back together from my asking everyone how I wound up in a mental institution, of all places.

The police finally arrived a few moments later––by then, I had punched him out and started on the priest. They say it took six men to pull me off him.

But nothing could have prepared me for the reality of beginning a new life in the institution. If someone, a day before, had told me I would end up here, I probably would have told them they were crazy––ironic, huh?

Now, the question is... do I end the prologue after "six men to pull me off him," or "ironic, huh?"

Thanks! <3

Also, if you think a portion would be better worded in a different way or in a different place, please tell me––it'll help me improve my writing.

(Oh. Apologies on the formatting of the site. I haven't figured it out yet, so please bear with me.)