What the Mirror Echoes When We Scream Into it

thoughts are twisted, searching for a god

in the starkest mirror. since scars tell a story,

a novel was scripted of the author’s intentions.

flaws & addictions hidden behind walls to shield

a frost-bitten heart from years of wallowing

in sorrow—

an infliction that I caused.

the reflected image causes this memory lost.

It’s like I picture myself calm, then grab a camera,

damage the lenses, darken the pigment & blot

every pixel with pencils until it looks cryptic,

scarring your vision.

this is the terrorist battle fought between soul

& mind where I rebel against

a devil,

who sent legion of demons into my head.

& still I wait for this hell to unravel,

as madness rages against my soul

every smile buries my face.

psychotic laughter turns chaotic

as if my own voice is tortured

even the world turns different,

distorted, distant—

coiled & contorted into a shape

I morph earth into with my own fingers.

dreamers like us are always considered

insane—left imprisoned in a system.

belittled & condensed

feeling tense facing intense ridicule waiting

for pretenses to change.

rumor has it that looking towards the future

is tragic. this can ruin the fabric of time itself.

& I’m aware

this heart on your sleeve is only there to disguise

any loss of pride you felt. no one cares

about emotions untouched.

all we know of the ocean is the blue

of its surface. only those who don’t fear drowning

look deeper. so how can we learn?

what’s the benefit of experience being a good teacher

when we choose ignorance?

war on a battlefield only worsens

when anger kills every thought that is anchored,

reveals a broken person—or a weapon built

of ego—a dagger is how we hold this burden—

why we turn our bodies into garden of Eden

to scold the serpent? An act of rebellion,

shows the purpose of why we exist. 

& the ocean becomes an abyss  

we hope submerges into us. we name things

to make them smaller, to see ourselves taller,

but gold is worthless when its compared

to the sun—

becomes foolish not to fear the bullet

when you carry the gun—

this is how I know a god is what I’m scared to become.


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